Chapter 29
Thanksgiving morning, Alyssa had the car loaded early. Two stiff shallow boxes she’d saved all year because they fit a pie perfectly were nestled in the back seat footwells. One was a pumpkin pie with leaves, made from the extra dough, that she’d scored to make veins. She’d had to do an image search for a maple leaf to make sure she got the veining right. Her mother would notice. The other pie was banana cream. It wasn’t Thanksgivingy, but it was Ryan’s favorite, and if she didn’t make it, they wouldn’t have one. And she had a slow cooker of sweet potatoes that she’d need to plug back in when she got to her mom and stepdad’s, but as long as no one lifted the lid, they should be ready in plenty of time.
Alyssa also had a box of three different designs of Thanksgiving napkins, shiny turkey confetti, appetizer picks shaped like maple leaves, and a roll of French-wire ribbon in an autumn plaid. And Emma had sent a bouquet of orange lilies, peach roses, and burgundy mums for her mom. She drove slowly, careful not to upset anything, and pulled into the driveway of her parents’ two-story brick home with the understated pillars by the stoop. Her mother had autumn topiaries flanking the front door, and her stepfather had mowed the lawn. It was a very presentable house.
Her stepfather, Bill, opened the door for her and kissed her on the cheek as she went past with the pies. He was a tall man with steel-gray hair, wearing a zip cardigan over a dress shirt. Ryan was sprawled in front of the television, watching football. He lifted a lazy hand in greeting and shouted, “Throw it! Throw it! Throw it! No!”
“Apparently something happened in the game,” Alyssa’s mother said from the kitchen. “Hi, sweetie.” Alyssa gave her mom a quick hug, and as they pulled away, her mother brushed her blouse to smooth any wrinkles or brush off any crumbs of failure Alyssa might have left on her. Okay, she’d never actually said that. Alyssa’s mom was fifty—a circumstance she’d considered a catastrophe and met with a quiet facelift and a shopping trip to Chicago.
Alyssa’s stepfather sat on the sofa beside Ryan, watching the game, and Alyssa and her mother worked smoothly in the kitchen. “Gravy!” her mother said brightly at one point, and Alyssa laughed. “Not much of a segue there, Mom.”
“Gravy needs no segue.” Her mother pulled her whisk out. “It needs a lot of pepper, though.” She stuck her hand out, and Alyssa handed over the pepper tin. “So, you’re sticking with party planning for now?” Her mother’s eyes didn’t come off the pan or the whisk.
Alyssa had told her mom that she was leaving Stacey’s Interiors over the phone the previous week, with the vain hope that they wouldn’t discuss it on Thanksgiving. “Yes, I think so,” Alyssa said, and walked to the hutch to get the plates with turkeys. They were fine china and used exactly once a year. Her mother also had a set of plates for Christmas; one for Easter, with eggs around the rim of the dinner plates and a bunny on the dessert plates; and a set of regular fine china for non-seasonal celebrations: birthdays, anniversaries, and the like. The Easter set was the cutest, but the Thanksgiving dishes had a grim autumnal quality—an awareness of the coming winter. Not so much a celebration of the harvest as an announcement that all things are ended by the scythe.
“You going to put those on the table or just stand and look at them?” her mom said.
Alyssa set the table, ending with using the ice tongs to put the correct number of cubes in each glass.
“Did you give Bill four cubes? He’s only taking four now.”
Alyssa removed one of the ice cubes from his glass and dropped it in the sink.
When they gathered at the table, Bill said grace and they spread the napkins in their laps, then passed the dishes counterclockwise, as God intended.
“Bill,” Alyssa said as they ate, “you know how they used to bake potatoes before hockey games? And they used the foil from them to keep their hands warm?”
“Yes?” her stepfather said, his eyes twinkling.
“Wait, what?” Ryan said.
“Well, I was at Devin Nillson’s house and mentioned that, and …”
“You didn’t,” Bill said, laying down his napkin.
“There were a bunch of players there,” Alyssa continued, “and none of them knew about the potatoes. Do they just drink Gatorade for energy now?”
Her stepfather and Ryan exchanged a glance. “You told her that?” Ryan said.
“I …” He shrugged. “It seemed harmless. I was trying to bond.”
“What?” Alyssa said. Then she narrowed her eyes at him. “Wait—it’s true, isn’t it? The potatoes?”
