Chapter 32 Jessa
JESSA
Thanksgiving at our house is more of a practice than a celebration…
a quiet dance of everyone doing their own task, no one discussing much more than the floats in the Macy’s parade as it blares through the kitchen from Mom’s tiny under-cabinet TV.
I think we’re all thankful for everyone keeping to themselves.
Mack is winning, hidden in her room since Tuesday, and for a moment I wish I could go hide in mine.
Instead, I peel potatoes. Sweet and russet.
Just me and a knife and a layer of paper towels for peels.
I sit at the table and focus on trying to get most of the skin off in one big long strip.
It keeps me from crying, because they’re potatoes and not onions.
Because I initiated this break. Because I’m dying a little inside every time I think of Bird, and I fire back up every time I think of her not trusting me enough to tell me about Kayla’s cheating.
Kayla.
That bitch has now taken everything from me. First Dade’s time, then Dade entirely, and now pulling Bird away to her side, to whatever fucking evil ends she’s headed for.
The girl is a parasite.
I think I actually know what hate means, ’cause I hate her now.
The knife slips and I barely nick my forefinger, slicing off some of the fingernail, but not drawing blood.
“Fuck,” I murmur, and pick up the nail bit and flick it to the floor, where a waiting and disgusting Falstaff inspects it, hoping it’s potato peel.
I chuck him a bit of sweet potato peel. Someone in this house should be happy.
“All good?” Dad comes by and slaps my back, startling me a bit. “Looks like a navy scullery over here.”
Yay, the same stupid Dad joke he makes every year.
“Yep, Dad, peeling potatoes, it’s all I’m good at.”
“Now, your mom has offered a number of times to teach you how to cook.”
“I think I’m gonna grow into a takeout kind of person.”
He shakes his head, the weak move to get Mom and me closer failing.
Since talking with Mack, I’ve become even more distant from them both.
That conversation was like cutting the anchor to a boat, and I’m drifting out, unable to find any connection to these two people who are supposed to keep Mack safe—even from herself.
I haven’t confronted them, because that isn’t the way of our family. That would be wayyyy too honest.
“I gotta focus, Dad, or I’m gonna cut myself.” I look to the knife, like it’s some sinister thing, dangerous in so many ways. He nods, knowing I can talk and peel at the same time, but unhappy with my new distance. It’s his fault, so why do I feel so guilty?
Thanksgiving dinner is the three of us this year.
Mom and Dad both attempt to get Mack out of her room, but it ends up with Mack screaming, Mom crying, and Dad getting all red in the face.
I sit in the dining room, watching all the food cool down and keeping Falstaff from grabbing the twenty-pound bird in all its crispy roasted glory.
Nobody in our house actually even likes turkey.
All this food, and no one will have an appetite.
The sound of Falstaff’s eager panting turns to static in my head.
I need a break.
Stupid phrase. Even Friends showed how dumb it was. This amorphous statement that has no limits, no parameters. Here I am in my break, waiting for the transition, waiting for something to change and my feelings to align into a decision. I’ve become liminal.
I poke at the aspic Mom makes every year, the clear and red gelatin artfully dappled with parsley, topped with lemon wedges and olives, the horrific display of something Dad eats with gusto and Mack and I used to gag about when forced to take just one bite.
It wobbles, alien and horrific in its culinary sin.
A door slams. Mack’s probably locking it this time.
Mom and Dad arrive, thin grim lips, sad eyes.
They could be doing something about this.
“Well,” Mom says as she sits in her chair, then places the embroidered cloth napkin in her lap like old-school Emily Post etiquette will somehow get us through this. Dad drains the red wine in his glass and pours himself another. Mom gives him the stink eye and initiates grace.
“Lord, bless us and thank you for this bounty and the food which you place upon our table. Thank you for the health of our family and the—”
I can’t help it. I audibly scoff at that one.
“Jessamine…” Dad warns.
“Really, Dad?” I look at him directly, a challenge. He lowers his eyes, always avoiding. “And it’s fucking Jess-A.”
“What are you on about?” Mom looks to me, her blessing falling away as she stares at me, knowing why I can’t stomach it this year.
“Mack can’t even get out of bed. Last week she was manic as hell again, and we’re healthy? Looks to me like one family member is pretty fucking sick.”
“Delphine!” Mom only pulls that name out when she’s pissed. At least she can express one emotion.
