People Like Us(70)
I sit quietly in the backseat as Bernie drives me to the station.
He clears his throat. “I’m very sorry about that,” he apologizes awkwardly. “You really are welcome to return another time.” Yeah. I’ll be on the next train. “It’s a complicated issue. My life coach has been adamant that I deal with family conflicts directly and right away, and I just don’t think we’re able to do that with guests.”
I wonder about the life coach (code for shrink, maybe) but also about how much progress you can possibly expect to make when you only see your daughter a few times a year.
“Sure,” I say.
When we arrive at the station, he walks around the car and opens the door for me. “Thank you for being understanding,” he says. “And for being a friend to Nola. And for not mentioning this unfortunate incident to any of the other girls at school,” he adds with a meaningful look, and presses an envelope into my hand. “Happy holidays, Katherine. Buy yourself a ticket to visit your folks.” I’m too stunned to react as he gives me a hug and then disappears into his car, waving as he drives away. I sit on the bench waiting for the next train, the lone figure in an empty station, and peer into the envelope. It’s stuffed with fifty-dollar bills.
* * *
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MY FIRST IMPULSE is to call Brie, but even if I hadn’t sworn not to, I don’t think she would pick up. So I follow Bernie’s advice. I go home. It’s well after midnight when I arrive, and I take a cab to the darkened house.
It’s the last one on a dead-end street lined with skeletal shrubs, leafless trees, and yards littered with rusty bikes, frozen kiddie pools, and broken cars in an endless state of refurbishment. Ours is the smallest, a two-bedroom with a combination kitchen-laundry room, a living room that has just enough space for our ancient TV set and a battered couch, and an attic loft my father converted to my room when I was ten.
The last time my parents and I spoke, we fought, and I’m not even sure they’ll be here now. We haven’t had Thanksgiving at home since before Todd died. I don’t bother to knock; I just let myself in, creep up the stairs, and then look for evidence that they’re here. Mom’s purse on the kitchen table, Dad’s wallet on the counter. Tiptoeing around the kitchen, I’m pleasantly surprised to see how well things look. The room is tidy, no dishes or stacks of bills piled up. I peer into the refrigerator, and tears actually well up in my eyes when I see signs of a partially prepared Thanksgiving dinner. There are peeled potatoes in a big bowl covered in plastic wrap, cartons of cider and eggnog, oranges and packages of cranberries, even a small, half-frozen turkey. I blink and the tears spill down my face. I wouldn’t have guessed it in a million years before actually getting here, but I’m glad I came home. Even if I regret it tomorrow, even if Mom is a raging bitch and Dad won’t shut up about getting the soccer team going again, just for this amazing sight of food prepped for Thanksgiving dinner, I am so grateful that I got kicked out of Tranquility and sent home in disgrace. Hallelujah.
24
The first thing Mom does when she sees me in the morning is scream like she’s seen a ghost. Then she hugs me and cries. Dad hugs me, then asks about soccer. He says I look just like Mara Kacoyanis. I can tell they’re both extremely pleased to see me, and neither asks about Brie.
I take on the task of dicing potatoes without asking. We don’t do mashed potatoes on Thanksgiving; we do potato salad. It’s an ancient Donovan tradition. Dad chops cranberries and Mom tries to boil the turkey in an attempt to finish defrosting it.
She sees me watching her and shoots me a defensive look. “It doesn’t have to be edible until tomorrow, Katie.”
“Is this the first time you’ve tried to cook one?” I say as she stirs it awkwardly in a giant pot.
“Since Grandma died,” she answers, avoiding the more precise date. Dad doesn’t look up from his cutting board but clears his throat loudly, as if to warn me away from this line of questioning. He looks like he’s gained weight since summer, and Mom has more color. Her silver-streaked auburn hair is swept up into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, and she’s wearing a denim dress that she’s had since before I was born. I’m convinced it’s the softest item of clothing in the world, though I’ve begged her repeatedly over the past seventeen years to burn it.
I wonder what they’ve been doing. We only talk about me when they call, and even then it’s just questions about school and soccer. Occasionally what’s Brie up to, or how is Spencer. I realize that they don’t even know we’ve broken up.
“What have you guys been doing the past few Thanksgivings?” I ask, and Dad clears his throat again, this time with a warning look.
Mom just turns up the dial on the gas stove, and the flame flares up underneath it. “Chinese,” she says. “Cooking is such a headache.”
“What’s the special occasion this year?”
“Well,” she says, placing the wooden spoon down on the counter. “This year we have something to celebrate.”
Dad stops chopping. “Karen, maybe this isn’t the time.”
Mom sits next to me at the table and takes my hand in hers. “Katie, we need to talk to you about something.”
“You’re pregnant,” I blurt out. No, that doesn’t make sense. They’re too old. Aunt Tracy’s pregnant.