“I get that, but why does she keep taking it out on me?”
I realize the answer before Falon has a chance to reply. I’m the source of her stress. Me being here has thrown everything off for her. If I wasn’t here, Smith wouldn’t have come over last night, and he wouldn’t be coming over again this evening. It would just be another normal holiday. I’ve taken that away from her.
“Maybe we should go talk to her together?” Falon suggests. She’s an excellent Switzerland, which is great considering how often the Banks family is on the cusp of nuclear war. “We can both assure her that tonight can still be just as special as she planned, despite a few extra guests.”
“You go ahead,” I say.
The only way Phoebe’s going to feel assured of anything is if I leave, and I’m not doing that again. I don’t want to invalidate her feelings, but I can’t make her happy at the expense of the store. Chelsey and Jackie are counting on me to pull through on this.
I also can’t sacrifice my own happiness for Phoebe, or anyone else for that matter. Despite all logic and reason, I’m a little happy right now, even with Smith and his Penny knockoff coming to dinner tonight. It’s not a big happy—nothing to shoot off confetti cannons over—but it’s happier than I expected. And I don’t want to give that up just yet. I want to hold on to it, and see if it’s possible for this little happy to grow roots and bloom.
Chapter 15
Thanksgiving 2009:
The One with Irene
I balance my ancient laptop on my knees, praying to all things holy that my battery doesn’t die, while Smith navigates through the sludge that is the 5 on Thanksgiving Day. The Berkeley Gazette doesn’t loan laptops to low-level journalists, and as the official curator of the obituaries, there truly isn’t anyone less important. This means I’m forced to use my old college laptop, which likes to play a fun game of roulette whenever it’s time to save a document. To save the file or to completely obliterate it along with three other files is the question my laptop asks every time it runs out of battery, and I can’t stomach the idea of one more thing letting Irene Steadman down.
“Poor Irene.” I bite at my cuticles nervously. “I think I might’ve found someone whose family is worse than mine.”
Smith takes a drink of his third gas station coffee in the last eight hours. “I’m intrigued. Go on.”
“Irene Steadman died alone in her home. The official date of her death is unknown, but her body was discovered on November 13 by her downstairs neighbor. Irene is survived by her six cats. No memorial or funeral services are to be expected. Irene was seventy-four years old.”
“Is that what her family sent over or one of the six cats?”
“Family. She actually has two kids and a few grandkids, but her son, Eddie, asked that personal family information not be included.”
“What an asshole.” Smith drops his hand from the gearshift of his old Mustang and squeezes my hand. “You know that’s never going to be you, right?”
The midday sun catches the moonstone on my engagement ring, setting off a shower of iridescent lights across Smith’s face. He’s too busy dodging traffic to notice the colorful display, but I can’t stop staring and thinking to myself, I get to marry Smith Mackenzie. I get to marry my best friend. I get to be a Mackenzie.
And because I get to be a Mackenzie, I will never end up like Irene Steadman.
“I know.” I tilt my head onto his shoulder. “I’m allergic to cats.”
“Do you think they ate her?”
“Her cats? No. Her family? Possibly.”
We pull onto the bridge and my stomach churns. Not because of the bridge itself, but because of what the bridge means. In less than ten minutes, I’ll be home for the first time since I dropped out of Princeton and moved to Berkeley to be with Smith. It’s our first holiday as an engaged couple, which means today should be an exciting day. There should be a champagne toast before my father carves the turkey, and my mother should have a stack of bridal magazines that she insists I look over with her. Everyone should be happy and excited, and Smith’s family should be joining us too because being engaged is something to be celebrated.
But none of that is happening.
My parents don’t even know that we’re engaged, and even if they did, my parents would rather spend Thanksgiving deworming livestock than with Smith’s parents. I think the only reason they’re OK with Smith stepping foot on our property is because I refused to come home without him. The way my parents see it, the Mackenzies are the reason for my undoing.
I gaze out the window as we hit the midpoint of the bridge. Smith’s Mustang is so low to the ground that if you tilt your head back, all you see is sky. It’s like taking a roller coaster to the clouds. “I wish your parents weren’t out of town. I feel like I haven’t seen your mom in ages.”
“I think they’re really digging the expat life in Thailand,” Smith says. “It might end up being a permanent thing. Even my sister says she likes it there. She says it’s given her an opportunity to completely reinvent herself after the split with Noah.”
“Sometimes I think that’s what I want.”
“To break up with Noah?” Smith squeezes my hand. “I heard he’s kind of a dick when it comes to giving your stuff back.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” My body tenses as the car slowly descends over the bridge and the island comes into view. “We should move to Thailand with your parents. Imagine the kinds of photos you could take there. We could live on their compound to keep our expenses down, and I could write. We’d all be together, and the two of us wouldn’t ever have to deal with my parents except for through postcards and email.”
“I thought you liked our little place in Berkeley. Just last week you said that you couldn’t hear the upstairs neighbors having sex at all hours of the night and the moldy smell in the hallway was distinctly less moldy.”
“Those are all positives, but we also barely see each other. I’m up at the crack of dawn to work at the coffee shop, and then I spend all afternoon at the paper. You work practically every night and weekend. I’m always alone, and sometimes I think it would be nice to have your mom and dad around to talk to. They’re so easy to talk to. You really lucked out with them.”
We pull onto Clementine Street, and my heart starts to beat a little faster. My mouth goes dry, but I don’t risk drinking any more coffee than I’ve already consumed. The last thing my heart rate needs is a jolt of caffeine.
I focus my attention back on Irene Steadman, specifically, the email that her son, Eddie, sent in. Maybe there’s something in here that I’ve missed. Most children prefer to write their deceased parents’ obituaries, which means it’s usually my job to proofread, but occasionally the Eddies of the world submit a few random facts and request that a staff writer create the final rendering.
Dear Ms. Banks,
My mother, Irene Steadman, had six cats. We don’t know when she died because nobody noticed right away. Her neighbor smelled a bad odor and called the cops to investigate on the thirteenth. She was 76, I think. My sister and I would prefer our families not be mentioned in the obituary. Irene wasn’t exactly a good mom.
Thanks.
PS You can add that last line if you want.
PPS We’re not having a memorial or funeral because, honestly, who would come?
I guess I could include the fact that she was a mother.