Chapter Thirteen
Addie
“Come on, Addie. It’s Thanksgiving. It’s bad enough we’re not spending it together.” David pours a cup of coffee and saunters to the counter. He’s spending Thanksgiving at his parents’ lake house. He strokes my arm as if he were strumming his guitar. “Let’s kiss and make up. We can pretend last night never happened.”
“This whole relationship is about pretending, David.” I shake and fold a dish towel that’d been crumpled on the counter. “Why do you refuse to discuss the future? Your silence is becoming too loud in my head.” I face him, a vein throbbing in my temple. “It’s too powerful and can only be diffused by conversation. If I keep shutting down, trying to keep the peace, I’m not being true to myself.” I nod toward the shelf. “Thanks for the vase, but you know what I was hoping for.” My mouth tightens into a stubborn line as my eyes scan the floors, looking for my shoes.
Yesterday was my thirty-second birthday. At work, Sylvia made a cake, but Sam and I—as always, since our fight—exchanged only enough words to get through the day. She did lend her beautiful voice to the birthday song, but I’m sure it wasn’t meant to flatter me. Sam has a great voice, shaped by childhood chorale and a love of the dramatic, and she never misses an opportunity to perform.
No matter. The day was spent anticipating my evening with David.
In accordance with my hypothetical spreadsheet, I’m supposed to be married next year. I had a hunch last night he’d propose. But the prayed-for ring turned out to be an antique Deco vase. It was beautiful, but not a little square box.
My despondency after opening the gift triggered another argument, and in the heat of our anger with each other, I, once again, approached the conversation: Do we have a future together, and, if so, does that future include marriage and children? He shook his head and left the room.
My therapist, Dr. Lerner, tells me the worst time to bring up a sensitive subject is when emotions are running high. But bottled-up questions can’t be healthy, either. I must know: am I wasting my time? We had reservations for dinner at a terrific new restaurant in the Eastern Market. We drank too much wine, patched things up as best we could, and avoided the topic for the remainder of the evening. Until now.
“And it’s crazy we’re not spending Thanksgiving together.” I bend to retrieve my shoes beneath the coffee table. “Everything was set with Mom and Max. It’s not fair. We spent last Thanksgiving with your folks.”
“You know my mother. She plays the guilt card like a maestro. Keeps reminding me about Dad’s surgery last year.”
I straighten, pointing the stiletto heel toward his face. “Your mother thinks that conceding anything is a sign of weakness. Your dad’s fine. He’s back at work and plays tennis every day. And it’s not as if your parents will be alone. Your sister will be joining them.”
David’s sister is single, gay, and swears she never wants a child. So David and I are our families’ only hope for carrying forth the bloodline. Aware of the tension, his parents invited Mom and Max up to their home. Max refused the invitation. The Detroit Lions are playing the San Diego Chargers today, and he doesn’t want to risk lousy reception. And, God forbid, their screen is less than forty-six inches.
I collapse onto the sofa, slip on my heels, and buckle the ankle straps. I look up and catch his eyes. “If we ever have kids, negotiating visiting which set of parents and when would be fraught with as much angst as the passage of the latest health-care bill.”
David sits next to me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “I love us, Addie. Just the two of us. I’m not ready to make space in our relationship for anything more.”
I look at him, my eyes swimming.
“At least not yet.” He pulls my head into his chest. “You’re upset about Sam. You’re upset about the incident at the diner. You’ve got enough on your plate, baby girl. I want to be there for you while you’re dealing with all of that. Why invite more tension into our lives?” Lowering his head, his eyes search my face. “You are the love of my life, Addie. Isn’t that enough?”
I push him away. “No, David. It’s not. There’s always some excuse not to talk about where this relationship is going. We’ve been together four years. If our visions don’t align . . .” I shake my head, wavering, not able to say the words.
He gapes at me in stunned silence, blinking rapidly.
I close my eyes. “I need your keys.” David won’t need his vehicle today. His sister’s picking him up on her way from Toledo.
He stands and walks to the counter. I follow. Then he takes my clenched fist, pries it open, and places the keys in my palm. They feel cold and sharp. My insides twist.
“Be safe, Addie.” He crams his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants, bites his lower lip, and heads toward the bathroom. I hear the buzz of his electric razor as I put on my coat and grab the pies from the fridge.
I turn left onto Chrysler, then merge onto the Edsel Ford Freeway, heading east toward Grosse Pointe.
