Six
six
HOME - PHILLIP PHILLIPS
OWEN - NOVEMBER 28, 2013
I cannot stop grinning as we leave Callie’s mom’s house. I’d never admit it out loud, but I don’t completely hate that Miley Cyrus song; it’s annoyingly catchy. I hum along to Sara singing it in the backseat, her cousin’s performance still fresh in her mind. Callie laughs at me and I try to play it off like I don’t know every word. Today has gone exactly how I hoped it would so far, and we still have two more stops to go.
Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays. I love the chance to see my family, especially on my mom’s side. I haven’t seen most of them since Cousin’s Night over the summer, and I’m looking forward to catching up with everyone.
Ruby is four-weeks old now and Callie is heading back to work this week. She doesn’t want me to be the sole financial provider, and given her past, I understand her reasons for that decision even if I don’t like them. Part of me feels like I’m failing her, like I’m not doing enough to provide for her. It makes me hate Adam even more for what he put her through, for making her feel like she’s not safe without a backup plan. Nevertheless, I’m worried she’s overdoing it. She’s exhausted, but I can’t exactly tell her that. Have you ever accidentally insulted a woman who just had a baby?! I’m not taking any chances.
Instead, I have been picking up extra shifts in Columbus Junction when I can to offset costs if she ever has to call off work. That requires balance because when I am working, I can’t be home helping her with the kids. I need to figure out a way to make things easier so she doesn’t put so much pressure on herself.
Since my parents’ divorce a few years back, I’ve had to split my Thanksgiving day between going to Grandma and Grandpa Sullivan’s on my mom’s side, and going to see my dad and his wife Beverly. My phone buzzes just as I’m about to reverse the van out of Rita and Waynes’s driveway. I pull it out of my pocket and see my cousin Vince has started a group chat with his brother and me.
Vince:
Owen, where are you? Get your ass over here. Aunt Sandra’s already had a meltdown, and I need someone to drink a beer with because Malcolm says he’s on a diet.
Sounds like the typical holiday chaos is already brewing. I can’t help but grin, shaking my head as I type out a quick response.
Me:
I’m on dad duty, so I’m not drinking much. But I’ll be there soon with popcorn to watch the Sandra Show.
The reply from Vince comes almost instantly.
Vince:
You better not miss Act II. It’s going to be a classic.
Malcolm:
Don’t encourage him. Mom’s already threatening to “clean house.” Whatever that means.
“Everything okay?” Callie asks, buckling her seatbelt.
I catch her worried expression. “Yeah, it’s just my cousins. My Aunt Sandra has already had a meltdown,” I say, tucking my phone back into my pocket.
Callie scoffs. “I can’t wait to see how that plays out. I know I haven’t met Sandra yet, but from what you’ve told me before, it should be pretty entertaining.
Aunt Sandra is the youngest of my mom’s sisters, and Mom, Aunt Serena, and Aunt Sharon always pick on her. Sometimes I feel bad for her, but then I look at her free-loading son Bruce, and think the apple must not fall far from the tree.
“Oh, it’s going to be a show,” I say, grinning as I settle into the driver’s seat. “And we’ve got front-row tickets.”
The Sullivan family chaos is in full swing by the time we arrive. Grandpa Sully’s booming laugh echoes from the living room. Vince and Malcolm’s voices trail from the kitchen, and Sandra’s distinct “I’m just saying” cuts through the background noise.
We step inside and Barrett takes off like a rocket, his laughter trailing behind him as he calls out for Grandpa Sully. Callie adjusts Ruby in her arms, her expression soft but tired, while Sara clings tightly to her leg. Sara’s thumb hovers near her mouth, a habit that’s become more frequent since we started phasing out her pacifier. It’s a trade-off that makes me uneasy—thumb-sucking might be harder to break. Kneeling down, I gently take her little hand in mine, giving her the three reassuring squeezes our family uses to say “I love you.” I’m elated when she quickly squeezes my hand back twice.
