TAVIAN
11.26.15
A tryptophan coma is a real thing. I know this, because I’m struggling to keep my eyes open as I lie here on my mom’s couch, watching the Lions and Packers play in a classic Thanksgiving matchup, despite the fact it’s not even 8:30 p.m. And it’s all the turkey’s fault.
We ate the formal dinner around four with Ma, Sammy, and several of my aunts, uncles, and cousins, but after the extended family members left an hour or so ago, I filled up a second plate with just as much food as the first and inhaled it like I hadn’t eaten all day. Lyra sat across the table and laughed at me, sipping her coffee and nibbling on pumpkin pie, reminding me she has antacids in her purse whenever I need them.
My wife already knows me so very well.
The last four months with Lyra have been an absolute whirlwind, and although I never in a million years would’ve expected my life to take this path, I wouldn’t change a single fucking thing. Even if it means this might be the last turkey day I’ll ever get to enjoy—a thought that hasn’t been far from my mind the entire day.
Lyra and I came over around mid-morning to help Ma with the meal and get the house ready. She insisted she could do it all on her own, which I have no doubt of, but I really just wanted to spend as much time with her as possible. My mom has always loved hosting Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, but after Dad and my brothers died, her enthusiasm for the holidays dwindled drastically, and understandably so. She always tried to keep things as normal as possible for me, but there was nothing ever normal about their empty spots at the table.
But today, with Lyra and Sammy here with us, the sparkle is back in Ma’s eyes. And no matter what happens, I never want to forget the look of pure happiness she had while we all ate and talked and laughed today. Those are the moments it’s all about.
“Are you about ready to go, babe? I’m not sure you’re gonna be conscious if we wait much longer,” my wife says as she perches her cute little ass on the edge of the cushion near my ridiculously-full stomach. God, I’m going to be doing crunches for days to work off those mashed potatoes and honey-butter rolls.
I grin lazily up at her and link our hands together, loving the bold black numbers on our ring fingers that serve as a constant reminder of the day our world changed. “Yeah, especially if you still want to get up at whatever unreasonable hour you said earlier to go Black Friday shopping. Maybe I can get a few hours of sleep beforehand.”
“You don’t have to go. I told you that. Contrary to what you think, I’m perfectly capable of driving around the city by myself now. I don’t even hit that many curbs anymore!” she exclaims as if she’s conquered some great feat by not clipping ‘that many’ curbs. My poor tires and wheels may not make it much longer.
“I know you’re capable, babe,” I reply, because I’m a quick learner in this marriage-business, “but I want to go with you. I’ve never done it before, and I want to see all the crazy people fighting over TVs and game systems and stuff. It’s like an American tradition, right?”
Her face lights up as she bends forward to place a sweet kiss on my lips. “Right. It’ll be fun, I promise. I’m taking my camera, so even if we don’t find any good deals, we can get some good shots. It’ll make for a fun blog post.”
The photography blog Lyra started recently has become her little pet project, similar to the book I’ve been working on. With the rest of our bucket list trips scheduled later this year and at the beginning of next, we’ve spent the last few months just hanging out around the apartment—spending time together and learning more about each other—with and without clothes on—as well as exploring our individual interests and hobbies. It really couldn’t get any better.
Sure, we don’t have the day-to-day stresses many couples have with full-time jobs and financial strain, but we would both forfeit our plentiful savings accounts in a heartbeat if it meant Lyra could have her parents and I could have Dad, Cody, and Dawson back. But even more, the unspoken fear and anxiety we carry with the mystery of the numbers and the unknown surrounding our rapidly approaching date… it’s immeasurable. If it weren’t for Lyra’s constant presence to keep me grounded and focused, I would’ve already lost my mind. Counting down the days to your wife’s and your possible deaths can really fuck with your head.
“C’mon in here, you two, and make some doggy bags!” Ma calls out from the kitchen, sensing our impending departure. “Make sure you take the rest of the pies. My butt doesn’t need those around.”
I hear Sammy chuckle and say, “I like your butt just fine, woman. Especially when it—”
“We’ll take all the food, as long as everyone can stop talking about my mother’s ass, thank you very much!” I shout as I jackknife up and shake my head, trying to erase the image of someone checking out Ma’s rear. We may all be adults, but there are some things a child, no matter their age, shouldn’t have to think about or discuss.
