Page 41

Yes, I had an anxiety attack afterward behind the bushes because my thoughts spiraled to the point of believing the entire town would now know and hate me.

But I got a point.

I. Got. A. Point.

Nine more to go. And it’s only nine o’clock.

The second thing that happens this morning is the surprise that I forgot the extent to which my mother will cook when she is happy.

And how chaotic her plans get.

When I walk into the bright yellow kitchen and see the sunflower-yellow tablecloth still sporting a few marker stains from my childhood, I realize what’s happening. The ancient stereo in the corner, the kind that’s the size of an old box TV with at least a hundred vaguely descriptive buttons, is playing local radio. The café curtains on the modest kitchen window over the sink are drawn back, showing one of those rare days where sunlight beams stream down over a yard blanketed in crisp white. Smoke blows from the chimney top of the backyard neighbors’ house, just as in our sunny little kitchen the woodstove is crackling away merrily.

And as for the table? It’s covered in dishes that give the appearance of a potluck with an unclear theme. Platters of sausage, platters of eggs, and platters of pancakes are crammed around the centerpiece poinsettia that’s wrapped in golf foil from the grocery store. A gravy boat filled to the brim sits beside a load of biscuits. Cinnamon buns are stacked on a Nutcracker platter beside . . . eggs Benedict? And let’s not forget the bacon and turkey bacon—and is that jellied cranberry sauce?

The kitchen, unsurprisingly, smells like the inside of a butcher’s oven. With a rather festive touch of citrus.

“Wow,” I say, hesitating for a moment. My original intention had been to catch the mail carrier outside and then just grab a cup of coffee before slipping back to my room to get ready. And that still sounds like the best plan—my stomach feels a bit unwell from the whole bush incident. But I think better of it and slide into my seat. “Mom. This is, uh, impressive.”

Mom, for her part, is wearing an apron and bustling around the kitchen. She swings open the fridge and reaches for a jug of orange juice. And apple juice. And cranberry juice.

How many juices does one need for breakfast?

“Well, we have to feed the whole family,” she says, as though this explanation were simple enough.

Coffee drops splatter on the table as I bang my knee.

“What?” I’m still in my bathrobe. An old one, I might add. Bright purple and covered in fluffy yellow daisies. My hair is tied up in a messy bun (and not the effortlessly cute kind—my days of being able to get away with that are rapidly vanishing). This is not the moment to have a visit with Cousin Larry.

I glance at the clock. It’s 9:12 a.m. “This would have been something helpful to know ahead of time,” I say, trying to keep the accusation out of my voice.

She pauses at the open fridge door. Regards me with curiosity. “I did tell you, sweetheart,” she says, clearly trying for the same even tone I used. She shuts the kitchen door, jug in hand. “But it seemed like your head was a bit . . . in the clouds last night. Big flight and all.”

I shift in my seat.

Ah.

Well.

To be fair, a lot happened yesterday. Travel, meeting interesting people during said travel . . .

I kick out of my seat, clutching my coffee. “Right. Okay.”

The rest of the morning is a dash, sliding around with sloshing coffee in hand to get ready and then welcoming first, second, and even a couple of third cousins for what has become a welcome party I (through my own fault, admittedly) wasn’t prepared for.

It feels a little like I imagine standing in the welcoming line of your own wedding reception must be like. I’m just milling about with a steaming cup of coffee my mother keeps refilling while each person takes a turn telling me how glad they are that I’ve come home and confiding in me all the little details that both have and haven’t been mentioned in their Christmas letters over the years.

Turns out, I needed the coffee.

People have gotten married.

People have gotten divorced.

People have gotten sick.

People have recovered.

Crepe myrtles were planted.