The Beginning of After

Chapter Twenty-nine



On Thanksgiving morning, Nana and I were prepping to make stuffing by hand and sweet-potato casserole, when she discovered, with horror, that she was missing something.

“How could I forget the marshmallows?” she asked, planting her arms on the kitchen counter as if she might faint from shock. “I’ve been making that casserole for forty years!”

“Nana, relax. The store’s still open, and I’ll go get some,” I told her.

“And why doesn’t your mother own a Dutch oven? Did she never make anything for more than four people at a time?”

“What do you think?” I said, trying to make her laugh, but she didn’t, so I added, “I’m sure one of the neighbors has one you can borrow.”

I knew Nana was mostly stressed because she’d hoped to do her trip home during the past week, to get it done before the holidays. We’d spent a half day rounding up every coat we could find and donated eight boxes’ worth to people who’d need them. She felt like she was on a roll, and ready to do the same thing at her own house. But at the last minute, she said she wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want to travel. “Besides,” she’d told me, “nobody’s going to rent a house or buy a condo before January anyway.” I agreed with her but knew it was because she didn’t want to leave me alone.

We were going to the Dills’ for Thanksgiving dinner. It was never discussed, just simply assumed.

Last year, I would have been thrilled to be invited to the Dill Thanksgiving. My family didn’t do the holiday well. I guess with no aunts or uncles or cousins to share it with, the pressure was off. Usually we drove up to Nana’s and ate at the Holiday Inn, where Toby and I could hang out in the arcade until the turkey arrived. Or on rare years when I could convince my mother to have dinner at home, she always went upstairs to lie down for fifteen minutes before dessert. We never played games and we never had friends over, or even went around the table saying what we were thankful for. Traditions like that never seemed important to my parents.

But down at Megan’s, Mrs. Dill was serving up dinner for twenty-five, and I was ready for the Great American Thanksgiving I’d never had.

“If you leave right now,” said Nana, “you can pick up the marshmallows. I’ll go down to the Mitas’ and see if they have a pot for us.”

Twenty minutes later, I was driving home from the grocery store with two bags of marshmallows on the passenger seat, thinking about how the checkout clerk had laughed at my purchase and said, “Thanksgiving is just awesome.”

I came up our hill a little fast, not paying attention, and swung into the driveway.

But where I was going, there was already another car parked.

I had to swerve to avoid hitting it, and once my car stopped, I sat for a moment, letting that adrenaline subside.

The day was overcast and with no sunlight, at first the car looked colorless. As I caught my breath, I could see what it was.

Mr. Kaufman, I thought, blinking hard.

No, you idiot. Mr. Kaufman’s car. Which means David.

A new adrenaline shot through my body, this one a little different, and I forced myself to sit there for another few moments, wanting yet not wanting that excitement.

Finally, I checked myself in the mirror—unshowered, wearing sweatpants, but I’d looked worse—and got out of the car. The Jaguar was splattered with fresh mud, and as I approached it I touched my finger to the rear bumper. It left a dirty wet smudge on my hand that I didn’t wipe off.

Through the window, I could see David passed out in the front seat, his hands still on the steering wheel.

I watched him for a few seconds, wondering what to do next. Finally, I knocked twice softly on the window.

It was strange to watch him wake up. David’s eyelids fluttered, and I noticed for the first time how long and thick his lashes were. Then his eyes popped open, that surprising roundness. He saw me and startled, and a laugh jumped out of me that I instantly regretted.

David sat up and threw open the car door. “Not funny!” he whined.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

He scratched his neck for a moment, looking confused.

“What time is it? When I saw nobody was home, I decided to crash for a bit,” he said slowly. I stayed quiet, hoping he’d find his way to an answer. But he just added, “I was driving all night.”

“Driving all night, from where?”

“Somewhere outside Washington, DC.” He scrambled out of the car. I stepped back to give him room. Maybe now that he was standing up, he’d be able to make more sense.

“I was going to have dinner with the band at a Cracker Barrel,” said David. “But I woke up in the middle of the night and started thinking about . . . things . . . my parents . . .” He choked on the word and took a deep breath, then looked at me. Then put his hand on my shoulder and breathed out. “I didn’t want to spend Thanksgiving with a bunch of guys I barely know, eating something barely edible, at a place that stays open just for all the losers who have nowhere else to go.”

He took his hand off my shoulder, but I could still feel the weight of it.

“I remembered that I did have somewhere to go,” he said, then glanced at the house. It was a hungry look.

I didn’t know what to say, but fortunately David started talking again, faster than I’d ever heard him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call . . . I just hopped in my car and drove and it was the middle of the night and I didn’t want to call and wake anyone. And then before I knew it, I was here. The car was gone and there was no answer at the door. I still have a key, but that felt creepy to walk in so I figured I’d just wait. . . .” His voice trailed off.

And then he gave me the same look he’d given the house. It was pure want. He must have sensed how desperate he seemed, because he added a sheepish grin and a head tilt, like he couldn’t dare offer a hand again.

It felt safest to stay with the facts.

“You came to spend Thanksgiving with us?” I asked carefully, with no emotion.

“Yeah,” said David, almost surprised. “I guess I did.”

I just pointed down the hill for a moment, then said, “We’re going to the Dills’ house, but I can call Mrs. Dill. . . . I’m sure you’d be welcome there.”

