Chapter 5
FIVE
ELI
I didn’t eat as much as I’d intended for the main course. I was too stressed to eat more than the initial plate I took.
I make up for it with dessert. Mrs. Benson made a chocolate pie, a pumpkin pie, and an apple-raspberry pie. I eat a good piece of each, with ice cream, and after the last one, set my spoon on my plate with a sigh.
“You ate all your food?” Hugh asks, gesturing to my plate. He gives me a thumbs up. “Great job!”
I chuckle. Janet ruffles Hugh’s hair. “He’s been saying great job for just about everything, lately. This is one toddler phase I like.”
“You like it because he says great job when you watch a movie,” Jack says.
Janet raises an eyebrow. “Are you saying you don’t like being validated for watching TV and eating food?”
“Fair point.”
I look at Mrs. Benson, who’s leaning back in her chair with a distinctively mothering smile at her children. Even with the mess earlier, I’m feeling . . . good, right now. For the moment, I feel . . . light. “Mrs. Benson, your food makes everything better.”
She reaches across the table to squeeze my hand.
“You’ll want to come over tomorrow for lunch and dinner,” Janet says. “Mom makes her famous Thanksgiving hash, and the best turkey soup you’ll ever have.”
“The soup’s always better after a night in the fridge,” Mrs. Benson says, cheeks turning pink.
“Accept the praise, Mom,” Jack says.
“Do come over for both meals, Eli,” Mrs. Benson says to me. “I have a shift at the diner, but then I’ll be cooking the hash and soup, and you heard me say I made a big turkey this year. There will be enough for a few meals for all of us over the weekend, and even some turkey sandwiches.”
“It’s the best long weekend of the year,” Jack says, grinning and putting a hand over his stomach.
My lips curve up. “I’ll say.”
“I’m glad we got to be part of your first traditional Thanksgiving feast,” Mrs. Benson says.
No one’s mentioned my family since they left.
I know Mrs. Benson feels guilty for telling them off in front of me, but as painful as it was to hear, I wasn’t lying when I told her it was nothing I didn’t already know.
She wasn’t as angry as I expected her to be.
I know she still held back, because I was there.
I couldn’t leave her to do it alone, though.
I had to be there, to hear it and to see how my parents reacted to hearing it themselves, knowing I support every word Mrs. Benson said.
I wonder what I’ll find when I go home.
Something of my thoughts must show on my face. “Talk to them,” Mrs. Benson says in a different voice. Gentle but coaxing. “Give them one more chance, now that they’ve had some time for the truth to sink in. Before distance buries it again.”
Before they leave, tomorrow morning.
Jack’s hand squeezes my knee. I know he’s asking if I want him there. I do, but at the same time, I have to do this alone. They need to know this is coming from me.
“I have a feeling I might need a walk after,” I say, looking at him.
Those light blue eyes burn straight to my core. “Anything you need.”
I look at the wall clock and nod, taking a deep breath. “All right.”
Mrs. Benson gives me a huge hug. “Come back tonight if you want to. If you want to sleep on the couch, we can set it up.”
Tears prick at my eyes again. “Thanks, Mrs. Benson.”
Jack walks beside me, my personal guard, and leaves me at my door with a lingering look of steadfast devotion.
A savory smell hangs in the air as I enter, salmon and white sauce and spices.
Uncle Remington and my parents must have reheated the catered dinner Uncle Remington orders each year.
My father is standing in the kitchen, swinging the refrigerator door shut.
He turns at my arrival and studies me for a few seconds.
“Hi, Elliot.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“Elliot’s home?”
Mom’s voice carries through to the kitchen only a few heartbeats before she rushes in. She stops just inside the room, wavering.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
“We need to talk,” I tell them.
“Yes,” my father says. “Why don’t we go sit in the living room?”
I lead the way and sit in Uncle Remington’s chair, facing them on the loveseat. “Are you all right?” Mom asks.