“Um, no,” her stepfather said.
Her mouth dropped open, and she remembered Nick dissolving in laughter. “Does that mean there was no chicken either?”
Her stepfather shot a guilty look sideways at Ryan, who howled.
“That’s too loud for the table,” their mother said. “Manners.”
“You are unbelievable,” Alyssa said, blushing bright pink. “Now a whole hockey team thinks I don’t know anything about their sport.”
“Yeah, they were gonna figure that out anyway,” Ryan said, then to their mother, “My compliments to the turkey. This is great.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “How are things at the school, Ryan?”
“Fine,” he said, reaching for the sweet potatoes.
“Are you applying anywhere?” she asked, ripping off a piece of her roll and buttering it without looking at her son.
“Why would I apply someplace else? I have a job.”
“Well, you won’t be staying there longer than necessary. I thought you might be testing the water.”
“What do you think I could get?”
“I don’t know. But surely you don’t plan to stay there long term.”
“I’m a janitor, Mom.”
“Well, yes, but you could at least phrase it differently,” she said brightly. “You could say you’re a sanitation technology specialist. Something like that.”
Alyssa gave a quiet snort and snuck a peek at Ryan.
“I’m a janitor. There’s no need to call it something stupid—that just makes it sound like it’s not good enough for you. And since it’s what I do, you’re making it clear that I’m not good enough for you.”
“My God, Ryan, the drama,” their mother said, rolling her eyes. “Always the drama with you.” They ate silently for a few minutes.
“I helped create a mural on the cafeteria wall—a big tiger. They liked it.” He raised his eyes to meet Alyssa’s—a fleeting look begging her not to turn him in. “And the art teacher and I are becoming friends. Her kids painted it in.”
“Oh. So you didn’t paint it yourself?” their mother said. Ryan was visibly shrinking.
“That’s great, Ryan!” Alyssa said. “I’ll bet the kids love it.”
“Yeah,” he said. He shoved a roll in his mouth and chewed mechanically.
Their mom turned to Alyssa. “How’s it going working with Janet? I just don’t understand why you gave up a prestigious job working for one of the best respected designers in the area to go back to what you did in high school.” She clinked her fingernails on the foot of her glass. “I don’t understand it.”
You would if you’d seen Nick Sorensen’s butt, Mom.
“I hope to open my own interior design shop someday, but I’m not quite ready,” Alyssa said.
Her mother threw her hands up. “Then stay with the good job until you are! Honestly, Bill, it’s like the children want to be as unimpressive as possible.”
“If you need some start-up money, I could front you something,” her stepdad said, ignoring his wife. “I can always pull a few more teeth.”
“Thanks,” she said, “but I want to do it myself. I don’t want to borrow money.”
“Everybody borrows money, kiddo. If they didn’t, nobody would buy a house till they were sixty.”
She shrugged. This wasn’t buying a house—it was starting a business. Her business. And if she took money from her parents, she’d have to take advice from them too. They’d try to make decisions for her. There would be quiet judgments. It would be … unpleasant. But in a tasteful sort of way.
“Pie time!” she said brightly. She stood and smoothly lifted the plates. “Just sit there, Mom,” she said, but of course her mother didn’t. They worked quickly clearing the table, then her mom brought out the pumpkin pie and ran the mixer for whipped cream, and Alyssa put the banana cream pie in front of Ryan.
“That’s not an appropriate Thanksgiving pie,” her mother said, her upper lip gathering.
“It’s appropriate in my stomach,” Ryan said. He cut a giant wedge and slid it on his plate. “Thanks, Lyss.” She smiled. It was good to see him happy. “Hey, did you tell Bill about doing Nick Sorensen’s apartment?”
“I did! He helped me choose a picture.” She didn’t add that Nick had vetoed the whole first design.
“See?” her mother said forcefully, laying her fork on her dessert plate with a clang. “That is the kind of opportunity that you won’t get working at a party store.”
“Do you even know who he is?” Alyssa was genuinely curious.
“Well, no, but he’s obviously important.”
Her stepdad laughed. “He’s a hockey star. A fast forward with a complete game, great puck control, really terrific ice sense, and—”
Her mother threw her hands up. “I’m sorry I said anything.”
Her stepdad grinned. “So you’ve gotten to know him, huh?” Oh, Bill, I seduced him in a Mellow Yellow bedroom. “What’s he like?”
