The Impossible Knife of Memory(74)

“I need to steal a referee’s whistle.” Gracie stuck her phone in her bra. “The therapist says we have to eat Thanksgiving dinner together, all four of us.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Thanksgiving?” Gracie’s eyes bugged out. “Think about it. Carving knives! Boiling gravy! It’ll be a disaster.” She pedaled faster. “Dad’s got to be sleeping with her.”

“Your mom?”

“The therapist, dummy. Why else would she recommend such a stupid thing?”

“I don’t know, G. Maybe she thinks your parents should stop being idiots and find a way to still be a family even if they are going to split up.”

“No way.” She stopped. “What are you and your dad going to do? Turkey at home or a restaurant?”

Two years before, we’d been on the road to Cheyenne, getting paid extra for driving on the holiday. We drove until midnight and ate turkey sandwiches to celebrate. Last year, we’d been stuck in a motel outside Seattle. It had a minifridge and a microwave, so I’d cooked up a box of stuffing and served canned peaches for dessert.

“How is he doing?” she asked.

“Better,” I lied. “Every day without Trish he gets a little stronger.”

“Come to our house,” she said.

“What?”

“Bring your dad to my house for Thanksgiving.”

“Shouldn’t you ask your parents first?”

“They’ll be overjoyed with the distraction, trust me.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said.

“You have to do this.” Gracie reached over and pushed the button on my console to make it harder for me to pedal. “You owe me.”

“For what?”

“I helped you the night you had to bring your dad home.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I talked to you, didn’t I? And I totally would have gotten the car for you if I could have. Besides, it worked out okay in the end, right? Please come to dinner.”

“I don’t know, G.”

“Bring a pie if you want. Pie makes everybody happy. Bring pie and your dad. Maybe it will make them all be on their best behavior. It’s worth a shot, right?”





_*_ 76 _*_

“Why didn’t your mom call the police?” I asked, trying to keep up with Finn.

“There’s no way to prove it was Chelsea,” he said, grimfaced.

“Actually, there is.” I broke into an awkward half jog. “They have this new thing called ‘fingerprints.’ Since she was arrested before, they’ll be on file someplace.”

“Please don’t be a bitch,” he said. “Not right now.”

He opened the glass door of the red entrance of the mall and walked in without waiting to see if I was still with him. While we were at school, someone had broken into his mom’s condo and stolen her emergency credit card (chiseled out of its hiding place in a block of frozen ice at the back of the freezer) and a pound of sliced ham. Obviously, it was Chelsea and it should have been the end of the trip to Boston and his parents’ misguided plans for Thanksgiving, but his mother was still acting like everything was fine.

Finn plowed ahead into the crowd of pre-pre-Black Friday shoppers. (His mom said he had to buy a new dress shirt because he had outgrown his old ones. His family always dressed up for Thanksgiving dinner. Utter insanity.) He didn’t realize I wasn’t with him until he was ten stores in. He turned in a full circle, looking for me.

I took a deep breath and opened the door. Approximately two billion people were inside, all hollering so they could be heard over the irritating holiday (buy-our-stuff) music. I fought my way through the swarm until I reached him, standing next to one of those fake mini-booths that sell bad cell phone plans.

“It’s too crowded,” I said. “Let’s come back tomorrow.”

“We’re leaving at six in the morning,” he pointed out. “It won’t take long.”

I followed him into a small, crowded store that was so dark no one could read the price tags. He picked out a half-dozen shirts and we squeezed our way back to the dressing rooms. He went in and closed the door behind him. I called Dad, just to check on him, to tell him I was running late, and I’d be home soon. Also, I needed to hear how he sounded.

He didn’t answer the phone.

I counted to sixty and called again. Still no answer.

“Does it fit?” I asked.

“Not the first one.”

Five minutes of silence later, I knocked again. “Any luck?”

“Not really.”

“Why is this taking so long?”

“What’s your problem?”

Where should I start?

“Just hurry up.”

Someone turned up the store’s music so loud it made the floor shake. A new crowd of people pushed their way into the dressing room area, even though there was nowhere for them to stand. It suddenly felt like I was standing in front of the stage at a huge concert and sixty thousand people decided to make the place into a mosh pit. I swallowed hard and looked up, above their heads, looking for air and trying not to panic. I called Dad again. The phone rang.

I pounded on the dressing-room door. “Seriously, Finn, it’s just a shirt. I need to get home.”