I could laugh at the absurdity of the question, but keep my face even through pure habit. “Let me be completely honest. I’m not all right with what happened today, but more importantly, I’m not all right with our situation.”
“You’ve never said you had an issue with it before,” Mom says, fidgeting.
My mask slips away. “Because I didn’t realize I did until I saw what a real family is supposed to be.”
“All families are different,” my father says. “Not every parent has the luxury of staying home—”
“Don’t even,” I interrupt. “You’re rich.
You could stay here and work any local job you wanted, or even no job at all for a while, and not have to change.
You didn’t bat an eye when I told you I spent money at the vet that they would have needed weeks of work to pay off.
Mrs. Benson isn’t financially well-off like you.
She works long hours for a decent salary.
She still makes sure she has time for her family. ”
“You have a high opinion of her,” Mom says with something like a sniff.
“That woman was very rude to your mother,” my father says.
Their words are gasoline thrown over a still-smoldering fire.
“Never insult Mrs. Benson,” I say, voice shaking.
“She’s had me over for dinner more in the few months I’ve known her than I’ve ever had dinner with the two of you.
She’s come to every home soccer game this season.
She went to the regional championship. She texts me on the days I don’t see her, to tell me she hopes I had a good day.
She welcomed you into her home today. She’s been there for me, in a way you never have, and she’s been that way from the first day I met her!
And you tried to tell her she wasn’t my family? ”
My voice has climbed, my last words ringing in the air between us. I’m leaning forward in my seat, hands clenched into fists on my lap. Why can’t they hear me? Why can’t they acknowledge it?
“Elliot, my career is the best it’s ever been right now,” Mom says into the tense silence. “I’ve worked hard for this dream, and if I slack off, it’ll be gone in a matter of weeks.”
“And I’ll be gone in a matter of years, when I graduate and move out of this horrible house and escape this dysfunctional sham of a family.
But you don’t care if we have a real relationship before then.
” I stand up. “I shouldn’t have expected you to choose me.
You never have. You liked the idea of a kid more than the reality. ”
Mom’s eyes shimmer with tears. “Elliot—”
“I’ve said my piece, Mom. I can’t make how I feel any plainer. Go on pretending you’re caring parents. I’ll keep learning what a true family is, with the Bensons.”
Both of my parents flinch. I don’t pause, walking past them.
“See you in two more years,” I say over my shoulder.
“Elliot, wait!” my father says, suddenly behind me. His hand closes around my arm, and for a heartbeat, I move as if to fight. He pulls me against him, wrapping his arms around me, and I still.
As far back as I can remember, my father has only hugged me a handful of times. It isn’t a good feeling. His grip is too strong, his hold awkward and strained. It freezes me, though. There aren’t any cameras around, as there were most of the times he did this.
“Please don’t walk away,” he says.
He lets me go, and when I don’t move, Mom takes his place. Softer. Warmer. My heart keens when her arms surround me. This was all I’d wanted the last two years . . . and all I can think is that it’s so much better when Mrs. Benson hugs me.
I hate that it’s undoing me anyway. That I still want to cry because Mom is hugging me—even if it’s second best, it’s still her. It’s still Mom . . .
“Your father and I got our priorities messed up,” Mom says, kissing my hairline. “We didn’t realize you were hurting so much. We do care about you, Elliot. Very much.”
Something deep inside me trembles. My mother’s job is making things look good. Capturing seemingly perfect moments. Appearances, not reality. How much of this is real, and how much is trying to make it seem like it’s real?
Mom draws back and runs her thumbs down my cheeks, wiping away tears I was barely aware of shedding. Tears that are still falling. “Can we try talking again?” she asks.
My throat is blocked. Half of me screams not to trust this. My pulse drums in my ears, telling me this is the chance I didn’t dare to dream of when I invited them to Thanksgiving. This is the opening Mrs. Benson helped create, to break through to them.
I can’t speak, but I nod. Mom takes my arm and leads me back to the chair I’d been in, and they sit across from me once more.