33. Tate
Something’s wrong.
From the minute I rolled out of my freshly made bed this afternoon after our impromptu Taylor Swift singalong, I’ve had this heavy weight in my gut.
We’re on our way to my parent’s house, Pitstop’s next to me in the front seat, her hand under mine on her thigh while her Dad sits humming along to the radio in the backseat next to her brother.
Penelope keeps tossing furtive glances at me. She’s picking up on my anxiety, but neither of us know where it’s coming from. Things are good. My mouth is healing, my body is rebuilding, and Mom’s cranberry stuffing is going to slay as always.
So what the hell is this prickling feeling all about?
“Okay, what gives?” It’s Oliver Lindstrom who breaks the silence in the car. “This silence is weird, Peppy. You’re never this quiet. Do you think I’m going to break Tate’s face? Because that’s totally not going to happen.”
“If you think I’m going to be uncomfortable with Zachary, Pumpkin, please don’t worry. We’ve talked, we’re good.”
She casts a glance at me. “It’s neither of those things. Tate’s just having a weird afternoon.”
It’s as close as either of us could probably get to explaining what’s going on because I have no fucking idea. I just know that I woke up from our pre-Thanksgiving dinner nap feeling a foreboding sense of doom I couldn’t explain.
Pitstop’s Dad pats my shoulder, I’m sure it’s supposed to be reassuring, but my stomach’s in such a tangle of knots it doesn’t feel at all settling.
As we pull into my parents’ street, ice fills my veins when their driveway is empty. Where’s Dad’s SUV? I reassure myself not to panic or catastrophize. Just because I got up this morning with dread consuming my body doesn’t mean dread is going to happen.
Maybe Mom forgot something and sent Dad to the store to pick it up. Unlikely, Mom usually has the majority of her Thanksgiving groceries taken care of weeks in advance, and she called me from the store a few days ago when she was getting all her fresh stuff.
My sour stomach only gets worse when I have to unlock the front door. When Mom’s home and she knows I’m coming, the door is left unlocked.
Also unusual, but not necessarily indicative of something being wrong.
It’s the lack of mouth-watering aroma lingering in the air that makes my blood run cold and my heart threaten to stop beating in my chest. Mom’s usually been up cooking for hours on Thanksgiving. The succulent turkey and ham, the smooth and creamy mashed potatoes, the vegetables everyone needs to have to maintain an air of being vaguely healthy...
Nothing.
The oven’s cold, the ingredients are spaced out on the kitchen island like she’d prepped to start cooking but something called her away.
Everything about this is wrong, the car being gone, the door being locked, and the house being cold and scent-free.
Where are my parents? And why aren’t they here arguing over how much apple cider to put in the gravy?
“Tate?”
I jump as Penelope touches my arm.
“Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—you... you were in a world of your own. What is it?”
My tongue is thick and my mouth dry. “I don’t know. Something’s wrong.”
Mike stands next to me. “Oven’s off, there’s no food cooking. Maybe try calling them?”
My hands are shaking. It’s probably nothing, there’s likely a rational explanation for why Thanksgiving is running a few hours behind schedule. It’s going to be fine.
Penelope’s talking to me, but I don’t hear what she’s saying. Her hand digs into my back pocket, and she pulls out my phone, making the screen light up. “Maybe they’ve sent you a mess—no, nothing on your screen.” She holds the device out to me. “Dad’s right, call them. Let’s figure out where they are. Maybe they got sucked into a conversation somewhere, or they’re waiting for a tow truck, or... there are any number of places they could be.” Her voice is soothing as she pats my arm.
“I know it’s hard but try not to panic.” Even Oliver’s turned serious, and his face is somber as he tries to reassure me.
Panic. That’s what has my chest in a vise. That’s what’s pressing my ribcage inward, threatening to crush my organs. That’s what’s clouding rational thought.
“Come on, breathe with me. It’s going to be fine.” Penelope’s voice wavers telling me she’s not sure it will be fine. But that could just be because she’s never seen me like this before.
When I dial, Mom’s phone rings in the next room. Pitstop finds it on the arm of the couch. That tracks, she hates that thing, but if Dad’s driving, she’s usually the easier of the two to get hold of.
Dad’s phone rings and rings and rings.
There’s nothing to do but wait, and call, and call, listening to the endless ringing as the sense that something is wrong takes hold of my whole being.
Penelope offers to make food, but my stomach lurches at the thought.
“Please, Tate? You need to eat something.”
Oliver’s already pulling bread out of the bread box and flipping open cupboards. “I’ll make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”
I don’t want to snap at them, and Penelope will keep hen-pecking until I relent, so I nod to let them stay busy while Mike grips my shoulder. “We’ll find them, son. Try not to worry too much. I’m sure they’re fine.”
He sits with me in silence while I keep trying to redial. When Penelope comes back, the phone is still ringing and ringing. Oli has made sandwiches, and Penelope’s brought potato chips and drinks for the four of us.
We eat in tense and awkward silence, Pitstop, her brother, and her dad trying to keep a conversation, me trying to remember to breathe while also swallowing past the lump clogging up my throat as I force down one PBJ and one cold meat and two cheese sandwiches.
Have to give it to my girlfriend’s twin, they’re epic sandwiches.
Thanksgiving dinner it is not, but it’s delicious in its own right.
It’s been over an hour, and more than twenty failed calls to Dad’s number. I pace back and forth at the bay window in their living room which points out onto the street so when they come back I’ll get the first glimpse of them out the window.
I rub at the tightness in my chest, but it doesn’t go anywhere, and my newly healed jaw is getting a workout as I grind my teeth.
When someone finally answers Dad’s phone, my heart soars. “Dad?”
“Hello?”
My body threatens to collapse under its own weight. It’s not Dad who answered his phone. “Who is this?” My voice is sharp, harsh, and I barely recognize it as my own as it’s buckling under the terror I’m struggling to bear. “Where are my parents?”
“Is this Tate Myers?”
“Yes.” My voice is as taut as my muscles.
“You’ve come up on this phone as Mr. Myers’ emergency contact. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Tate, my name’s Dave, and I’m one of the nurses here at Mercy Hospital. There’s been an accident.”