16. Then
Then: Thanksgiving Day
I am pulled out of bed by the wonderful smell of bread. Freshly baked hot rolls to be exact. Along with turkey roasting in the oven and bacon frying in the pan. My mouth waters before I even crack open my eyes. Ah, yes, my favorite holiday—Thanksgiving.
Mom was gone for three days. She was gone all day Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and was here again when I came home from school Monday. She had baked a pan of caramel brownies. She was back to smiling and asked me about my day as though no time had passed. As though she hadn’t been gone for days, and this was our normal.
When I tried asking her about where she’d been the last several days, she just shrugged and said, “I’m back now, so what’s it matter?” and carried on with whatever we’d been previously talking about. I let her talk because, for once, I had nothing to say to her. I wasn’t sure which “Mom” she was that day—I was too terrified to break the spell and have her leave again. I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t let it.
Now, three days later, Mom is in the kitchen dancing her way through one recipe after another. She’s always enjoyed cooking, especially on big holidays like this one. I keep asking her if these are old family recipes, but she always dodges the question and replies with something along the lines of: For goodness sake, can’t a woman just enjoy cooking without it having to mean anything? Which is true. Especially for my mom. She doesn’t need a reason for doing the things she does, she just does them.
Like she is right now. Music is blasting from an old speaker in the kitchen. She’s wearing her favorite checkered apron as she whisks mashed potatoes in a large bowl, swinging her hips along to the beat. She’s a sight to see, that’s for sure. Her long, curly hair is tied up loosely on top of her head. There are traces of flour everywhere. It’s all over the countertops, the sink, and there’s a light dusting all over the floor. Yet here is my mother, not phased by any of it one bit. Because she knows all too well that Dad will swoop in by the end to clean up all of her mess. I don’t even have to ask where he is right now, because I know.
He’s sitting on the couch reading the paper or watching the news. It’s always the news. I’ll ask Mom if she needs my help, and she won’t answer. She’ll simply shoo me away. She’s in her zone and can’t be bothered. It used to hurt my feelings that she didn’t want my help, but over the years it’s something I’ve learned to let go of.
So, naturally, I mosey into the living room to join Dad. I plop down in Mom’s chair and ask if the annual Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade is on. He nods and hands me the remote. Sometimes he watches it with me, but usually he continues reading his paper. We are rarely all gathered in this room together. While it’s known as our “living room,” not much living happens here.
I’m just grateful for his company today. Only this year, there’s a wedge between him and I that wasn’t there before. Mom hasn’t said the D-word again, and Dad never has. Its weight is hanging heavily over the entire house, yet we all keep pretending it doesn’t exist. For all I know, maybe it never really did.
I become a zombie in front of the TV while I wait for Mom to call us both into the kitchen to eat after all her hard work.
Another difference this year is that we don’t eat by two o’clock. We don’t even eat by four. Thankfully, I ate breakfast and snacked with Dad earlier, sharing a large bowl of kettle corn. But now my tummy is rumbling with hunger again. She’s later than ever this year, and I have no idea what is taking so long.
“Guys! The food is ready! Come eat while it’s hot!” Mom finally calls us from the kitchen.
Dad heads off in the direction of the bathroom while I fold the blanket I’d been wrapped up in and drape it over the side of her chair. When I come into the kitchen I don’t expect to see Mom grabbing her purse and keys. Wait, where is she going? She just announced that dinner is finally ready. Besides, it’s Thanksgiving. Our holiday.
“Mom, where are you going? You said it was ready.” I try to mask the rising frustration in my voice.
Her cheeks are flushed and more of her brown spirally hair has fallen loose around her face. She’s digging in her purse for something. I can’t figure out what she’s looking for when we should all be sitting down to eat. I doubt any stores are open, and if she forgot something I’m sure we can do without it.
“What, P? What is it?” she asks me without looking up.
If I’m not mistaken she sounds almost like she’s annoyed with me. But how can that be? She didn’t want my help when I’d come in to offer several times. After the fourth time of being shooed away, I quit asking.