“I’m not kidding, there’s something really wrong this time, and she needs better help! She needs to go into a program! Can’t you see she’s suffering?”
They look to each other knowingly, realizing I’m aware of the clinic in Kansas. Then Dad firms up into the steel visage he takes when Mack is out of line.
“Jessamine,” he says this time, “you are out of line.”
“Am I? ’Cause I feel like I’m the only one who’s worried about Mack.”
“Honey, this is an adult matter, not something you need to worry about.”
“No, I definitely shouldn’t worry that I’m gonna find her hurt or losing her mind and about to get her ass kicked in a club, or worse—oh wait, that already happened.
” My mind goes to the bathroom last year.
The blood. “I definitely shouldn’t worry that you’re too busy covering up that she’s sick to get her some actual treatment.
God forbid I worry, ’cause then what would the stupid neighbors say?
What will the neighbors say when she finally manages to cut deep enough? ”
A terrible silence fills the room. What will happen if she kills herself? It’s the fear we all have. They can just ignore it, but it’s always waiting there and I can’t wait anymore.
“Or will that just make it easier for you? Church ladies love a grieving parent…. Much more socially acceptable than a crazy daughter.”
“Go to your room,” Mom says. Her face is red, lips white from how hard she’s pushing them together. She’s staring at me with the most anger I’ve seen from her in years. Me, breaking up the perfectly imperfect Thanksgiving. Saying the quiet part out loud.
“Fine,” I say. I want to sweep everything off the table.
I want to scream at them. I want to spit in their faces.
I stuff it all down, but I still want to do everything Mack would do.
I’m scared about her, but I’m also scared that if or when I turn, they’ll do the same thing.
Hide me away until I become a chore rather than a daughter. Or let me die to save face.
Instead, I get up quietly, set my napkin on my plate, and take the stairs to my room two at a time.
Upstairs, I understand the allure of a personal cave.
I could stay here all day, safe from everything except my own brain.
I would sleep and make it go away, but the adrenaline from the confrontation has me shaking.
I think about calling Bird. I think about calling Dade.
I think I have no one left to call and it’s all on me… . It’s all my fucking fault.
But I have music. I have stacks and stacks of jewel cases. I have all the people who over the years have sung about anger and pain and depression and so many loves lost.
So I start grabbing CDs one by one. Stacking them on my desk, pulling out a composition notebook as I slide the Tori Amos CD into my player, letting her speak the words I couldn’t create on my own:
“My scream got lost in a paper cup.
You think there’s a heaven where some screams have gone.”
In the poetry of Tori and Dar Williams and Janis Ian, I do the only thing I can think of. At the top of the page in block letters, I start the plan.
BIRD, I’M SORRY MIX
Black Friday, I sneak out butt early and drive to Pterodactyl Records, since I promised Dwayne I’d help with the chaos of the day.
When I arrive, light is barely cracking the sky, I’m the first one there.
I grab my Altoids case, all painted up in nail polish, and pull out a joint.
I smoke it, far too fast. For once, the calm doesn’t go all the way through me.
So I pull another out. I’m definitely high as the Hindenburg by the time I finish, but I don’t feel much better.
Dwayne is pulling in with his old red Bronco covered in band stickers.
It shudders to a stop beside my car, and he pops out with a definite game face on.
I open the car door and a billowing cloud of trapped smoke follows me, my feet feeling like they’re walking on clouds, my head absolutely in the stratosphere.
“Whoa, Cheech, hitting it a bit hard?” He’s already got a smile on, but behind it I can see a touch of… is that judgment or concern?
“Shitty Thanksgiving, I needed a pick-me-up.” I grab the car air freshener spray and give my Offspring shirt a few good spritzes. Now I smell like skunk and Black Ice.
“Well, nothing like the hordes of Black Friday shoppers to make for an easy post–Turkey Day reentry,” Dwayne says, and pulls out his keys, headed to the shop.
“Are you even running a sale?”
“Fifteen percent off the entire store, twenty off CDs, and thirty off cassettes.”
“You might get swarmed.”
“My bankbook can only pray.”
The door swings open and we wander in, flicking on the fluorescents, getting the register open; he’s already planned ahead and has signs taped all over the place showing the discounts.
I’m hoping it gets slammed, I can lean into the bustle and forget thinking about anything.
After all, avoidance is genetically passed on in the Papadopoulos family as a coping skill.