An Anonymous Girl(13)

My mom stands up abruptly and clears the plates.

“Let me,” I say.

She waves her hand. “Why don’t you and your father take Leo out for his walk? I’ll help Becky get ready for bed.”


The metal bar in the middle of the pull-out couch digs into my lower back. I flip over on the thin mattress again, trying to find a position that will coax sleep.

It’s nearly one A.M., and the house is quiet. But my mind is whirling like a washing machine, spinning around images and snatches of conversation.

As soon as we’d stepped outside, my father had pulled a box of Winstons and a matchbook out of his coat pocket. He struck a match against the strip, shielding the spark from the wind with his cupped hand. It took him three tries to get a flame.

It took me almost that long to process the news he’d just told me.

“A buyout?” I’d finally echoed.

He’d exhaled. “We were strongly encouraged to take them. Those were the words on the memo.”

It was dark, and although we’d only walked to the corner, my hands were already tingling from the cold. I couldn’t see my father’s expression.

“Are you going to look for another job?” I’d asked.

“I’ve been looking, Jessie.”

“You’ll find something soon.”

The words had escaped before I’d realized I was doing exactly what my mother does to Becky.

I flip over on the mattress again and tuck my arm over Leo.

Becky and I used to share a room, but once I moved out, Becky deserved to have the extra space. There’s a mini-trampoline with a safety bar and an arts-and-crafts table where my twin bed once stood. It’s the only home she has ever known.

My parents have lived in this house for nearly thirty years. It would be paid off, but they needed to refinance it to cover Becky’s medical bills.

I know how much they spend every month; I’ve gone through the bills my mother keeps in a drawer in their sideboard.

My head is filled with questions again. This is the one that matters most: What’s going to happen to them when the buyout money is gone?

Thursday, November 22

Aunt Helen and Uncle Jerry host Thanksgiving every year. Their house is a lot bigger than my parents’, with a dining room table that can easily seat the ten of us. My mother always makes green bean casserole with fried onions around the edges, and Becky and I prepare the stuffing. Before we leave, Becky asks me to do her makeup.

“I’d love to,” I tell her. She was the one I first practiced on, back when we were kids.

I don’t have my case with me, but Becky’s coloring is so much like my own—fair skin with a scattering of freckles, light hazel eyes, straight brows—that I dig into my personal makeup bag and set to work.

“What kind of look are we going for?” I ask.

“Selena Gomez,” Becky says. She’s been a fan since Selena was on the Disney Channel.

“You love to challenge me, don’t you?” I say, and she giggles.

I smooth a tinted moisturizer onto Becky’s skin, thinking of what my mother had said at dinner. I stopped going to Florida with them once I moved to New York, but my mother always sends me photos of Becky collecting seashells in a bucket, or laughing as the spray hits her stomach. Becky loves the nonalcoholic Pink Panther drinks with a little umbrella and extra maraschino cherries that the server brings her at my parent’s favorite seafood place. My dad takes Becky to play miniature golf while my mother walks on the beach, and they all go crabbing at the end of the pier. They rarely catch any crabs and when they do, they always throw them back.

It’s the one time of year when they seem to truly relax.

“Why don’t you come visit me in New York after Christmas?” I suggest. “I could take you to see the giant tree. We could watch the Rockettes kick and sing, and get hot chocolate at Serendipity.”

“Sounds good,” Becky says, but I can tell she’s a little nervous about the idea. She has come to see me in the city before, but the noises and crowds unsettle her.

I add some blush to try to bring out her cheekbones, then dab a soft pink gloss on her lips. I tell her to look up as I gently apply a coat of mascara.

“Close your eyes,” I say, and Becky smiles. She likes this part best.

I reach out and take her hand, then guide her to the bathroom mirror.

“I look pretty!” Becky says.

I give her a big hug so she doesn’t see my eyes fill. “You are,” I whisper.


After my aunt Helen has served the pumpkin and pecan pies, the guys head to the living room to watch the game, and the women decamp to the kitchen for cleanup. It’s another ritual.

“Ugh, I’m so full I’m going to barf,” my cousin Shelly moans as she untucks her blouse.

“Shelly!” Aunt Helen admonishes.

“It’s your fault, Mom. The food was great.” Shelly winks at me.

I reach for a dish towel as Becky brings in the plates, carefully setting them down in a row on the counter. Aunt Helen redid her kitchen a few years ago, replacing the Formica with granite.

My mom starts to scrub the platters that Aunt Helen carries in from the dining room. My cousin Gail, Shelly’s sister, is eight months pregnant. She plops down on a chair at the kitchen table with a theatrical sigh, then drags over another chair so she can put her feet up. Somehow Gail always manages to avoid cleanup, but for once she has a reasonable excuse.