I’m beginning to hate the holidays. Why do they have to be so complex? The game begins late afternoon. While Max is watching, Mom and I can sip wine and play catch-up, minus discussing the issues I’m having with David. I told her about my fight with Sam. That upset her enough and is enough drama for her to handle.
My thoughts turn to Sam. After Jessie calmed us down and gave us the beads, we reached a tentative truce. But when I address her, it’s like I’m talking to a doorknob. She’s shut down. I’ve launched an emotional flare and haven’t a clue to as to where it will land. For the sake of our staff and business, we’re trying to get through the busy holidays without further confrontation.
Every morning before work, I wait for Hero’s howl, signaling that Sam’s left the house. Thirty minutes later, I walk to the stop to catch the next bus. It’s easy to avoid each other at the busy diner. But I’m haunted, and I feel her absence every waking moment.
The lake appears at intervals on my right, and I roll down the window. A gust of cold air stings my eyes, and I roll it back up. My life is spiraling out of control and not proceeding down the path I had planned. I can’t let Max bait me into an argument today. It would upset Mom. I touch Jessie’s healing beads inside my shirt. Let them work their magic.
The only good news is that Bio-Dad Michael and I celebrated my birthday by having lunch together yesterday. This was the first time he’d ever visited Welcome Home. He said he was proud and gave me the sweetest gift of a scrapbook containing every article ever written about the place. His gift speaks volumes—he’s been with me in spirit ever since we’ve opened.
Babcia’s picture was the first thing he noticed about our decor, and his expression—lips pinched and eyes brimming with tears—touched me. He apologized for his absence of late but described how his fortunes are changing. The catch-up classes he’s been taking in e-commerce paid off. Several months ago, he was hired as an analyst for a promising tech start-up in Ann Arbor. That’s his hometown, his college town, and a healthy place for Dad to be.
Dad is fifty-seven, but with his lean frame and full head of hair, he could pass for forty-five. His pressed dark suit has been replaced with a worn oxford shirt and khakis. The lines etched across his forehead have eased, and his laugh comes easy. He said he’s on sabbatical from women and is considering buying a puppy. As a child, I’d begged him year after year for a dog. But he said they were too chaotic and would pee on his Berber. I got a goldfish instead.
I check my phone. Not a phone call, text, or e-mail from David, but I can’t waltz over to crazy land. He’ll be occupied with his sister on their drive. It’s not right. David and I’ve been a couple for four years, and we aren’t celebrating Thanksgiving together. Sam and Uriah have only been dating four months and will be feasting the day away together at the farm.
I make a sharp right onto Cadieux and press the radio knob. “Jingle Bell Rock” already? I turn it off. I can stomach only one holiday at a time. The side of my vision captures the blur of gleaming cars as I pass by the lot of Palmer Deluxe Auto, Graham’s father’s business. My chest steams with hate.
The second I pull into the driveway, Mom comes scampering out the front door, clapping her hands, her expression that of a five-year-old opening presents on Christmas morning. I step out of the truck and onto the running board before stepping down. Wearing heels, I don’t want to break my ankle.
She runs into my arms, almost knocking me over anyway. I smile, my nasty mood brightening. Mental note: make an effort to see more of her outside shared therapy.
“I said I’d bring dessert, so I brought pies. One apple and the other pumpkin.”
She lowers her voice. “Thanks for not getting fancy. Although he pretends to be the gourmand, he’s really just meat and potatoes.”
“I know, Mom, I know.” My hands drop to her slim, belted waist, and I give a little pinch. “There’s not even an ounce of flesh to grab.” I push her away, admiring her slim frame. “Honestly, you look great. Those yoga classes must be doing the trick.”
“Yoga, Pilates, sashimi, and salads. Believe me, there’s nothing graceful about aging. It’s a full-time job. But I’m off work today, so let us eat pie,” she says, with a Marie Antoinette flourish of her hand.
She smiles ear to ear, yet no lines crease her forehead or web the corners of her eyes. Three times a year she visits the miracle worker of Grosse Point. Dr. Patel administers the fountain of youth to area residents via syringes and needles—as long as they can stomach the bill.
Planning to sleep over, I grab my overnight bag from the side seat. I hand Mom my thermos containing a two-day dose of potlikker and hot sauce. “This is for me. Digestion issues.” I pat my stomach, refraining from further comment. Jessie’s potions and charms would freak her out. Mom’s eyes slide to my abdomen, hope in her eyes.