“You’re okay, sweet girl,” I murmur, hoping the small gesture will help her feel safe enough to settle into the lively, unfamiliar atmosphere. I guide Callie toward the kitchen, where Vince leans against the counter, a beer in hand. His eyes light up when he spots us.
“About time,” he says, raising his bottle. “You missed the first act. Sandra’s already threatened to cancel Christmas.”
“Classic Sandra, thinks she’s in charge of everything,” I reply with a smirk. “Guess I should’ve brought a camera instead of popcorn.”
Callie, who’s been quiet until now, suddenly stops short, her expression shifting. “Oh no,” she says, realization in her voice.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, glancing over at her.
“The candy bar brownies,” she says, her eyes wide as she shifts Ruby in her arms. “I left them on the counter. I completely forgot to bring them.”
I shrug and give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “ It’s fine. We’ll just binge-eat the whole tray after the kids go to bed.”
She presses her lips into a tight line. “But I told your grandma I’d bring a dessert,” she says, her voice laced with frustration. “I didn’t want to show up empty-handed.”
“Grandma Alice won’t even notice,” I say gently. “Just wait until you see the spread she puts out. She’s got enough food to feed an army. One missing dessert isn’t going to ruin her day.”
Callie glances toward the kitchen, her expression softening. “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive,” I say. “No matter how stuffed we get today, I’m holding you to that brownie binge. I’ll even make coffee.”
Her lips twitch, and she sighs, the tension easing from her shoulders. “Fine, but you’d better not eat any of them while I’m asleep from my turkey coma.”
“Deal,” I say, pressing a quick kiss to her temple before turning back to Vince.
He watches the exchange with a smirk, shaking his head. “You’re whipped, man,” he says, chuckling.
“Maybe,” I reply, “but at least I’m not on a diet.”
“Hey!” Malcolm protests.
Before I can add anything else, Sandra sweeps into the kitchen, her eyes narrowing when she spots us. “Oh, good, the boys are all gathered. Are you finally going to help, or are you just going to stand around and gossip like schoolgirls?”
Vince and Malcolm both go silent, trying, and failing, to suppress their laughter. I raise my hands in mock surrender. I can’t help but notice she’s not barking orders at her own son. No surprise there. “I’m here to help, Aunt Sandra. Just tell me where to start.”
“Good. You can set the table, and tell your mother to get out of my way,” she barks. “She’s been hovering all morning.”
Yeah, there’s not a chance in hell I’m doing that. My mother would kill me. Frankly, Sandra is lucky my mother didn’t hear her say that. I glance at Vince, who’s barely holding it together, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Malcolm mutters something under his breath about staying out of the crossfire.
“I’ll get right on it,” I say, with a nod. “But only if you promise not to cancel Christmas.”
Sandra glares at me for a second before turning on her heel and marching out of the kitchen. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Vince releases his laughter, doubling over.
“You’re playing with fire, man,” he says between chuckles.
“I’m not scared of Aunt Sandra, unlike you.” I shrug, grabbing plates to set the table. Then I glance at Callie. “You okay here if I help out? I’ll come check on you in a bit.”
“Yes, I’m a big girl,” she teases. “I’ll go find your mom and say hello.”
I give her a quick kiss on the forehead and point her in the direction of the living room where she’s most likely to find my mom. She heads off with the girls, and I head into the dining room, where another one of my aunts throws out commands like a seasoned general. Aunt Sharon is beside the table, her fiery red hair, shining under the light. She’s barking orders at her daughter Vicki, who’s standing with one hand on her hip and an expression that screams, Not today, Mom .
Vicki’s wild blonde curls bounce with her animated gestures, resisting Sharon’s micromanagement. Her seven-year-old son, Cameron, sits at the table folding napkins into lopsided shapes, sneaking glances at his mom and grandma like he’s watching a live-action sitcom.