Everyone cracks up at my outburst, including my wife, who doesn’t even try to stifle her laughter. Pushing to my feet, I grab Lyra’s hands and pull her up next to me, whispering in her ear, “You think I’m funny, Buttercup? We’ll see who’s laughing when I’m spanking your sweet ass later in bed.”
Suddenly silent, she jerks her chin around and stares up at me, a combination of sexual energy and uneasiness swirling in her stormy blue eyes. “You wouldn’t,” she hisses, daring me.
Now it’s my turn to laugh. My sexual style is far from what I’d consider kinky, but I am a fucking man, and many of the times when Lyra’s bent over in front of me, I’ve fantasized about smacking her firm little buns. Particularly when I’m grabbing her hips from behind and…
Ughhhh. I scoot behind Lyra, using her as a screen while I adjust myself, forcing my swelling cock down. “Let’s get the food and go,” I grunt. “I need to show you what I’m thankful for this Thanksgiving.”
With a silent nod, she takes off toward the kitchen and I follow close behind, trying my hardest not to look at her ass in her fitted jeans. I fail miserably.
“I’ve got turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes with gravy, green bean casserole, and cranberry sauce packed up in storage containers,” Ma announces once Lyra and I are both there, calling out each item as she sets it in a large cardboard box. “I don’t have anything to put the pies in, so I’ll just cover them in foil and you can bring the dishes back some other time.”
I grab the loaded-down box and hoist it up to my chest. “Thanks, Ma. You’re the best.”
Beaming at my compliment, she wraps her arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. “You’re not too bad either, son. I’m not sure I could’ve done better. Sammy and I will walk you both outside.”
Once Lyra and I shrug on our coats and pull our hats down over our ears, the four of us meander through the front door and out into the cold, sleety November night, stopping on the porch to say our goodbyes. I shake Sammy’s hand the best I can while holding the bulky box and sincerely tell him how glad I am he joined us today. And other than the butt comment, I really mean it. Ma and Lyra hug and kiss each other’s cheek. We switch spots, and suddenly there’s a lump of emotions lodged in the back of my throat, making it hard to talk as I hold my mom in a snug embrace.
“Thanks again, Ma. Today… today was everything. I love you so much,” I finally manage after a couple of hard swallows.
I’m thankful the nearby streetlight is burnt out to hide the wetness blurring my vision during the bittersweet moment. Leaving my mom behind is what scares me the most about the numbers. I don’t want her to be alone. I want her to forever remember how much love she was surrounded with on days like today.
“I love you, too, Octavian, and I’m so proud of the man you’ve become.” She hugs me back. “I think it’s a great idea you and Lyra are taking this first year of marriage to build a strong foundation by exploring the world and spending time to really get to know each other.”
Guilt prickles in my gut. I didn’t want to lie to my mom about everything that’s going on with Lyra and me but I had to give her some viable reason for taking a leave of absence from the university and all the upcoming trips. Thankfully, since she’s a romantic at heart, she fully supported the impromptu wedding and the idea of a yearlong honeymoon.
“Oh, Marie, I completely forgot,” Lyra says after hugging Sammy goodbye. “I brought that photo book for you today, but I left it in the car earlier. Let me run and get it real quick.”
“Lyra, wait, I’ll go—” I holler, planning to offer to get it so she doesn’t get in the freezing rain, but she’s halfway across the yard before I can stop her. Glancing over at my mom, I shake my head and smile. “I try to be a gentleman, Ma. She’s just so damn independent.”
The loud rumble of an engine revving pierces the still night at the exact moment bright-beam headlights illuminate the street in front of the house, just as Lyra’s crossing the road to where my SUV is parked. Startled by the loud noise and the blinding lights shining directly on her, she freezes and turns to look at the car, holding her hands up to shield her eyes.
The next few seconds play out in front of me in slow motion, like in a nightmare when you can’t scream or move and are left to watch helplessly as the events unfold. The box of food crashes to the wood deck near my feet as the car—a black sports car—peels out and accelerates at top speed directly toward Lyra. My stomach lurches and my heart plummets, the two colliding somewhere in the middle.
I think I hear someone yell for her to run, but like me, her feet seem to be cemented to the ground. A black streak flashes in front of the house a split-second before the sound of screeching brakes are drowned out by an ear-splitting scream and a gut-wrenching thud. My wife’s limp body is flung up into the air and crumples onto the neighbor’s yard. It’s not until the car skids to a stop and a familiar blonde falls out of the driver’s side, landing on her knees and calling my name that I’m jarred back to the present.
A reality worse than any nightmare.