“What?”
“Do you have a turkey?”
“Your father’s making it!”
“He said you were!”
“Robert!” she yells past me. “You said you would get it!”
“I offered,” he hollers back, “but you said I would lose it!”
“And then you said—”
I roll up the window on the argument. “Stop at Carters.”
*
We end up with a small but obnoxiously overpriced bird that sits in the laundry sink in my mother’s basement overnight, presumably thawing. I explain I’ll be alternating sides of the duplex during my stay, starting with mom’s house tonight so I can keep an eye on the turkey.
Christmas morning is the usual strained affair. My parents act as though everything is all right and I sit there in pajamas opening too many presents as they try to outdo each other with things like perfume and scarves and gaudy jewelry—none of which I would ever wear, but thank them for all the same. I think we’re all relieved when the last gift is unwrapped and I head down to the basement to grab the turkey from its chilly bath.
Kellan had insisted on explaining the whole turkey process as he performed it, gross things like grabbing the innards that are stashed inside and sewing parts to other parts so it stays together. I skip the “brining,” mostly because I don’t know what brine is, and skim the recipe he’d texted me, mixing up breadcrumbs and diced vegetables and a variety of spices rescued from the depths of my mother’s pantry.
I gag a little as I stuff the bird and rub butter under its pebbled skin, then stick the whole thing in the oven. I threaten to go home immediately if this bird disappears for even one second, and both my parents promise to remain hands off. To be honest, they look a little frightened by my uncharacteristic decisiveness.
All too soon it’s time for dinner. I make my way downstairs where I’m introduced to dad’s girlfriend, Sandy, and Byron, mom’s new boyfriend. Each relationship is still in its early stages, far too early for Christmas dinner with each other’s ex, if their strained expressions are any indication.
For the first time in years, we sit down to a meal that involves actual turkey cooked in our oven. Everyone makes appreciative noises as my dad carves it up, and I feel a tiny, satisfied thrill when we start eating and no one pulls any supplementary food items from their pockets. It’s already more successful than Chrisgiving.
“So,” Byron says, peering at me over his wine glass. “You’re at Burnham, is that right?”
“I am.”
“My alma mater,” my father chimes in, uninvited.
Byron just glances at him before returning his attention to me. “What are you studying?”
“I’m undecided.”
“I thought this was your second year.”
“It is.”
My mom smiles reassuringly. “There’s no timeline for finding your way,” she assures me. “When you get there, you’ll know.”
Dad and Sandy scoff in unison.
“I’m sorry, Robert,” my mom says tersely. “Is something wrong?”
“Wrong?” he asks. “No, Diane, nothing’s wrong. Why would it be?”
“I—”
“Though there is a timeline,” he continues. “It’s four years. And each one costs a small fortune.”
I cut my turkey into miniscule pieces and try to avoid eye contact. Though my grades—and, for the most part, my behavior—this year have been much improved, I still don’t think they’d be thrilled to learn I’m newly evicted—or why.
“So what does one learn when they’re ‘undecided?’” Sandy asks, not unkindly. I’d really rather be eating under the table than having this discussion, but I recognize that she’s just trying to deflate the tense bubble blooming between my parents.
I shoot her a tiny smile and recap my classes from this year and last.
“That’s a very broad selection,” Byron remarks.
“She’s twenty-one,” mom says dismissively. “Not everyone knows what they want when they’re twenty-one. Sometimes you have to try on a few pairs of shoes before you find the ones that fit.” She looks proud of her analogy, but my dad rolls his eyes.
“She’s not Cinderella, Diane.” Then he quickly glances at me. “Though you’ll always be my princess.”
Now everyone rolls their eyes.
“I have an engineering degree,” he continues, undeterred. “Nothing wrong with that.”
Mom narrows her eyes. “You edit cookbooks. Where does engineering come into play?”
“It looks good on a resume.”
“You were a philosophy major in first year, and a biology major in second. You were undecided for quite a while, yourself, Robert. There’s no rush, Nora.” She pats my hand.
My dad scowls. “That’s easy to say when you’re not the one paying the tuition.”
“You’re the one who insisted she go to Burnham. Let her test the waters a little bit and find out what she really wants. When she’s ready, she’ll make her choice. Won’t you, honey?”
I shift in my seat and think of Crosbie. “Yeah.”