Long Bright River(26)

I watch my phone. I wait.

Martha Lewis is the first to respond. Hi Mick, sorry to hear that. That’s a shame. Let me research a little.

Then my cousin Ashley. No, I’m sorry.

A few old friends text that they haven’t seen her lately. They wish me luck. Send me condolences.

The only person who doesn’t text back at all is our cousin Bobby. I try him once more, and then I text Ashley again to make certain I have the right number.

That’s the one, she replies.

Then, quite suddenly, an idea occurs to me. Today is Monday, November 20—which means that Thursday is Thanksgiving.



* * *



—

Every year since I was small, the O’Briens—Gee’s side of the family—have come together for the occasion. When I was younger, Thanksgiving took place at the house of Aunt Lynn, Gee’s younger sister. These days, Lynn’s daughter Ashley typically hosts, but I haven’t been in many years—since before Thomas was even born.

I’ve made the same excuse, over and over again, for missing the O’Brien Thanksgiving: that I have to work. What I don’t tell anyone is that, even in years when I have had the option not to, I have elected to do so for extra pay.

This year is a rare one in which I happen to have Thanksgiving off. I had planned to spend it alone with Thomas. I was going to buy canned sweet potatoes and instant mashed potatoes and a rotisserie chicken. I was going to light a candle in the middle of the table and tell my son the true story of the first Thanksgiving, which I first learned from my favorite high school history teacher, Ms. Powell, and which is much different than the version that is typically taught in schools.

But it occurs to me, now, that attending an O’Brien family Thanksgiving might be a way to ask after Kacey—and, more specifically, to inquire about her with Cousin Bobby, who still has not responded to my texts.

I phone Gee once more. This time, she answers.

—Gee, I say. It’s Mickey. Are you going to Ashley’s for Thanksgiving?

—No, she says. Working.

—But she’s hosting?

—According to Lynn, says Gee. Why?

—I was just wondering.

—Tell me you’re thinking of going, she says, incredulously.

—Maybe, I say. I’m not sure yet.

Gee pauses.

—Well, she says. I’ll be damned.

—I just have the day off for once, I say. That’s all.

—Don’t tell Ashley yet, I say. In case I can’t make it.

Before I hang up, I ask her once more.

—No word from Kacey, right? I say.

—Goddammit, Mickey, says Gee. You know I don’t talk to her no more. What’s going on with you?

—Nothing at all, I say.



* * *



—

I spend the rest of the day fruitlessly scanning the sidewalks for anyone I might talk to. I check my phone compulsively. I manage to respond to only a handful of calls, cherry-picking ones I know will be easy.

That night, when I go home to Thomas, he seems worried about me. In fact, he asks me if something is wrong.

I want to tell him, everything is wrong except for you. These days, you are the only great pleasure of my life. Your small presence, your small observant face, the intelligence within you that grows unceasingly, each new word or turn of phrase that enters your vocabulary, that I take stock of, that I store like gold for your future. At least I have you.

I say none of this, of course. I say to him, Nothing’s wrong. Why?

But I can tell by his expression that he doesn’t believe me.

—Thomas, I say. How would you like to spend Thanksgiving at Cousin Ashley’s?

Thomas leaps to his feet, his hands clutched to his chest, dramatically. His hands are boy hands, ragged cuticles, strong fingers, palms that smell always of the earth, even when he has not dug in it that day.

—I’ve been missing her so much, he says.

Against my will, I smile. I think the last time we saw Ashley was two years ago, at Gee’s house, when she stopped by on Christmas; I doubt, therefore, that he actually remembers her. He knows about her because of the homemade family tree on his wall, which he traces sometimes with a finger, chanting every name. Cousin Ashley, he knows, is married to Cousin Ron, and is the mother of his other cousins, Jeremy, Chelsea, Patrick, and Dominic. Cousin Ashley’s mother, he knows, is Aunt Lynn.

Now, Thomas raises his hands into the air in victory, and asks me how many days until we go.



* * *



—

I put him to bed. The weeks I’m home for his bedtimes, our routine never varies: bath, books, bed. We are frequenters of our local libraries—first in Port Richmond and now in Bensalem. Each librarian there knows Thomas by name. Each week we choose a stack of books to enjoy together, and every night I let Thomas select as many as he would like to read. Then, together, we sound out the words and describe the pictures, inventing scenarios, speculating about what will happen next.

The weeks I’m on B-shift, when Bethany puts Thomas to bed, I am under the impression that she does not read to him much, if at all.

Once he’s tucked in, I linger in his dim and peaceful room, thinking how nice it would be to let myself lay my head next to his on the pillow, to drift to sleep there, just for a little.