All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(58)

I can taste that gravy now. I have never attempted to re-create his magic.

On this day, with Thanksgiving a few weeks away, that magic was gone. I turned to Google for answers: “how to get through the holidays without murdering anyone.” Hmm, grief seems to be missing in that Internet query. I add “grief.” Whammo: “64 Tips for Coping with Grief During the Holidays.” Sixty-four seemed an oddly specific number, but I figured I’d take each one I could get; however, “Lighting a candle and thinking ‘nice’ thoughts” about my dad sounded like a fast route to a revolver-in-mouth-type depression. I was looking for a more pragmatic approach, the advice the brunette best friend character in a movie would dispense: Stay off social media, eat whatever you want, and this sucks, and it should, because nothing a website or anyone else says can make him come back.

Meagan organized a group video chat to discuss how “we as a family” wanted to spend our first Turkey Day without him. She was always doing that, thinking about us as a unit instead of the fragmented individuals we had become. Jill had moved into a new, smaller house, and that might have been an option, but she wouldn’t be there because she had to be in Tokyo for work. I was secretly relieved. I thought I would much rather scarf down bowls of green curry, alone, with The Office playing in the background, than try to get through this ludicrous holiday and all its trappings.

Meagan wouldn’t have it. She suggested we three girls gather in Michigan because she had space and was willing to cook. Like a jerk, I automatically said, “Pass.” Traveling during the holidays is such a nightmare. Never mind that she’d done it for the past ten years. Boston was brought up, as Madeline was there attending college. I said yes to Boston since it was closer than Michigan. “We can rent an Airbnb and cry together,” I said.

Meagan got off the phone so quickly that I knew I should call her back. She picked up, and her voice was fractured and soft, like she’d been crying. I asked what was wrong, but I knew the answer.

“I just don’t know what to say. No one is making an effort for us to be together. It’s important that we stay connected….”

Her voice trailed off but I knew what she was implying.

I nodded but said nothing.

At the end of the phone call, we agreed on Boston because it was near-ish to all of us. Our grandma, Jill’s mom, who is also known as Grammy Diane, would fly out from Minnesota and be the stand-in for Jill. She is kind, sweet, and loves Elvis Presley. She is a young sort of grandma and a reassuring presence. Plus she always brings us candy. On this Thanksgiving, we chose gummy bears over turkey.

I felt a mixture of emotions about my stepmother as we headed into the holiday. I felt grateful that my little sister still had a parent, but I was unable to ask Jill to be mine. I’m not sure if she was ever fully my parent. I’m not sure if my dad ever allowed her to grow into that role. He was our mother and father; he wanted to be all things to us. Intellectually, I knew I was not a child. Still, I relished my anger over her absence, and that was both troubling and comforting. It wasn’t that I wanted Jill to be there; I just felt comfortable being mad at her. Placing blame somewhere. It felt good to feel something other than sadness.

Jasper offered to drive me up to Boston. As we got in the car the air felt bitingly cold. I had underdressed as usual, and I cursed the whole Northeast as a region. Madeline’s friends had agreed to let us stay at their apartment for one hundred bucks, but I’d been warned that it was a complete and total pit. The Airbnb idea had been nixed because we were all broke and there was no parent around to pay for it.

I was three months sober (again) at the time, and was craving a drink to take the edge off of what I could only imagine would be a disaster. When I arrived, the mood was pretty much dire. Meagan had been scrubbing the apartment for hours, as she wanted the place to be suitable for our grandma. Madeline was holed away in one of her friends’ bedrooms, stricken with bronchitis or some other joy-suppressing ailment, but came out to survey the work being done and say hello. Jasper said hi to everyone and then gave me a quick hug goodbye as he headed out the door. I knew he was happy to return to his nondepressed family, which irritated me. I wished I could hide in his trunk and go back to the land of dumplings and plush red blankets. Instead I was stuck with two of the witches from Macbeth. I completed the set.

“Hey, do you want some help cleaning?” I offered unconvincingly.

“No, I’m fine. Almost done,” Meagan responded quietly as she swept the remaining dust into the dustpan.

“It’s a good thing Dad doesn’t have to be here this year,” I joked, trying to break the tension. She looked up, said nothing, and walked away.

Later we headed to a museum on the T, our grandma now with us. Jill hadn’t called. The time difference was too much from Tokyo to Boston. There was a general uneasiness that permeated every discussion our little family had. We were outside our routine, and I was filled with resentments. I resented Jill for being gone, Meagan for forcing us to spend time together, my dad for dying, and Madeline for coughing all night long. I walked from room to room in the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, reading about the 1990 theft of the prized Rembrandt Christ in the Storm, on the Sea of Galilee, among others. I wondered who on earth had those paintings and what they’d done with them. Anything to take my mind off the present. Amid my reverie, I caught a glimpse of my sisters as we all walked toward the end of the exhibit. All I recall is liking the feeling of being lost in the art rather than in my own head.