“It’s not what you think.” I look down at my flat torso. “My cupboard is bare.”
“All in good time.” She squeezes my hand.
If only.
I lift the pies from the floor of the passenger side and hold them up for her inspection. “I’m concerned about the lattice-lace topping. Max’s probably a full-crust guy, right?”
She shakes her head with an exasperated sigh. “He’ll get over it.”
Mom’s a good cook, but ever since she married Max, all of her meals have been simple, void of texture and any flavor profile except for salt, pepper, and butter. Today she ordered a roasted turkey with the basic trimmings from a nearby grocery store.
The only vegetables I’ll see will be in the casserole made from mushy green beans, canned mushrooms, and fried onions, which Max adores. I’d rather eat gas station sushi. Sam, however, will be enjoying roasted root vegetables turned into soups and side dishes, all harvested from their garden. Their turkey will have been raised eating grass on a neighbor’s Manchester farm. Those birds always have such a rich, meaty flavor.
We walk into the house. Max is sitting in his favorite Danish modern chair—a splash of overripe tangerine. Chewing at the end of a cigar, he rests his laptop on his gut. He sips a red of some sort, the price of the bottle more money than I likely make in a week. He looks up as we enter.
“Financial markets are closed today. Doesn’t make sense. If Wal-Mart’s open, why not Wall Street?”
Nice to see you, too, Max, I think. What an asshole. He closes his computer and rises, and we give each other a strained half hug, bumping chins.
“How are the boys?” I ask. “Will you be seeing them over the holidays?” Oops. That little zinger escaped my mouth. His two sons live in Manhattan and rarely visit. Mom warned me it’s a sore spot with him. He shrugs, his face colors, and his eyes blink twice as if to say, Couldn’t care less. With his oval, balding head, stuck-out monkey ears, and that shiny black mustache, he reminds me of a Mr. Potato Head.
“I brought some desserts I think you’ll enjoy.” Mom nods at me, encouraged. Max glances at the pies.
“Did you weave those from scratch?” He snorts, smoke billowing out of his nostrils.
Mom stands next to him with the same frozen smile she always wears in his presence. She reminds me of a mannequin staring out of a storefront window at Versace. Mom is afraid of being alone, and that fear is her noose. I know the feeling.
“Let’s have a glass of wine,” she says, glancing at me. “Max brought an exceptional case of Zinfandel from Holiday Market. We all love a good Zin on Turkey Day, right?” She nods, her head bobbing as she looks from Max to me, gauging safe territory in a war zone.
Max and I remain silent, glancing about the room to avoid catching each other’s eyes. “Well . . . ummm . . . let’s get dinner on the table,” she says with a sigh. We retreat to the kitchen.
We bow our heads for Mom’s perfunctory blessing. It’s always lengthy before a holiday meal, as if to make up for a year of ignoring the blessed Virgin.
And so she begins. “O God, we give you honor and glory for the manifold fruits of our fields . . .” I close my eyes.
At this very moment, Sun Beam, Quiche, and Granny are experimenting with their first vegetarian feast. Braydon’s preparing turducken, a three-bird roast, for his aunt and uncle. Brenda and Sylvia are making a special meal for the women at the shelter—Sylvia’s been rattling on about the recipes for days. And here I sit, next to Max, while David may as well be in another galaxy far, far away.
“Grant us a heart wide open to all of this beauty . . .”
I crack my eyes. Max’s head is bowed, yet he fiddles with his phone resting atop the napkin in his lap. During dinner, I’ll have to listen to his logic for burning down Detroit and turning it into a wine region, all the while eating overcooked turkey, a casserole that tastes like tin, and boxed mashed potatoes. Diem perdidi—another day wasted.
“And with thankful hearts we praise our God, who like a loving parent denies us no good thing.”
Really? Tell that to the parents who can’t even provide a safe neighborhood where their kids can play, much less a turkey dinner.
At once, I think of Angus. His son’s in prison. Holidays must be hard for him. I hope Braydon took him a meal. Why didn’t I think to suggest that? I feel Angus’s loneliness, his isolation like a wound inside my chest. In sudden kinship with this man, I cast a prayer his way before raising my head.
Opening my eyes, they link to Mom’s, lined in red and hooded in resignation. At this moment, I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love my mother.
“Amen.”