When I walk out of the living room, Aunt Shelley greets me, holding her coffee mug with two hands. “How’d you sleep, hon? You sure that air mattress is okay?”
“Morning,” Mom says, putting a casserole dish in the oven. Thanksgiving dinner is at two. Or at least that’s when Dad is expected. He’s flying in today, to Birmingham from Ohio, then renting a car and driving down. He’s staying at the Hampton Inn near the interstate. It’s a quick trip, barely twenty-four hours. Today he’ll just join us for dinner, and tomorrow he’ll come for breakfast.
He’d wanted to stay the entire weekend, but Mom said that would be too much disruption right now.
Aunt Shelley always liked Dad. They stayed in touch after the divorce, which Mom wasn’t thrilled about. It was Aunt Shelley who gave him advice about real estate, helped him get started. I think she kind of had a crush on him, just in a way that she enjoyed his attention. Dad was a flirt. He was good looking. Not tall but wiry with dark wavy hair and bright brown eyes, always a little facial hair that Mom said he grew to cover up his weak jawline. He had olive skin, too, almost like he was Italian, but he wasn’t. Sam took after him, looks-wise, though he inherited the same pasty skin that Mom gave me.
“Sam and Earl went to the grocery store for me,” Mom said. “Maybe you and Shelley can tidy the den, and set the table?”
“Sure,” I say. In the den, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade is on TV. I feel a glob of dread in my stomach that I know is only going to spread the closer it gets to two.
Shelley and I tidy up and then I deflate the air mattress and put my stuff back in my room. I set everything in my closet and that’s when I see those stacks of presents and cards I got when I came back to school. I never even opened any of them, just tossed them in there like dirty clothes.
My phone pings and I see a message from Donal: “Happy Turkey Day!”
I’ve pretty much avoided Donal, like everyone else, these past few weeks. Soon, pretty much everyone at school will hate me. And I don’t care.
I walk to the kitchen and get a Hefty bag from under the sink. I go back to my room and open my closet and start scooping all the gifts and cards and crap into the bag. I cinch the bag closed and walk back down the hall, then outside, to the trash container, and dump it in.
===
By around one thirty, we’re all dressed and waiting. Mom and Aunt Shelley are in the kitchen. Sam and Earl and I are in front of the TV. Stupid football is on. Sam watches it like he’s interested, but he looks at the screen blankly. Maybe he’s nervous about Dad, too.
I see Earl look over at me a few times, like he’s worried about me or something. I wonder how he’s feeling about this visit. He seems calm, but then again, he always does.
I keep looking at my phone. 1:35. 1:38. 1:41. Stop, I think. 2:00. My stomach starts churning. 2:02. 2:05. 2:12. My heart rate kicks into overdrive. He’s late. As always.
Then, at 2:17, I hear a car door slam. Sam sneaks a quick look at me, then turns away. On the TV, a quarterback runs in for a touchdown; the crowd goes wild.
A knock at the kitchen door. Aunt Shelley answers. “Well, Hank, look at you. Handsome as ever.” Earl stands, and Sam follows him toward the kitchen, but I stay seated.
“And you’re as gorgeous as ever,” Dad says to Aunt Shelley. That voice. I still know it, with that Midwestern nasal sound mixed with just a touch of Southern twang.
I push down a flash of tenderness. I keep my face stony and join everyone else near the kitchen door.
Sam has to go first. I know the moment calls for that. But before Dad says hello, before he even looks at us, he gives Mom an awkward hug. Then he turns to face us. He’s in jeans, a button-down, and a tan blazer. He looks the same as I remember, but with more gray in his hair. His beard has flecks of gray in it, too. The same, but older, more tired. He looks at me first, a quick flash, but then he sees Sam.
“My boy,” he says, almost whispering. Sam goes to him and they hug tightly. Dad pats Sam on the back and then just takes him in. “You’re so big. So handsome. . . . Like your old man.” He flashes that grin at all of us, his audience. Then he turns to me. “Beth,” he says, inching closer. “Beautiful like your mother.” He looks back at Mom and lets out a little chuckle. Then he looks at me, but he seems nervous. “Can I get a hug?”
I nod and he hugs me tightly and I remain mostly limp, my hands barely on his shoulders. When he pulls back, he says to all of us, “It’s so great to be here. Diane, Earl, thanks for letting me come—thanks to all of you. Thanks for letting me be a part of this.”
“We wouldn’t have it any other way,” Shelley says.
“We’re glad to have you,” Earl says, sounding subdued.
Dad rubs his hands together. “It smells damn good in here.”
“I hope you’re hungry,” Mom says.
He nods, and I see him staring at Sam, like he’s trying to figure something out.
We move into the dining room and Mom, Shelley, and I help bring the food to the crowded table. Turkey, ham, stuffing, cranberries, green bean casserole, a tossed salad, sweet potatoes, and regular mashed potatoes, plus homemade rolls. A feast. But I don’t feel hungry. My stomach is in knots.
“Hank, do you want to lead us in prayer?” Mom asks, after we’re all seated.
I see Dad pause. He hardly ever went to church. It was always just Mom and me and Sam. And then we stopped going altogether once Sam disappeared.
“Me?” Dad says. “Uh, sure. Okay.” We join hands and close our eyes.
Dad clears his throat. “Dear God, thanks for bringing us all together on this fine day. Thanks for this delicious food. Thanks for these wonderful people. . . . Thanks for my . . . for our beautiful daughter, Beth, who’s grown into a lovely young woman.” I open my eyes, but everyone else has theirs closed. I’m a little surprised he mentioned me first, before Sam—his only reason for being here in the first place.
“And thank you, God, for returning our boy to us. Thanks for answering our prayers. Amen.”
“Amen,” we all say.
“Okay, let’s dig in,” Dad says, letting out a relieved laugh. He winks at me, then at Sam, holding his gaze.
“Amen to that,” Aunt Shelley says, taking a swig from her white wine.
Even though I’m not hungry, I sample a little of everything. For a good while, we just sit around and eat and talk about how good the food is—a safe topic.
Earl asks Dad about his business, and soon they’re having a boring discussion about real estate, which Aunt Shelley loves. I can feel Sam fidgeting next to me. Sitting there, I wonder what Thanksgiving was like for him all those years. Did he and that man celebrate it, somehow? Or was it just another day? And I wonder if Sam’s thinking about that, too—how a year ago he was somewhere else, maybe eating turkey, maybe not, and all of those unknowable things make me feel queasy all of sudden, and I start coughing, gagging on the cranberries I was eating.