Chapter 6 MJ
MJ
It’s early Sunday afternoon, and I’m eating the last piece of pecan pie right out of the dish, standing over the sink like a swamp rat.
If this had been a normal Thanksgiving, I would have sent the leftovers with the kids, and Lindsey would have called dibs on the pecan pie because it's her favorite. The thought of my eldest daughter sends a sharp pain through my chest, and for a second, I wonder if I’m having some sort of cardiac episode.
Wouldn’t it be fitting for me to die alone in this house from a broken heart?
I need to return to my lair. After chucking the unwashed dish into the sink, I float up the stairs like a ghost, stopping in front of the collage of photos on the landing.
Henry used to tease me about taking so many pictures, but I don’t think any amount would have been enough to capture the life we had.
My fingers trail along the wall, pausing at the photo we took on Thanksgiving five years ago, not knowing it would be our last one together as a family.
Henry set the tripod up in the living room, and we squeezed together on the couch to fit in the frame.
My sister was on the end next to Ellie and Ben.
Lucy huddled on the floor with Willow, who’d joined us for their first big holiday together.
I was in the middle with Henry, our hands closed tight around one another’s.
On Henry’s other side was Lindsey, leaning her head on his shoulder.
They shared the same narrow nose and hazel eyes.
But no feature was more alike than their beaming smiles that could light up the darkest room.
My hand drops to my side, and I let that image of the last happy holiday carry me to my bedroom, where I crawl into my king-size bed.
The ceiling fan whirls overhead, and I pull the plush comforter up to my chin.
Sure, it’s almost December, but keeping the fan going year-round is something I’d started in my midforties, when life became one never-ending hot flash.
I haven’t been cold since Clinton was in office.
A sour taste lingers in my mouth. Did the pie go bad, or did I forget to brush my teeth? Or maybe the mere thought of Thanksgiving is enough to make me miserable all over again.
I spent the entire weekend eating leftovers and wallowing around in my favorite “World’s Best Grandma” sleep shirt that my grandkids gave me for Mother’s Day a couple years ago.
Shuffling through the house, I could still see the kids decorating the Christmas tree when they were little and Henry hanging the stockings on the mantel.
I could hear the echoes of my mother’s voice from years before telling me that the dressing I’d made, the very same recipe that belonged to my great-grandmother, was the best thing she’d ever tasted.
But I could also see the rooms empty out, one by one, as Lindsey and Ben went to college and Lucy moved into her first apartment. And I could still see my husband being carried away from our home, my sanctuary, the one place that for so long had felt untouchable.
It still amazes me how a house that had once been so loud and full of life could fade to mere whispers.
I pluck my phone off the nightstand, straighten my navy-rimmed glasses, and pull up the photo Ben sent me that morning.
I have to give him an A for effort. If anything could get me to crack, it’s the smiling faces of my beautiful, perfect grandchildren.
I thought nothing could ever top being a mom until I became a grandmother.
I wish Henry could see them. He passed only months before Ellie and Ben found out they were expecting.
I swallow the lump that forms in my throat. I’ve been avoiding everyone since our holiday dinner ended with me yelling at my grown children before throwing a hissy fit on the floor like a petulant child.
My kids and my sister all tried reaching out to me, but I continued to ignore their calls. Partly because I was hurt, but also because I was embarrassed. I’m not proud of the way I acted, but I am too proud to admit it.
A boom, boom, boom echoes through the quiet house. The vibrating thud of someone knocking on the front door makes me yelp—even though I know exactly who it is, and I knew it was only a matter of time before she turned up.
The key rattles in the lock. “Go away,” I mutter.
“Myra Jean!” my sister yells as the door slams shut and she stomps up the stairs with all the grace of a horse in an antique store. “Are you dead?”
“One can hope,” I say as Rose’s short frame appears in the doorway. What my sister lacks in height, she makes up for with her giant personality and being a big pain in my ass.
“Now you know you’re too old to be ignoring phone calls.” Rose crosses her arms over her chest. “We’re not forty anymore. Avoiding calls is a surefire way to get yourself a wellness check and a possible call to the coroner’s office.”