All she could think about was that yellow bedroom, and she needed to say something that was not about that. “He has a double degree in art and art history. Almost.” Her mother raised her eyebrows. “He had to finish a project he never got around to.”
“It would be hard with his schedule,” her stepdad said.
“Yeah.”
“Alyssa?” her mom said. She looked up. “Will you help with the dishes?”
Ryan lifted another piece of banana cream pie onto his plate and took it out onto the veranda, letting the cold air in briefly before the door slid shut behind him.
“No,” Alyssa said. Her mother looked shocked. “I’m going to have more pie with Ryan. And later we can all wash the dishes together.” She thought of Nick’s statement that sometimes you had to crush someone on the boards to get a little respect. It made her smile. She wondered what he was doing today.
“So you’re leaving it all for me,” her mother said.
“No. I’m saying I want to talk to my brother, and then the guys should help too.”
“No can do,” her stepdad called cheerfully. “I have football-watching responsibilities.”
Alyssa cut a thin wedge of pumpkin pie, slipped into her jacket, and followed Ryan onto the veranda. “Hey.”
He looked over, surprised. He was standing at the edge, looking over the back yard. “What are you doing out here? This is my getaway spot. You usually go to your bedroom.”
She smiled ruefully. “I wanted to talk to you.” There was a look of alarm in his eyes. “You look scared.”
“This can’t be good.”
“See, that breaks my heart. Siblings should be able to talk without scaring each other.”
“No, I mean just that you want to. It’s got to be something serious. So out with it.”
“It doesn’t have to be something serious, but that’s my point.” She took a bite and collected herself. “I just want to say that I’m sorry. When you were having trouble, and … I wasn’t very supportive.”
He shrugged. “I embarrassed everybody.”
“You’re a good guy, Ryan. I mean, you need to work on punctuality. And you should help with the dishes. But I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.” She shoved a crumb of pie crust across her plate with a tine. “It’s easy to have things go bad. We both know that. And it scared me. Putting distance between us felt like it shielded me from having more things go bad for me.” Ryan looked at her quizzically. “That’s so stupid when I say it out loud.” She sighed. “I … should have reached out more. I’m sorry.”
He stared at her. “You’re serious.”
“Oh my god, were we so bad that you can’t even believe I’m sorry?”
“No,” he said. “No.” And he wrapped an arm awkwardly around her and gave her a quick squeeze. “Um, thanks for bringing banana cream. Even though it’s not ‘appropriate.’ ” He smirked.
“Maybe being appropriate isn’t the most important thing. Maybe you should eat the pie you like.”
“I will get you to the doctor right away.” He grinned at her, swallowed the last bite, and then licked his plate.
“Ew. My newfound tolerance has limits.”
“Of course it does, Lyss. Of course it does.”
Alyssa stuck her tongue out at him. She set her plate down on the railing and pulled her jacket tighter as a November breeze lifted her hair. “Can we talk about when we lived in the car?”
He gaped at her and his head snapped toward the house, checking to see where their mom was—Alyssa would have done the same thing. He finally nodded, but the look he gave her was deeply suspicious.
“I’m not sure how to say this.” She took a breath and looked at him. “I know you got in trouble sometimes …” He snorted. “But it seems like you made it through okay.” He just stared at her. “I mean, a friend has recently helped me realize that I have some issues related to that time. I have the impression you don’t. I hope that’s true.”
Ryan tilted his head and opened his mouth, then shut it and shook his head in apparent disbelief. Finally he said, “You try to be perfect and never admit anything’s wrong because Mom imprinted her bullshit on you.”
“That obvious?” Alyssa said ruefully. “But you seem … not to be trying to be perfect.” She’d tried to phrase it carefully but winced internally at how that sounded: You’re a happy fuck-up! “I mean,” she said hurriedly, “I think you were young enough not to have …” Noticed? Been imprinted with Mom’s bullshit? “Been affected so much.”
Ryan let out a little sigh. “Toward the end of the time we can’t talk about,” he said flatly, “I started to go through puberty. Like the beginnings. Kids called me Rank Ryan and Compost Compton.”
Alyssa stared at him, horrified. “Ryan. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
He shrugged. “One time the gym teacher called me ‘Compost.’ He’d obviously heard it, and instead of telling the other kids to shut up, or, you know, getting us help, he just used it too. Everybody laughed.”
