Henry
I’ve begrudgingly accepted that it’s Thanksgiving.
There’s a small crew at my parents’ house, like always.
My aunt and uncle Judy and Jed made the trip from Annapolis, and Cal and his wife, Sally, are here.
The new addition this year is Kelsey, Cal and Sally’s nine-month-old daughter, who’s squeezing two fistfuls of yams and smiling at everyone.
All babies are cute, but Kelsey is like a Pixar character—all big brown eyes and babbling.
Cal, who’s sitting beside me, says, “Those go in your mouth, sweetie.”
Kelsey puts her yam hands in her hair, which is a big mess, but no one minds. My dad is talking about how he fell off the treadmill the other day at the gym. “I wasn’t holding the safety handle,” he says. “You can’t jog while holding a bar. It just doesn’t work.”
“You’re too thin,” my brother murmurs to me.
“It makes me more aerodynamic,” I murmur back. As kids we’d do this: have under-the-radar conversations while other people talked.
“You look like a stick figure with a bobblehead,” he says.
“Counter argument,” I say, “you’re getting fat.”
He smiles because he isn’t. Cal is in unreasonably good shape for an adult. He spoons cranberries into Kelsey’s mouth, and she does a little shimmy, which happens whenever she eats something sweet.
“That’s it, girl,” Cal says. “Shake that thang.”
Sally picks yams out of Kelsey’s hair.
“And then suddenly, boom,” says my dad. “Down I go.”
“You should’ve heard the thud,” my mom says. She was there, too, on an elliptical machine ten feet away.
My dad waves a drumstick. “It sounded worse than it was.”
As Kelsey gives me a gummy little smile, I think of Brynn.
Kelsey was born about a month after the crash, so Brynn never got to meet her.
She would’ve loved being an aunt. The whole day has been filled with thoughts like this—sad reminders that Brynn isn’t here—like when we all stepped into the dining room earlier and I took in the weird Brynnless configuration of the chairs.
“The best part, though,” my mom says, “all these trainers and gym people come running to help, and he’s trying to act like nothing happened.”
“I thought I could play it off like I was stretching,” my dad says.
“I mean, he could’ve died, you know,” my mom says. “People die in dumb accidents all the time.”
I think nothing of this as I watch Kelsey do her little cranberry dance again, but then I have to think about it because everyone is suddenly studying the centerpiece in silence. People get weird around me now when death comes up—even fictional death by exercise equipment.
“Deep-fried turkey’s great, Cal,” I say. “Nailed it.”
There’s a football game on in the other room that no one particularly cares about, but I appreciate the noise.
Conversation picks back up, a whole thing about how warm it is today, then Aunt Judy says, “You know, I work with a young woman who’s recently divorced.
” This seems apropos of nothing, but at least we’re not talking about death.
She takes a bite of turkey, chews carefully. “Apparently her ex-husband is a real son of a something,” she says. “Pretty girl, though. Lovely figure.”
Realization arrives slowly. I haven’t thought much about Grace or her kids or her weird little dog since I left her parents’ backyard on Sunday. I think of her now, though, small-looking on that big outdoor chair. Better get used to it, she told me.
Cal seems to realize what’s happening here, too. “Interesting,” he says, covering Kelsey’s ears. “Aunt Judy, could you maybe…describe her figure?”
“You can start by wiping that effing dumbass smile off your rosy effing cheeks,” I say.
“And you can give me an effing automobile,” says Cal.
“An effing Datsun,” I say. “An effing Toyota, an effing Mustang, an effing Buick.”
“Four effing wheels and a seat,” says Cal.
My brother and I are in the TV room now, playing Mario Kart while quoting Planes, Trains and Automobiles from memory, which we always do on Thanksgiving.
Kelsey is in the TV room with us—Cal is wearing her in a BabyBjorn—hence the censorship.
Our parents introduced us to the movie when we were kids, and it’s been one of our favorites ever since.