I pull the blanket over my head. “Well, I’m not dead, so will you leave me alone now, please?”
Her footsteps clack across the hardwood floor and she yanks off the covers, exposing my threadbare sleepshirt.
“Quit your bellyaching and get out of this bed,” she scolds me. “And call your children.”
“How do you know I haven’t?”
She pins me with a glare. “Because I know you. Henry always said you were a stubborn goat, and you know what? He was right.”
“I don’t want to call them.” I yank the comforter back up, only for her to pull it down again.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you want. This is a family, not a democracy.”
I huff. “I ought to take your key back.”
She plops on the bed beside me. “You do realize, you’ve been saying that for over thirty years, and you haven’t done it yet.”
“There’s still time.”
A wiry spiral of dyed auburn hair falls into her face. “Then the cops really will have to come bust down your door when you’re being a spoiled brat.”
“You’re my sister. You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“This is me being on your side.”
“Well, you’re doing a terrible job at it.”
“Oh shut up, you old wench.” She pokes me square in the ribs. “You love me, and you know it. And even if you don't, I'm all you’ve got left.”
I wince, and I can see her willing the words back into her mouth.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” She covers my hand with hers.
“I know.”
“Henry wouldn’t want this.”
Tears burn the corners of my eyes. She’s right, but that doesn’t mean I want to hear it.
“We’ve just always had Christmas here,” I choke out.
“I can still see the kids coming down the stairs, their eyes full of wonder, as they spotted what Santa had brought them. And Henry hovering over the damn tripod trying to get the camcorder to work, and Mama drinking coffee in that ugly old La-Z-Boy recliner while Daddy nodded off on the couch.” I clasp her hand between both of mine.
“And you, showing up in your pj’s to open presents with the kids.
Is it really so wrong that I don’t want that to change? ”
“Of course, it’s not wrong,” she says. “But it’s not wrong of Lindsey, Ben, and Lucy to want to do something different, either.
You’ve hosted every holiday, birthday, every gathering this family has ever had.
You knitted Christmas stockings and made all the birthday cakes, and nobody does it better than you.
But for me, the time spent together is what matters most. If the kids want to host Christmas and start some new traditions, I say, let ’em.
It doesn’t make a difference to me where we celebrate, as long as we’re all together. ”
My bottom lip quivers.
“Myra Jean, you’ve been trying so hard to keep Henry alive that I’m afraid you’re letting the future with the family you have left die.
” She takes a piece of my shoulder-length silver hair between two of her fingers.
Playing with my hair was something she’d always done to comfort me any time I was upset when we were growing up.
“I’m telling you this because I love you, but celebrating the holidays with you has become a real drag. ”
“That’s because it is a drag. It’s depressing.” I swat at her hand. “I’m still grieving, okay?”
“I know,” she says, “and nobody is saying you can’t do that, but one day, in the hopefully very distant future, all Lindsey and Ben and Lucy are going to have left of us are memories.
Photo albums and videos up in the cloud or wherever the hell those things live nowadays.
And don’t you want them to remember more than their mom crying every holiday, longing for a past she’ll never get back? ”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. “But those past years were so happy,” I can’t help saying. “Just…filled to the brim with love.”
“I know it's hard,” she says. “But you don’t get the love without the pain. That’s not how it works.
And one day, the kids are going to be old and gray, and they’ll be left with the same hurt you’re feeling now.
But it'll be worth it for them, just like it’s worth it for us.
” She moves my hand and presses it to my chest. “Because the hurt means love lived here.”
I sigh heavily. “Why do you always have to make so much sense?”
“I’m the oldest. Being incredibly wise comes with the territory. Though it’s really unfortunate for you that I got the looks too.”
I punch her in the arm, and we laugh as she collapses on the bed next to me, resting her head on top of mine. Rose might get on my nerves, but she’s also the one person who can help me get out of my own way.
“Now, will you call your children?” she asks. “Please?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes.”
She scoots to the edge of the bed and stands. “And brush your teeth, for crying out loud. Your breath smells like roadkill.”
I snort out a laugh and toss a pillow at her, nailing her right in the head.