Grace
Thanksgiving
An orchestral version of “The First Noel” is playing because my mom believes Christmas music should run on a loop from Thanksgiving until New Year’s Day.
I’m sitting next to my little sister, Ruth, who’s visiting from Manhattan.
Beside Ruth is Nick, her husband. There are maybe thirty other people here, too—uncles, aunts, cousins, spouses, random family friends, and partners.
My mom is the oldest of eight kids and anyone associated with my family in any way is invited.
“Does it, though?” asks Nick. “Your cousin’s shirt has boobs on it.”
This is true. One table over, Danny’s wearing a surf shop T-shirt that features a topless cartoon girl. It’s seventy degrees and humid today, so we’re all dressed for summer, except my mom who’s sweating it out in cable-knit because she committed to her outfits weeks ago.
Ruth looks at the chandelier and folds her hands. “Dear, Jesus,” she says. “We ask you to bless these poor dumb turkeys who died for our gluttony. Also bless the green beans that Grace spilled on the floor and didn’t clean properly.”
“I’m not a theologian, babe,” says Nick, “but I think that’s sacrilegious.”
Everyone here is Catholic to some degree, but Nick is the least lapsed of all of us. Four years ago, he and my sister were married in an actual church of all things.
At yet another table—there are four in total—some relatives are arguing about politics.
Uncle Bobby just apologized loudly because he’s “not woke enough, apparently,” and everyone rolls their eyes.
Here at our table, my mom is talking about how all the performers at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade were clearly lip-syncing.
My dad smiles even though I’m pretty sure he can’t hear anything.
Ian and Bella are directly across from me, and Harry Styles is pacing around on the floor waiting for people to drop food.
“Get away, you little freak,” Ruth tells him. “He just licked my foot.”
“Harry Styles likes licking feet,” says Bella.
“That’s because he’s a pervert,” says Ruth.
“What’s a pervert?”
My brother-in-law tips his wineglass. “To my wife, everyone. She’s great with kids.”
The music dips and makes a whirling sound, which leads to Michael Bublé’s version of “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas,” and I catch Ian sneaking Harry Styles a lump of mashed potatoes.
“Michael Bublé is a slippery slope,” says Ruth.
My mom looks up. “What’re you talking about, Ruth?”
“At first, you’re like, ‘Oh, cool, Michael Bublé.’ Then, a coupla weeks in, it’s more like, ‘I’m about to Michael Bublé my brains out.’ ”
Everyone laughs—some boozily, since I brought a keg over from Edgar Allan’s.
My mom points at Ruth with her fork. “Don’t ruin my Michael for me.”
My nineteen-year-old cousin, Campbell, brought her new boyfriend, Ben. The sheer number of us here has rendered Ben mute and startled-looking. My uncle Bobby just asked him what kind of job he expects to get with a goddamn sociology degree.
“Poor kid,” says Ruth. “Look at him, trapped there.”
“Some guys don’t have what it takes to hang with this family,” says Nick. “The secret: Start drinking right when you wake up. It helps.”
Everyone around me is working hard. Ruth is always funny, but she’s trying more than usual.
My brother-in-law, too, quipping in his Long Island accent.
My mom keeps making toasts and smiling, and each of my aunts and uncles have hugged me more than they usually would.
They want to make this a happy day for the kids and me, and I love them for it, but I keep glancing at the chair to my right.
My single aunt Samantha is sitting there today.
She’s perfectly nice, but Tim sat there last Thanksgiving and every Thanksgiving before that for so long.
Nick was right—this can be a tough family to crack into.
Tim was a natural, though. Grief is one long flashback interrupted occasionally by the present, and seeing my cousin’s boyfriend look so uncomfortable reminds me of the first time I brought Tim to Thanksgiving fifteen years ago.
He helped my dad carry the extra tables up from the basement and insisted on joining the cleanup crew.
He played yard games with my cousins and helped my aunt Jackie jump-start her car when it stalled as she tried to leave.
“I love ’em,” he told me later that night when we were alone.
“Really?” I asked. “All of them?”
“Hell yeah. The kids and the Republican guy and the…wait, which one tried to sell me a timeshare?”
