holding a glass of what might have a thimbleful of eggnog
combined with some amber
liquid. Whiskey, is what Dad’s breath announces, when he says, Move over there, would ya?
Gabe excuses himself to go
call his mom and wish her
a happy Thanksgiving. When
he gets up off the sofa, I do, too.
“I’ll help Zelda with the dishes.”
Dad snorts. Was it something I said? Hey! Touchdown!
I ignore him, and the touchdown, wander back into the kitchen, where Zelda has already managed to clean up the Gobbler Day mess.
“I didn’t know you were a magician.”
It wasn’t so bad. Mark cleared while I washed and put stuff away.
Dad Played Busboy?
That’s hard to believe.
Maybe Zelda gave him
hell. Funny, but I think the magician comment
is the most words I’ve
ever offered her at once.
“Dad never helps clear
at home. You really must be able to work magic.”
There. Real conversation.
Believe it or not, I think he felt guilty about blowing up at the dinner table, not that he bothered to apologize.
He didn’t tell you he was sorry, did he? I told him he should.
“No, but it doesn’t matter, and empty apologies
don’t count anyway.
I’ll do what I always do, and chalk it up to alcohol.”
Zelda, who isn’t nearly as buzzed, nods understanding.
You and I don’t talk much, but I want you to know if you ever need an ear, I’m here, okay?
Actual Kindness
That’s how that feels.
Not just lip service.
And lacking ulterior motive.
What can she want
from me, anyway?
“Thanks, Zelda. Appreciate it.”
Not that I’d ever take her up on it. Not like I ever want to grow close to one of Dad’s women.
That would spell doom.
“And thanks for a great Turkey Day.”
I don’t mention it’s the first time I’ve ever felt like part of a family bigger than just Dad and me.
Why did he have to ruin it?
Why was I the person he chose to shove so forcefully away?
Between the L-Tryptophan
In the turkey and the alcohol
in his eggnog, Dad passes out,
snoring, before the game ends.
I don’t need to stay and listen to his rumbling, so I ask Gabe
for a ride home, and to make
sure Dad stays put, I bring
the keys to the Focus with me.
“I’ll send them back with Gabe,”
I assure Zelda. “But you might
want to hang on to them until
tomorrow. Dad shouldn’t drive
tonight, and I’m fine home alone.”
The first third of the drive
is silent, Gabe and I both lost in introspection. He’s rarely
so pensive, and when I finally
pull myself out of myself,
I ask, “Is everything okay?”
Yeah. I just miss my mom, and talking to her only makes me miss her more. She’s doing better, though. Says she’ll probably go home after the first of the year.
“That’s great. Sounds like progress.
Oh, hey . . . Look. There’s Niagara.”
Gabe slows as we pass the Triple G, where a woman’s riding the mare in a paddock. An attractive woman.
Gabe confirms it’s Peg Grantham.
“Pull over a second. Please.”
When the GTO brakes to a halt,
I jump out and go over to the fence, wave, and Niagara, plus rider,
come trotting over. I introduce myself, then ask, “How’s Hillary?”
Her injuries are healing well.
But she’s antsy. And lonely.
You should come visit her.
“Would tomorrow be okay?”
I say it before realizing I might not have a way to get here.
Oh, absolutely. Also, I hear you’re a horsewoman. I’ll take you on a tour of the barn if you’d like.
“Sounds like a plan. I’d love it.”
Deal struck, I figure I’ll just have to talk Gabe into giving me a ride.
Home Again
Straight into the routine.
Shoes off by the door.
Click heater up.
Go into the kitchen
for something to drink while Gabe settles in
on the couch to wait.
Except this time what
I return with are two
steaming mugs of tea,
sugar on the side.
While I wouldn’t mind
something stronger,
I want to see if kissing him is as good minus
any trace of alcohol.
He looks at me quizzically.
Earl Grey? That’s new.
“You know your tea,
which doesn’t surprise me. But, yeah, I guess this is the mostly new me.
I’ll put on some music.
Any special requests?”
Don’t suppose you have any Cold War Kids? Or Muse?
This makes me smile.
“I do, actually, and I rarely get to play them without headphones on. Dad only listens to country.”
I plug my phone into
the speaker dock Dad gave me for Christmas last year, an interesting gift choice, considering he hates my music.
Then I sit close to Gabe, who pulls my legs across his. We sip tea, listening to music we both appreciate, and the importance of this particular connection
soon becomes obvious.
I need to feel cared
about. Gabe needs to
feel not alone. We don’t have to give voice to those feelings. It’s enough we acknowledge them. We do, and I know we do, because simultaneously we set
our cups down so they
can’t interfere in what’s coming next. “Wait.”
Not on the Couch
Not fast.