When Cal, Sally, and Kelsey arrived earlier this afternoon, my brother jumped out of his truck and loudly quoted Steve Martin at me from across the driveway. “Those aren’t pillows!”
“God, I love that movie,” he says now.
“Because it’s great,” I say.
“That scene at the end,” he says. “Steve Martin helping John Candy carry that giant suitcase. Ugh, ruins me every time.”
“Classic,” I say.
“The problem is it’s a Thanksgiving movie, so it doesn’t get enough holiday-movie love,” he says. “I’m totally gonna pass you, by the way. Why are you driving so slow?”
“I won the Mushroom Cup five times last week,” I say.
“Oh, right,” he says. “I read about that on you’re-obviously-lying dot com.”
Kelsey makes a grab for Cal’s controller. “No, sweetie. Daddy needs that to embarrass your uncle Henry.”
I dodge a banana and shoot a turtle shell at Luigi, which Cal easily avoids.
“Here, let me slow down,” he says. “I want little Mario to see me cross the finish line.”
Cal wins and holds Kelsey’s arms up in celebration, and Kelsey giggles.
“I love you, you know,” he tells me.
“Shut up.”
“No,” he says. “I can’t shut up. Because of how much I love you.”
After Brynn died, Cal researched strategies for helping loved ones through grief. The internet’s collective wisdom boiled down to 1.) Be there for them, and 2.) Let them know you love them. That second one started out endearing but has become a joke.
“Wanna go again?” I ask.
He does, so I reset, and we’re off.
Kelsey points to the TV and laughs.
“I know, baby, it’s a blimp with a turtle on it,” Cal says. “Silly, right?”
We race in silence. Cal jumps out to an early lead.
He glances at me. “I checked on your house yesterday,” he says. “All’s good. The Christmas decorations actually make sense now.”
“Thanks,” I say, keeping my eyes on our game.
“Maybe next week we go over there? You and me. Do some organizing. Clean things up.”
“Maybe.”
“There’s a light socket acting up on your second-floor landing. Needs to be switched out. I’ll get to it.”
“Cool.”
My brother is a general contractor—a good one, too—so when I left Brynn’s and my row house on Charles Street the day of her funeral, I asked him to keep an eye on the place for me.
My only request was that he not move anything or put anything away.
Unfolded blankets on the couch. Brynn’s sneakers at the door.
Our artificial tree fully decorated in the living room because we hadn’t taken down our decorations yet.
I couldn’t be there, but I hated the idea of things changing.
I found an apartment over in Fells Point near the water.
My neighbors now are mostly divorced dads with expensive stereo equipment.
Cal’s Luigi crosses the finish line, and we settle back into the cushions of our parents’ couch. Kelsey dozed off during that last race, so Cal secures her head with his chin.
“Thanks for the assist at dinner,” I say. “You know, Aunt Judy’s divorced lady.”
“Sure,” he says. “Although, sounds like she’s got quite the body on her.”
“Be that as it may.”
“Right,” he says, “because obviously you’re not ready to even think about…”
“No,” I say.
“Because if you were…”
“Cal,” I say.
He sets his controller down, adjusts Kelsey’s head.
“Just listen. I finished this job a few weeks ago. A children’s bookstore.
The owner is this lady, Meredith. She’s so cool.
And pretty, and just…just the biggest nerd.
She’s like you if you were a girl. Every time I talk to her, I’m like, she’s perfect for Henry. ”
I don’t say anything.
“I’m worried about you,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“You spend too much time alone.”
“I’m an introvert.”
“Brynn made you less of one,” he says, which is true. His implication, though, goes beyond personality types. Brynn made me better at being a person, because for someone like me, the burdens of personhood weren’t as bad with her by my side.
“So, maybe you two could get a drink or something. That’s all I’m saying.”
I tell him no, and for the second time today I think of Grace. I hope her day is going okay.