“Uncle Toby.”
“Yes! Him, too. All of ’em. They’re part of who you are, Gracey. How could I not love ’em?” It was the first time he called me “Gracey.”
“Mom, can we take Harry Styles out?” Ian asks now.
“Yeah, can we?” says Bella. “He wants to run around. I do, too.”
They’re done with their kid-size servings, and there’s always a lull before dessert, so I tell them yes. “Don’t let him eat grass, though.” As they head for the back door, all the other kids scatter, too, leaving just adults.
“This is better,” says my sister. “We can swear more freely now.”
Then my mom asks, “Grace, have you talked to Henry this week?”
Conversations stop—fork and knife sounds, too.
“No, Mom.”
I use my eyes to tell her to drop it, but she pretends not to notice.
“He’s just a few blocks away. They’re doing Thanksgiving at his parents’ this year. You should invite him over for dessert. We have so, so many pies.”
“What?” says Ruth. “Grace? Who’s Henry?”
I wish I could crawl under the table. How nice would it be to curl into a ball in the warm spot that Harry Styles just left? “No one,” I say.
“He’s a new friend of your sister’s,” my mom says. “He fixed our Wi-Fi.”
“Mom, he didn’t fix anything.”
Ruth puts her hand on mine. “Grace, are you, like, back in the game?”
“The game? Ruth, are you twelve? Jesus, no. Just—all of you—stop it.”
“Because if you are,” says Ruth, “Nick’s hot co-worker just got divorced. He works in Philly, but that’s only like an hour and a h—”
“Ruth,” I say. “Stop.” And for a moment she and everyone else does.
Then Nick asks, “So, he local or what? Baltimore?”
“He’s just some guy mom tricked me into meeting last week,” I say. “He drinks rosé.”
“Well, I hardly think I tri—”
“What’s wrong with rosé?” asks Nick. “I drink rosé.”
My cousin Mark, a Baltimore City cop, says that he drinks rosé, too.
“Thank you, Mark,” says Nick. “Right? It’s very refreshing.”
“And you can drink it year-round now,” says Ruth, “which is nice since the world is burning and all.”
“Oh, here we go,” says Uncle Bobby. “More global warming crap.”
My sister throws her hands up. “Uncle Bobby, it’s almost December in Maryland and you’re actively sweating. Wake up!”
“Well, either way,” Samantha says beside me, “it’d be nice to date someone who’s good with computers.”
“I’m not dating anyone,” I say. “Everyone. Shut it.”
Aside from Mannheim Steamroller, silence returns. I’m not ready to date, as I’ve clearly stated to these idiots. Even if I were, dating Sad Henry would be a bad idea, like two alcoholics hooking up.
I thought of him earlier, though. The kids and I stopped at Giant for green beans on the way here.
There was a couple there—young, clearly crazy about each other.
The girl read ingredients to some dish aloud off her iPhone while the guy dropped things into their cart and found reasons to keep touching her.
I wondered if today was sucking for Henry as much as it was sucking for me.
And I thought of him again ten minutes ago when Bella announced that Harry Styles likes licking feet. Henry would’ve thought that was funny.
“Wait a minute,” my dad says, like he’s just catching up. “If we’re talking about men for Grace to date, what about that nice Italian fella, Dom?”
I close my eyes and squeeze my lids together, slowly disassociating.
“Oh yeah, Dom,” Ruth says. “Va-va-voom.”
“Who the hell’s Dom?” asks Nick.
My mom takes a big sip of wine. “You’ve never met Dom?”
“No,” says Nick. “Is there a guy roster I could check? Maybe online, like fantasy football?”
“He owns the restaurant across from Edgar Allan’s,” my mom says. “Nice place.”
“The calamari is excellent,” my dad says.
“Dom’s this hot guy who’s been in love with Grace for years,” Ruth says. “If I ever divorce you, I’m definitely sleeping with him.”
“Awesome, babe,” says Nick. “I’d love to meet him.”
This goes on for a while as I look out the window at my parents’ sun-soaked neighborhood. Michael Bublé can suck it. It’s not beginning to look like Christmas at all.