It’s funny how predictable this is. Sharon and Vicki are always bickering, like two forces of nature refusing to give ground. I’ve seen this show a dozen times over the years; and now that Vicki is a mom herself, there’s a new layer of stubbornness. It’s both entertaining and exhausting. I stay out of it, and focus on setting the table as was requested of me.
“Mom, you seriously need to relax,” Vicki says, rolling her eyes as she tosses another stack of napkins onto the table. “It’s Thanksgiving, not a Michelin-starred restaurant.”
“Don’t tell me to relax,” Sharon snaps, her hands on her hips. “If I left things up to you, we’d be eating pizza off paper plates.”
“Honestly, that sounds way better than this,” Vicki fires back. “Fewer dishes, more fun.”
That gets a smirk out of me. I’ve always admired how quick Vicki is with her comebacks. She can turn every argument into a game she refuses to lose.
Sharon huffs, her exasperation palpable. “Fun? You have a child, Vicki. Maybe it’s time you started acting like it.”
“Gee, thanks, Mom. Totally forgot about Cameron. I’ll make sure to remind him he exists,” Vicki says with an exaggerated sigh, her sarcasm cutting through the tension.
I glance at Cameron, who’s watching the back-and-forth like he’s waiting for the next punchline. His curls bounce as he tilts his head, his voice is full of innocent confidence when he says, “I’m right here, Grandma.”
Sharon softens, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “Of course you are, sweetheart. Maybe you can help your mom fold those napkins properly.”
Has everyone in this family always been so neurotic?
Before Vicki can fire back, her brother Joel strolls into the room. He always wears an easy grin, one that screams he’s about to stir the pot. But he’s Sharon’s golden boy and can do no wrong in her eyes.
“Well, look who’s making Thanksgiving entertaining as usual,” Joel says, nodding toward Vicki and Sharon. “Owen, you must love these family shows. Can’t beat the price of admission.”
I grin, nodding my head. “I brought popcorn. It’s in the car.”
Joel claps me on the shoulder, his smirk widens. “Smart man. Just make sure you’re sitting at a safe distance when Act Two starts.”
I laugh, already bracing for whatever comes next. Family gatherings with Sharon and Vicki are always a spectacle. It’s like watching a storm roll in; fascinating from afar but dangerous up close.
“Act Two?” Vicki says, glaring at her older brother. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Joel says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Just saying you and Mom have a knack for keeping things lively.”
Sharon glares at him, her hands on her hips. “If you’re not here to help, Joel, you can find the door.” Ope, maybe he can do wrong after all.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” Joel says, grabbing a napkin and dramatically folding it. “I’m here to save Thanksgiving, one perfectly creased napkin at a time.”
Vicki snorts, grabbing Cameron and pulling him toward the back door. “Come on, Cam. Let’s get some air before Uncle Joel’s ego suffocates us.”
“Hey, I’m just here to bring joy to the masses,” Joel calls after her, earning an eye roll from Sharon.
I glance at Vicki as she heads out with Cameron. No matter how much Sharon pushes her buttons, Vicki never lets it stick. She’s got her own way of keeping the peace—mostly by ignoring the drama and finding her own escape route. It’s impressive, really.
Sharon, meanwhile, mutters something under her breath as she meticulously rearranges the napkins. I shake my head, picking up a stack of plates. “You know,” I say casually, “for someone who claims to be stressed, Vicki handles a lot.”
Sharon pauses, her hands hovering over the napkins. For a second, I think she might brush it off, but then she sighs, her expression softening. “She’s got a lot of her dad in her,” she admits. “Headstrong. Stubborn as hell. But you’re right. She’s doing alright. Cameron’s lucky to have her.”
I glance toward the door where Vicki and Cameron just disappeared. “Yeah, he is,” I say.
Sharon goes back to her napkins, her movements a little less frantic. “Don’t tell her I said that,” she mutters.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I reply, grinning as I set the plates on the table.