“We’re hungry and you made this delicious meal… but you seem like you’re upset. Let me help you, please,” I softly beg her. I don’t usually ask anything of her, but I want her to let me help this time. Just this once. I want her to need me.
This time her penny eyes meet mine. For a moment we just stare at one another, nobody moving a muscle. I think I’m the first to blink, but I’m not sure.
“I can’t find my phone, P,” she says matter-of-factly. She’s digging through her purse for her phone. She doesn’t even own a phone. What is she talking about?
“Mom,” I say gently, “You don’t have a phone.”
Her eyes suddenly look glassy, and she glares at me like I’m stupid. Maybe I am. Maybe she’s had a phone all along and never bothered to tell anyone. It honestly won’t surprise me if she has one.
“Of course, I have a phone, P. How do you think I get around anywhere?” she fires back.
In all my life, I’ve never once seen her use a phone of any kind. She doesn’t have any friends or family. I know she doesn’t sit at home all day, but where she goes I’ve never figured out.
I’m too stunned to speak, and my stomach is still protesting underneath the confusion.
“I didn’t know,” I say quietly. I’ll have to ask Dad if he knows she has a phone. I still can’t believe she has one and never bothered to give me her number. Her own daughter.
“Of course not,” she retorts, “I don’t need to report every detail of my life to you. You’re a freaking teenager, who knows what you do all day when you come home. I know you sneak my keys when I’m not looking. You’ve probably got a boyfriend you go and visit. Sneaking out at night so you two can do things. Are you having sex, P? Because if you are, I swear…”
Tears prick my eyes as I chew my lip. She is taking this too far. How dare she make this all about me. It’s Thanksgiving Day. She spent literally all day in the kitchen, refusing anyone’s help, and is now making me out to be someone that I’m not. I thought my mother knew me better than that, but apparently, I was wrong. She doesn’t know me at all. And maybe I don’t know her either.
She did get one thing right though…
I am so mad I am fuming. I think I see actual flames through my eyelids. “You’re right about one thing,” I snap back at her, “I do sometimes sneak your keys. But don’t you dare say those things about me when you know they aren’t true. Heck, I don’t even know what’s true anymore because all that seems to be coming out of your mouth these days is nothing but a bunch of lies and broken promises?—”
A hand slaps across my face, cutting off my tirade. And I know who that hand belongs to. My mother just slapped me. She slapped me. She’s never laid a hand on me. Even when I was younger and acting out she never spanked me. That was always Dad’s job.
Have you noticed anything different about her lately? She hasn’t been herself.
I should have been paying more attention when Dad asked me about Mom that day. Maybe he noticed something off about her before I had. Maybe this is exactly what he was talking about. Dad saw this coming from a mile away, and when I look at my parents, they seem like the ones who are miles away from me.
But right now, I see what Dad may have been seeing from the start. He may have been witnessing an entirely different side to Mom that I’ve been too blind to notice. He asked me to pay attention to her, and I failed.
I stumble backward and yank her purse and her keys out of her hands. I don’t tell either parent where I’m going but decide to go for a long drive. I need to clear my head.
Dad doesn’t ask me where I’m going when I run into him in the hallway, and Mom doesn’t try to stop me. Sometimes I wish they would. I wish Dad would chase me out the door and yell at the top of his lungs for me to come back home, but he never does. And I wish Mom, in all her anger and confusion, would yell at me that she is sorry for hurting me and beg me to come back. But she doesn’t do that either. Neither of them says anything.
I pull back into the garage by seven. All the food is set out on the kitchen table, and it’s warm. At least someone cares enough to warm dinner up for me, even if they don’t care enough to stay and enjoy the meal with me. Instead, I spend the last little bit of the holiday stuffing my face. Alone.
Oh, and I did search Mom’s purse for her phone. And in her car. Turns out she’s now a liar. She doesn’t own a phone. Probably never has and never will. Go figure. Why’d she have to go and make a scene today, of all days? Seriously, Mom.
I don’t generally think of myself as a bitter person, but today it’s all I can feel. Today, instead of being reminded of the things I should be grateful for, I’m left with a hollowness inside and a slow-burning hate for the two people I used to love.