Undecided(93)

“You look great,” my mom says, leading the way to the parking lot.

“Thanks.” I shiver in the damp air and zip my coat to my chin. Then I sigh as we reach the cars. Two of them. Parked side by side, ready for me to make a choice.

“Get in,” they say, reaching for the passenger side doors of both vehicles.

“Were two cars really necessary?” I ask tiredly. “When we’re going to the same house?”

“It’s a duplex,” my dad points out.

“It’s the same structure.”

“But two homes.”

“Yes, I get it. But you’re wasting gas.” And truthfully—no matter who I choose, no matter the reason, someone’s feelings are going to get hurt. There are only two sides in this equation, much like there are two sides in the duplex. There’s no safe, neutral territory. Maybe that’s why a comfortable middle balance is at once so appealing and so difficult to achieve.

“Fine,” I say, when neither of them gives in. My dad is parked at the end of the aisle, which means the door opens wider so I can stuff my bag in easily. “I choose this car. See you at the two homes.”

My mom looks wounded. “But I—”

“You wanted me to choose. I chose. Let’s go.”

They look startled as I sling my bag into the footwell and follow, buckling my seatbelt. In previous years I’d bemoaned their behavior and pleaded with them not to do things like this. It’s not a competition. I love them both, as much as they frustrate me. But their unspoken war has more to do with each other than it ever has with me.

My dad seems pleased as we ride home, telling me about his current girlfriend, Sandy, who works at a gym, and their plans to go to Antigua in the spring. “Your mother’s going to Mexico,” he says, his tone almost pitying. “That’s a little...done, don’t you think?”

“Is Mexico ‘done?’” I echo. “I don’t know. I’ve never been.”

He’s been, three times. My mother’s been as well. But I’ve never been invited.

We stop for a red light and he turns to look at me, expression serious. “Are you okay, Nora? You seem a little tense.”

“It was a long bus ride, that’s all.” It’s late afternoon but the sky is already growing dark. I feign a yawn and he seems to buy it.

We make our way silently through the center of town, the icy streets still busy as people finish up their last-minute shopping. It’s Christmas Eve, so shops will be open for another few hours, and when we pass a grocery store, I sit up in my seat.

“Who has the turkey?” I ask.

“Hmm?”

“The turkey. Who’s making it this year? You or mom?”

“Oh, your mother, I believe. Don’t worry—I bought hamburgers, just in case.”

We stop for another light, my mother idling right beside us. I roll down my window and gesture for her to do the same. “Do you have a turkey?” I shout.

“What?”

“Do you have a turkey?”

“Your father’s making it!”

“He said you were!”

“Robert!” she yells past me. “You said you would get it!”

“I offered,” he hollers back, “but you said I would lose it!”

“And then you said—”

I roll up the window on the argument. “Stop at Carters.”



*



We end up with a small but obnoxiously overpriced bird that sits in the laundry sink in my mother’s basement overnight, presumably thawing. I explain I’ll be alternating sides of the duplex during my stay, starting with mom’s house tonight so I can keep an eye on the turkey.

Christmas morning is the usual strained affair. My parents act as though everything is all right and I sit there in pajamas opening too many presents as they try to outdo each other with things like perfume and scarves and gaudy jewelry—none of which I would ever wear, but thank them for all the same. I think we’re all relieved when the last gift is unwrapped and I head down to the basement to grab the turkey from its chilly bath.

Kellan had insisted on explaining the whole turkey process as he performed it, gross things like grabbing the innards that are stashed inside and sewing parts to other parts so it stays together. I skip the “brining,” mostly because I don’t know what brine is, and skim the recipe he’d texted me, mixing up breadcrumbs and diced vegetables and a variety of spices rescued from the depths of my mother’s pantry.

I gag a little as I stuff the bird and rub butter under its pebbled skin, then stick the whole thing in the oven. I threaten to go home immediately if this bird disappears for even one second, and both my parents promise to remain hands off. To be honest, they look a little frightened by my uncharacteristic decisiveness.

All too soon it’s time for dinner. I make my way downstairs where I’m introduced to dad’s girlfriend, Sandy, and Byron, mom’s new boyfriend. Each relationship is still in its early stages, far too early for Christmas dinner with each other’s ex, if their strained expressions are any indication.

For the first time in years, we sit down to a meal that involves actual turkey cooked in our oven. Everyone makes appreciative noises as my dad carves it up, and I feel a tiny, satisfied thrill when we start eating and no one pulls any supplementary food items from their pockets. It’s already more successful than Chrisgiving.