In an instant, David’s eyes narrowed into disappointment.

“The Dills’?” he said with distaste.

“Yeah, it’ll be fun. There’s going to be a whole bunch of people there.”

Now he gave a bitter laugh.

“Laurel, I didn’t come all this way to have dinner with people I don’t know.”

“You’ll know us, and the Dills. . . .”

David shook his head. “Forget it,” he said, then moved back toward the car.

“So you’re leaving?” I asked, trying to be calm, but it came out high and squeaky.

“If I go now, I can still make it to the Cracker Barrel.”

David opened the driver’s-side door and slid into the seat. Away from me.

Wait! A minute ago you were touching my shoulder!

I thought quickly of calling Mrs. Dill, explaining why we needed to cancel. Nana would go along with it. We could buy one of those depressed last-minute turkeys at the store and cook it in time for dinner . . .

No. We had an obligation. Meg would never forgive me. And then I looked at his face, indignant and insulted, and suddenly just felt angry.

“David—”

“I said, forget it!”

Now I was angrier. Actually, furious. “Let me finish!” I barked at him. He jumped a bit and looked up at me, genuinely surprised. “How can you show up here and expect us to have a table set for you, with a complete Thanksgiving dinner? Without calling, or emailing . . . You just can’t do that.”

David stared at me, his surprise turning to simple sadness, his mouth twitching.

Then he just said, “This was a mistake.”

With that, he slammed the door and started the car. I only had time to step back before he sped backward out of our driveway, leaving a dirty cloud of dust behind him.


“I put rum in these Diet Cokes,” whispered Meg, her breath spicy with onion dip.

We were seated next to each other at one of three large tables Mrs. Dill had set up in their dining room and foyer. Meg was psyched because it was the first time they didn’t have a kids’ table in the kitchen; she was with the grown-ups now. Nana was across from us, next to an elderly uncle, and I wondered for a second if it wasn’t a setup.

Some part of my body was still shaking from that morning. Every time I blinked, I could see David’s face changing from earnestness to regret, sliding away from me in a second. And I’d let it. I’d let it go.

I hadn’t told anyone about David coming. Not Nana, who came back from the Mitas’ just five minutes after he tore off, whose day I just could not complicate any further. Not Meg, who seemed preoccupied as usual with something of her own.

I remembered that I did have somewhere to go, David had said. His voice and face, open and honest, and trusting. I cringed at the thought, and tried to be happy he’d come in the first place. It was like he’d opened a window. Maybe in his rush to leave, he’d forgotten to shut it.

I took my Coke and sniffed it. The rum made it smell like the ARCO station. Mrs. Dill, at the big table across the room, stood up and raised her glass.

“Before we dig in, I’d like to thank all of you for coming. Every one of you means so much to me in your own way . . . and seeing your faces here in my house . . .” She started to choke up, and Mr. Dill reached out his hand to her elbow, but she shook it away. “I’m fine, honey. I’m just . . . happy. So happy! To being together and being thankful!”

Everyone took their cue to clink, then drink, although I only took a tiny sip of what tasted like gasoline with bubbles. To being together. I thought of David, eating a chain restaurant turkey platter somewhere near Washington, DC. I hoped he was with people he liked.

As Mrs. Dill sat down, neatly wiping a tear from each eye, I noticed that Meg was staring at her, frowning.

“Is she okay?” I asked.

Meg shrugged, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “I hope so. She just went on new medication, and I think it’s making her a little loopy.” She glanced at me with a look of relief, and added, “She’s being treated for depression.”

Then she turned away and began to eat, knowing that what she’d said just created more questions.


After dinner, I offered to help Meg load the dishwasher while everyone else took a pre-pie break. I wasn’t going to let her drop some major info in my lap and then leave it there for me to stare at, like something gross that fell from a tree.

“I had no idea your mom was depressed. How long has that been going on?”

Meg stood rinsing at the sink and handed me a plate to rack. “I don’t know. Awhile. It’s only gotten bad in the last few months.”

If we were running this conversation by the book, my next question would have been, Why didn’t you tell me? But I knew the answer to that. Besides, I had my own secrets. What could I say to make things feel less icky between us?

I thought of Mr. Dill, his firm hand on his wife’s elbow, the flat line of his mouth as he looked at her, like he was bracing himself for something.

“How’s your dad handling it?”

“Not well.” Meg handed me another plate without looking at me, and I knew the subject was closed.


That night, back at the house, Nana wanted me to sit with her and watch The Wizard of Oz on TV. When she fell asleep sometime before Dorothy met up with the Tin Man, I went over to the computer and opened my email. David’s last message was still there, although it had slid dejectedly to a spot halfway down the page. It felt like by just clicking on it I could open up a hole to climb into, shout to the bottom of.

So I hit reply and told David about Thanksgiving dinner, about the old uncle with the sweet potato in his mustache all night and the friends from Connecticut, a married couple, who wore identical green sweaters with turtles on them. I told him about the cornucopia centerpiece that smelled like rotten fruit, and the plates with turkeys dressed like Pilgrims on them. I started to tell him about Meg’s mom, too, but then changed my mind.

Finally, I just ended the email with this:


So I’d like to hear how Cracker Barrel matched that in the Weird Holiday department. Next time you come back to town, call first, and we’ll be expecting you.





Laurel





I hit send before I could tinker with it, and went back to the couch, and to Oz.