Chapter 2
MJ
I stare at the manufacturer’s label on the shelf as though I can somehow make the cans of orange mush appear by sheer force of will.
Pumpkin pie was Henry’s favorite. No, he won’t be here to eat it—an unfortunate side effect of no longer being on this earthly plane—but we still need to have it.
It’s not Thanksgiving without it. We’ve had it every year since he passed away, and we’ll have it this year too, even if I have to go to eighteen different stores to find it.
“Can I help you find anything?” a soft voice asks from behind me. I turn to find a woman about Lindsey’s age. At thirty-five, she’s my oldest.
“I was looking for some canned pumpkin,” I say, “but it seems like you’re out.”
She gives me a regretful smile. “Yeah, I think we ran out last week. We have pumpkin pie filling, and I think there are still a few pumpkin pies in the freezer section. I can go grab one if you like?”
“No, that’s okay. Thank you, though.” I twist my lips to the corner of my mouth, blinking back the watery film blurring my focus. It can’t be just any pumpkin pie. It has to be Henry’s mother’s recipe.
I can at least try to go with the proverbial flow any other time of the year, but the holidays are nonnegotiable.
The year after Henry passed, I refused to change anything.
His loafers remained by the front door in the foyer.
I still made a full pot of coffee every morning, leaving his mug next to mine on the counter.
Dinner was on the table promptly at six, though it often went untouched.
Then, on the first anniversary of his death, I packed away and donated most of his things, leaving behind only the most sentimental items and a few of his favorite shirts.
I got one of those fancy Nespresso machines and started making myself lattes in the morning.
And when cooking for one became too depressing, I switched to a bowl of cereal or popcorn on the couch instead.
Maybe a little charcuterie board if I was feeling fancy.
Life was going to move on with or without me, so I allowed it to sweep me along with the changing seasons.
Many of our treasured traditions gave way to new rituals, but not during the holidays. This was Henry’s favorite time of the year, and for that reason, it will always be sacred.
“Are you sure?” the clerk asks. “They’re really good. Almost as good as homemade. My husband loves them.”
That’s when I lose it. Right there in the middle of aisle four at the Food Saver. And I’m not talking about a few escaped tears. I mean shoulders shaking, snot dripping, openly sobbing in front of God and this precious clerk who’s probably regretting asking me a damn thing.
“Oh gosh,” she says, a perplexed expression settling over her face. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You’re fine. I’m not upset.” I force what I hope is a reassuring smile, but from the way she flinches, I suspect I look more like a deranged serial killer. “It’s me. I’m just having an off day.”
I dig in my purse, fishing for the mini pack of Kleenex buried somewhere in its depths.
My fingers finally land on the flimsy plastic package, and I pull out a tissue to blow my nose just as my phone blares with a siren that could wake the dead.
My grandson changed the ringer months ago, and I have no clue how to return it to its usual chime.
The girl whose name tag reads “Anna” mumbles a quick “happy holidays” and takes that as her cue to leave.
“Hello,” I answer.
“You still breathing?” my older sister Rose asks. It’s the same question she poses every day during our morning check-ins. It’s something she started soon after our father died, when we became the oldest members of our family.
I sniffle, and she immediately clocks it.
“Sister, are you crying?” she asks, her voice wrought with concern. “What’s going on?”
“I’m at the Food Saver,” I say through ragged breaths. “They’re out of pumpkin.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she says, and I can practically hear the eye roll from here. “It’s too early for this, Myra Jean. I haven’t even finished my coffee yet. Just go to another grocery store.”
“This is the second one I’ve been to today. What if I waited too long? What if I can’t make the pumpkin pie?”
“And?” she asks through a yawn. “Make something else for a change. Or, here’s a novel concept, let one of us bring a dessert instead.”
I shove the snotty tissue inside my purse and sulk down the aisle, back toward the automatic doors.
“We have to have the pumpkin pie, Rose,” I say. “It was Henry’s favorite.”
“Fine.” She releases an exaggerated sigh and slurps some coffee. “How can I help? Do you want me to call around to a few other stores? See if I can get someone to hold a couple of cans?”
“You wouldn’t mind?” I ask, stepping outside into the mostly vacant parking lot. The air is extra crisp against the dampness on my cheeks as I dig out my keys.
“Oh, I mind,” she answers. “But I’ll do it anyway.”
“Thank you,” I say, “I know you don’t even like pumpkin pie.”
“No, I don’t. But I do like you.” She snorts. “Sometimes.”
My call-waiting beeps as I near my car. It’s the fourth sedan I’ve owned in a gleaming shade of pearly white. Henry tried many times to convince me to get something different—an SUV maybe or even just another color—but I never saw a reason to change.
“Rose, Lindsey’s calling,” I say when I glance at the screen. “Can I call you right back?”
“Yeah, yeah. By the way, if I’m calling these stores for you, you’re making me breakfast for my troubles.”
“Biscuits and gravy?”
“I’ll see you at nine.”
I tap the screen to answer Lindsey’s call. “Hi, sweetie.” My voice is an octave higher than it was seconds ago as I tap the fob and slide inside the vehicle. “How’s it going? How’re you feeling?”
“I’m fine, Mom. Same as I was yesterday when you asked,” she says with a chuckle. She thinks I worry too much, but I know that while the cooler weather gets many women excited about pie-scented candles and seasonal latte flavors, it does something quite different to her. “Are you in your car?”
“Yes, I’m just leaving the store. What about you? On your way to work?”
“Yeah,” she answers before shifting the focus back to me. “Why on earth were you at the store so early? It’s Friday. I thought you stopped working on Fridays.”
“I somehow managed to forget the pumpkin for the pie, but everyone else in Loving apparently didn’t,” I say, not bothering to start the car yet. “Went to both stores in town and they’re out.”
“I have some extra in the pantry. I’ll bring it Sunday. If you make chicken and dumplins.” There’s a hint of a smile in her voice.
“Nothing like a little early morning subterfuge,” I say with a laugh. “I’d have made them for you even without the pumpkin.”
“And I would have given you the pumpkin even without the dumplins.”
“Why do you have pumpkin on hand, anyway? You don’t bake.”
“What?” Her voice sounds funny. Distracted. “Oh, I told Emily and Noah we could make some pumpkin chocolate chip cookies when they come over Tuesday.”
That explains it. Lindsey isn’t much of a baker, but she’ll do anything for her niece and nephew.
“I don’t want to take it if you’ve already got plans for it,” I say. “Especially if it’s for the kids.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mom. Trust me, they’ll be fine with just chocolate chip.
In fact, they probably forgot they even asked for the pumpkin,” she says.
“Listen, I just got to work, but I’m going Christmas shopping this weekend, and for the life of me, I cannot remember the name of that awful perfume Aunt Rose likes. ”
“Secret Weapon.”
“False advertising,” she says with a laugh. “There’s nothing secret about it. That stuff is so strong it could trip a motion sensor.”
“That it could.” It is a little loud, but to be fair, so is my sister.
“That’s what I’m getting her, so make sure you don’t get it too. God knows she doesn’t need more. She only just ran out from when we all had the same idea five years ago.”
“Noted. Let your brother and sister know too.”
“I will,” she says. “Talk to you later. Love you.”
“Love you too, sweetie,” I say before ending the call.
I buckle the seat belt and hold my foot to the brake, pressing the button to start the engine. The sense of impending doom I felt moments ago has waned now that the pumpkin pie crisis has been averted. Calm spreads over me like a blanket.
Our well-worn traditions will go on to survive another year. I swallow the lump swelling in the back of my throat as I pull through the empty parking space in front of me and head home.