“My god. Ryan.” Her eyes filled and she began to sniffle.
“I never tried to be perfect because I knew I couldn’t keep up. I’m the one who had to pee during Mom’s date. I was the one who messed everything up.”
“You were younger!” Alyssa said. “You had a smaller bladder.”
He shrugged. “You know how I got into drugs?”
Alyssa shifted uncomfortably. His drug use—and his dealing—was the other thing they didn’t talk about. But maybe it was time the silence ended. “You fell in with those guys,” Alyssa said softly. “Jerome and his crew.”
“Yeah. And you know how I met them?”
She shook her head. She’d assumed it was something sordid.
“I had detention with Marco B.’s little brother, Caspar. I ran into him a few years later when he was with Jerome. I started hanging out with them.”
“Okay.” She didn’t like hearing about this, but she’d brought it up. Ryan had gotten detention for a month for breaking into the nurse’s office to steal drugs. And the nurse didn’t even have much in there—just Tylenol and something for menstrual cramps.
Ryan looked at her like he knew what she was thinking. “I walked into the nurse’s office, and Mr. Thompson walked past like six seconds later, and then I was in so much shit. The nurse said I’d ‘broken in’ because she was supposed to be there to guard the room, and she wasn’t.” Hurt splashed across his face. “And nobody believed me. Not Mom. Not you.”
“Ryan.” Alyssa started to cry softly. “I’m so sorry.”
“You know why I walked in? I wanted a deodorant. Some group had donated supplies and they were for us—the kids—and I thought it was okay just to take one.” He looked at Alyssa, his expression flat now. “Once the nurse said I’d broken in, they assumed it was for drugs. I mean, what else? That’s how I wound up spending two hours after school every day for a month with those guys. I wanted a deodorant.”
Alyssa sat heavily on the deck, her knees pulled up, rested her face against her knees, and cried. She finally choked out, “Why didn’t you just ask the nurse for one?”
He shrugged. “I walked by, and the room was open and nobody was there. I could get a deodorant without explaining to an adult? You weren’t the only one who was embarrassed, Lyss.” She nodded and pushed herself up and stepped across the deck to hug him. He held her tight. She thought about Nick’s take, that the things Ryan had gotten in trouble for didn’t seem that bad.
Finally Alyssa wiped her face and took a deep breath. “Let’s go do the dishes with Mom.”
Ryan stared at her. “Are you kidding me? Haven’t we suffered enough?”
She gave a small sniffly laugh. “I want to ask her something, and you should be there.”
“Oh god,” Ryan moaned, but he followed her inside and remembered to bring his plate.
In the kitchen, Alyssa picked up the dish towel and smiled tentatively at her mother. Ryan stood awkwardly, near her shoulder. “Well,” Linda said. “You decided not to leave all the work for me after all?”
Alyssa poured a last drip of water out of the gravy boat before drying it and handing it to Ryan to put away. “Mom, when we were living in the car …” Her mother looked absolutely shocked. She glanced sideways toward her husband watching football in the living room. “He knows, Mom,” Alyssa said dryly.
“It’s Thanksgiving,” their mother hissed. “This conversation is inappropriate. Let’s all enjoy ourselves, shall we?”
“Why was it so important that no one know?” Alyssa asked.
Her mother blinked and tightened her mouth. Her whole body seemed to clamp down—her face, her shoulders. She dropped the dishcloth in the water and crossed her arms. “I don’t see any point in revisiting—” she began.
“But why was it?” Alyssa persisted.
“Because people take advantage of you,” her mother said. “You need to look like you’re doing okay. Fake it till you make it.” She turned back to the sink. “I can finish this myself—you two are too busy traipsing down Memory Lane.”
“Madame didn’t take advantage of us,” Alyssa said. “She helped.”
“She risked everything!” Linda snapped. “Don’t you understand? I was so afraid I’d lose you.” She looked back and forth between her children and whispered again, “I was so afraid they’d take you away.”
This time Ryan started to cry, and Alyssa pulled them both into an embrace. Her mother resisted for a moment, then wrapped her arms around them. Nick wasn’t the only one who had work to do, Alyssa thought ruefully. Maybe she wasn’t runner-up for being messed up, after all. She might have nudged him out of first place.