Chapter 24 Jessica #2
“You’re obviously from the city.” My dad’s tone is dismissive, and my shoulders tighten. No nice to meet you. No how did you two meet? Just assessing him, looking at him like there’s already an issue.
“I’ve lived here in New York all my life.” Donovan nods.
“Oh, you poor man. All that smog, pollution. Not to mention, the government doing all they can to ensure Corporate America grows while the general population suffer at the hands of climate change and economic greed…” My mom shakes her head, and I look at Uncle Bobby, wondering why I thought this was a good idea.
“Well, come on in. Vivian’s in the kitchen.” My parents follow Uncle Bob, leaving Donovan and me standing there.
“Sorry, they are…” I try to find the words. Rude? Disappointing?
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“I do. They’re a little…” I swallow, not sure what to say because I don’t really know. I don’t really know them at all. Not really. They feel more like strangers than my parents. I don’t even feel comfortable hugging them.
“You don’t need to apologize for another adult's behavior," he reiterates firmly, and I nod. He’s right. I don’t. I look back at the box and open it again, taking in the sparkling jewels.
“Thank you… for the gift. They’re really beautiful,” I tell him now that my shock at his words has dissipated slightly. I pull them out, one at a time, putting them on, then grin up at him. “How do they look?”
He smiles, his eyes warm on mine. “You look beautiful. But you don’t need diamonds for that.” He steps forward, his hands encasing my waist as he kisses my forehead. I take a breath and steel myself for what this day will bring.
We sit around the table, the food spread out before us.
“Thank you, Vivian. This is amazing,” Donovan tells her, and I beam. She’s put in a lot of effort, and the grin she gives Donovan is warm.
“Thank you, Donovan. Here, have some of the carrots. Jay Jay made them.” My aunt smiles at me as Donovan takes the bowl, heaping carrots onto his plate.
“Poisonous?” he murmurs to me, looking at me from under his brow.
“Potentially.” I giggle as my lips hit my wineglass, enjoying seeing his eyes twinkle.
As we all pass around the food, my plate is piled with all the delicious things I’ve enjoyed since I can remember.
“Are these carrots organic?” my mother asks, and Vivian pauses.
“Of course,” Uncle Bob says, not looking pleased and passing the beans to his wife. They aren’t. None of the vegetables are, but not because we are against choosing organic or anything, but it isn’t cheap to eat organically, and as a family, we don’t tend to follow that route.
“Thank God. Monoculture practices are out of control around this country.” My mom huffs, and when I look at Uncle Bobby, his jaw is clenched.
“So, still working in the sprinkler business?” my father asks my uncle.
“We are. The shop is doing amazingly well, all thanks to Jay Jay.” My uncle looks at me proudly, and I grin.
“Oh, you work there too?” my mom asks, judgment in her tone.
“On Saturdays. During the week, I work with Donovan in his business, doing business strategy and analyst work, looking for trends, forecasting, that kind of thing.” I take a bite of the turkey and almost moan. Gosh, I love Thanksgiving.
My mom frowns in confusion. “You both work together?”
“We do.” Donovan grins, looking at me proudly.
“She has completely turned our business around. Without Jay Jay, I’m not sure where we would be. Her know-how, strategy, and insights are amazing,” Aunt Vivian gushes, and my cheeks warm.
“It isn’t just me. You guys are the ones who know all about the stocks, suppliers, and logistics,” I tell the group, and I feel Donovan’s hand rest on my thigh in support.
My mother piles her plate with food like she’s entitled to the world, and I notice my father doing the same.
“I have to say, Jessica has made a world of difference to my organization as well. She’s my best employee.” Donovan gives me a wink.
“What exactly is your business?” my father asks, frowning.
“I own York Enterprises. It’s a multinational corporation in the textiles industry. We focus on fabrics and materials for high-end apparel, predominately,” Donovan tells them, and my parents' faces sour.
“Well, the cotton industry has a lot to answer for. They have a history of child labor, poor working conditions, and colonial exploitation…” My dad starts ranting, making me feel sick.
“Do you like the turkey, honey?” Aunt Vivian interrupts, trying to change the conversation, and I appreciate it.
“It’s delicious. You know I love your stuffing…” I grin at her.
“It’s amazing,” Donovan adds.
“The best stuffing I’ve ever eaten,” Uncle Bob tells her, looking at her with deep love, and the coolness I started to feel around the table dissipates a bit.
“Cotton’s not as soft as people think.” My mom isn’t picking up on the social cues to drop the conversation and instead pushes for righteousness.
“It’s soaked in stolen water. Every shirt is stitched with pesticide.
I wear hemp because it respects the Earth.
Cotton? That’s just fast fashion’s lie wrapped in a pretty label. ”
“The cotton industry supports the livelihoods of over one hundred fifty million people across seventy-five countries, including thirty-two million farmers, nearly half of whom are women. So it isn’t all bad,” I tell her, stabbing my turkey.
