Chapter 52
NOW
“I don’t get it; I’ve been trying to make food for all of us for days now. Is she just trying to rub in the fact that I suck at cooking now?” I ask.
“Yes,” says Matt, “your mother took some time from beyond the grave to rub your nose in your overcooked shrimp cocktail.”
I gasp. “You said it was good!”
Matt rolls his eyes. “Okay, I lied, it tasted like eating a cat toy.”
If looks could kill, he’d be dead.
After the words family meal appeared, the board had gone quiet. Nothing more to say. Not even goodbye like all polite Ouija ghosts are supposed to do.
“It creeps me out, the idea that she really could communicate like that,” I say.
“Through a pizza box?” asks Matt.
“No—well, yes. But also, I don’t like the idea that she’s sitting there somewhere and can talk to us.” I gesture, for some reason at the sky, as if she might actually be up there sitting on a cloud with a harp nearby or something.
“So you believe it?” says Sammie. “You just don’t like it?”
“I don’t know.” I chew the inside of my cheek. “Family meal is weird. I’ve never talked about that with any of you guys, right?”
They all shake their heads.
“One Thanksgiving she wanted me to come back.” My eyes land on Austin and he grins at me, immediately remembering.
I have to look away.
I go on to explain what the expression means in restaurants, and then say, “And for the two of us, it kind of became a code word. Sort of an apology, or a verbal breaking of bread. When we couldn’t communicate with other words. Like a truce, kinda.”
“And that worked?” asks Sammie. “Because … you guys weren’t talking at the end.”
“Yeah, well, code words don’t really work when the words you’re not saying are ‘Hey, don’t kill yourself.’”
The room is quiet. Just the sound of the crackling wood, then a log shifting. Austin stands to readjust it.
“Did you ever even actually say that to her though?” asks Sammie. “Or did you assume that your silence would communicate for you? Because I’ve been on the other end of your silent treatment, and let me tell you, it only communicates one thing.”
I feel like I’ve been suddenly hit in the head by a rogue soccer ball. Which makes me feel embarrassed. Which makes me shut down.
“You know,” I say suddenly, “I think I’m going to head up to bed.”
“Didion, maybe it’s time—” starts Matt.
“No, no, it’s the wine, I think I had too much. It’s not about what you said, Sammie. We can talk about it later. I’m tired.”
I can’t look any of them in the eye as I go.
I hear soft steps behind me as I get to the upstairs hall, and smile sadly as I turn around to see Birdie.
“Come here, puppy. You’re so nice.” I scratch her behind the ears and whisper, “You want to sleep with me?”
She pants at me and I go into my room, shutting the door behind us. She jumps right up onto the bed and curls up into a tiny fox-like ball.
I’m glad she’s with me, because as I lie there, not tired at all, I spend hours hearing the tones of their voices, laughter, and the music they play.
I wish so badly I could get out of my own way.
Stop blaming them and feeling sorry for myself.
And yet here I am, again, running away. As I stare out the window, I wonder just what it would take, if not this, to break me out of my fortress of self-protection.