They don’t love me. Probably never did. If they did, they wouldn’t have left me to someone else to raise. If they did, they would be polite, friendly, keep their opinions to themselves, and just enjoy lunch with family. Be grateful that we’re all together. Isn't that what Thanksgiving is all about?
“Oh, Jay Jay, don’t believe all that rubbish. The government tells you only what they want you to know,” my mother dismisses me almost instantly.
“Your mother is right. Commercialism is just legalized greed. The government is all bought by the wealthy in this country.” My dad backs her up, and I swallow.
I don’t remember my parents' previous visits much.
They usually float in, stay for lunch, maybe dinner, and then plan to meet me for breakfast the next day but never show up.
As a kid, I remember crying, failing to understand why they would just leave me again and again without a simple goodbye.
Them usually rushing out of the city during the night, telling me in a call months later that they had to get out of the city, the pollution killing their nervous systems. Not once thinking that their visits were killing me.
But now that they put their very divisive opinions out on the table, during what should be a warm family moment, one where we need to be grateful and thankful for what we have, I find it more frustrating than ever.
“Commercialism isn’t perfect, but it’s also what built the hospitals, the roads, and the tech you use to tweet about how evil capitalism is.
You want change? Fine. But don’t pretend the entire system is rotten when it’s also the reason billions of people aren’t starving.
” My voice comes out harsher than I meant it to.
“Jay Jay, you can’t possibly believe that.” My mother looks at me like I’m a stupid little girl, and my father shakes his head in disappointment. “We didn’t have you for you to contribute to the problem, Jay Jay.”
“Well, then why did you have me?” My voice rises, and I drop my cutlery, the sounds clattering around the table making everyone stop. I feel Donovan’s hand on my thigh gently caress, soft and steady, offering me his silent support.
“The condom broke,” Dad says matter-of-factly.
“Jesus,” Uncle Bob groans, rubbing his head, and I stare at my parents, neither of them looking at all ashamed, concerned, or remorseful.
“What?” I sit back in my chair, in a state of shock.
“We were young, about to join the protest circuit, had a fantastic night on mushrooms…” My mom looks almost whimsical like she's reminiscing and not tearing my heart in two.
“Hmmm… that was a good night,” my father agrees, and I frown.
“We couldn’t really take a kid around the country. I mean, we tried, but babies aren’t conducive to being tied to forest machinery to prevent old growth trees being cut down,” my mom adds flippantly.
From the corner of my eye, I see my aunt’s stricken face, and my throat and mouth feel dry.
“Excuse me.” I throw my napkin on the table, my chair screeching on the floor as I bolt for the kitchen.
Head hanging low, I lean against the counter. My breath is labored, and I can’t get enough oxygen. My own parents treat me like I’m nothing, a disappointment, like I’m so easy to just let go of.
“Hey… just breathe…” I feel Donovan’s warm hands cup my upper arms and his solid chest at my back. I close my eyes, the tears threatening.
“I’m sorry, they’re…” I trail off.
“I know they’re your parents, but they’re idiots if they don’t realize how amazing their daughter really is.” He kisses my head and rubs up and down my arms and I do as he said and take a deep breath.
I turn in his hold as I hear the tone in the next room get louder, Uncle Bob now having a few choice words with his sister and her husband.
“My aunt and uncle have been more like my parents than my biological ones ever were,” I huff, shaking my head, feeling stupid.
Donovan stands tall, not a thread out of place, his clothes designer, his flashy sports car probably out front.
Yet he’s standing here with me. In this old kitchen, watching me like he will kill anyone else who comes near me.
“There’s more than just blood that connects family. Believe me, my parents weren’t exactly great either.” His calm voice helps to slow my breathing. “Come here.” He grabs my hand and walks slowly to the door.
“Where?” I don’t think I’m ready to face them. My appetite for Thanksgiving lunch is now ruined.
“Just here.” He stands in the doorway, out of sight still from the dining room behavior, which is escalating, yet I’m captured in Donovan's orbit as his hands move to my waist and he holds me tight, his gaze on mine unwavering.
“What are you doing?” I relax a little into his hold.
“I spotted this…” He looks up at the faded plastic mistletoe, and I huff a small laugh.
“It’s been there for years. I love seeing my aunt and uncle share a kiss under it almost every chance they get. It’s something that always has us all smiling.”
“Hmmm, well, I’m not one to miss an opportunity…
” He slowly leans down, and I lift up on my toes as my lips hit his.
His arms scoop me up, keeping me warm, protected, safe from the world around me.
I’ve never been more grateful to this man who has shown up, stayed and bared witness to what I already know is the breakdown of my relationship with my biological parents.
As my nightmare Thanksgiving ends, my dream turns into reality, because here, under the plastic mistletoe that’s faded from years in the sun and gathering a little dust, my Prince Charming kisses me just how I always hoped he would.
I just need to tell him that I love him too.