Left Drowning

To be honest, I’m especially happy to be spending it with Chris. We’ll be getting lots of time together thanks to Eric, who is organizing Thanksgiving di

And at least one thing is certain: Chris and I are inextricably co

Some people believe in God; I believe in Chris.

So I am not upset that we’re not a couple because, however idiotic it may sound when I tell myself this, I know, I just know, that our time will come. But it’s not now. For now, we are on hold. And it’s not a painful place to be. It’s the opposite in fact, because not only do I have him in my life now, I have something to look forward to.

Before I head downstairs to the dorm kitchen, where Chris and I will be baking pies, I decide to make one phone call. James. This will be the first Thanksgiving that I won’t see my brother, and while that feels awful, I also think it might be for the best. He texted me last week to tell me that he’s going to his girlfriend’s house, and I’m relieved that he’ll be with someone’s family, if not ours. Or what’s left of ours. We have no grandparents, no cousins … There is only our aunt, Lisa, and I’m pretty much done with her.

As I dial his number, I vow to rebuild our family, even if it’s just James and me. It’s not about numbers, it’s about quality, and somewhere, in the wake of destruction, we’ll recover the relationship that he and I used to have.

He answers on the third ring. “Hey, Blythe.”

“Hi.” My voice is chipper this time. It’s been weeks since we’ve spoken or communicated beyond short information-only texts and e-mails, and my only goal is to have this call end in something besides tears. “I just wanted to wish you a happy Thanksgiving.”

“Thanks. You, too.” He does not sound pissy, which is a good start.

“You’re going to your girlfriend’s house?”

“Yeah. She lives one town over, and her parents invited me since I didn’t have anywhere to go.”

I take a breath, feeling a wave of guilt even though I know he doesn’t mean to bait me. “I’m sorry about that. But it’s good you’ll have a real house to go to. What’s your girlfriend’s name again?”

“Angie.”

“Right. Angie. Have you met her parents already?”

“No. We’ve only been dating for a month or whatever. I’m kind of dreading it, but she promises me that they’re normal.”

“If she’s inviting you home, they can’t be that bad or she wouldn’t let you meet them.”

“That’s true.” He pauses. “Blythe, do you think I’m supposed to wear a suit?”

“I doubt it. Maybe a dress shirt and tie? You better just ask Angie. What if they’re all wearing jeans and football jerseys? You don’t want to show up in formal wear.”

He actually laughs. “True. I’ll ask. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Having di

“And definitely don’t forget to take the paper package of guts out of the turkey,” he says.

Now I laugh. “Remember how pissed Mom was when Dad did that? And to make matters worse, he cooked it upside down.”

“Right, because he said his instincts took over and he was positive it would produce a juicier di

“I don’t recall it tasting any different, do you?”

“No. Although it looked freaky when he brought it to the table.”

“And Mom threw a kitchen towel over it so that we wouldn’t lose our appetites!”

It’s the first time we’ve reminisced about our parents since they died. This is a small moment, yet a huge moment.

“James? I wish that Lisa had given us more notice that she was going to be out of town for Thanksgiving.” I pause. “I’m pretty pissed.”

He perks up. “I know, right? What the hell is wrong with her?”

“I mean, what did she think we were going to do?”

“She didn’t think. She never thinks about us.”

James and I have never acknowledged what a completely insensitive moron Lisa is. Until now. “Seriously. Did she … did she tell you about the house? Mom and Dad’s?” I ask.

“In an e-mail. Can you believe her? What a bitch.”

We spend fifteen minutes tearing apart our aunt. It’s mean, but awesomely fun because we are on the same side of something.

Then James surprises me with a question. “Are you ready to go back to Mom and Dad’s for Christmas? I think it’s going to suck.”

I’m honestly not sure what to say, but it hits me that while I am motherless, so is James. Lisa has done a shitty job not even trying to fill that role, and it’s something that I should do. That I can do. James is only nineteen years old, God damn it, and he’s still a kid really.

“No, it’s not going to suck. It’s going to be the best Christmas we’ve had since …” I suck it up and say it. “Since they died. I’ll take us out to get a tree, we’ll pull the old decorations out from the attic, and I’ll cook up a storm. Santa is going to fill our stockings until they’re spilling out onto the floor, and we’ll have cocoa and … and … and I don’t know. I’ll make weird reindeer appetizers out of marshmallows and pretzel sticks. It can’t be how it used to be, so we shouldn’t expect it to be. But we’ll have something new that is yours and mine. Okay, James? I promise you that it’s going to be great.”

“I don’t know.” He sounds so sad. “I’m not sure that I can do it.”

“You don’t have to do anything. I’m going to take care of it, and I’m going to make up for the lame job that Lisa has done on every holiday we’ve spent with her. Now we get to do things our way.”

“If you say so.” James is skeptical, but I can still hear the teeniest hint of excitement.

There’s a knock at my door as it swings open. Chris sees that I’m on the phone, and he waves furiously for me to come with him. He’s got flour on his sweatshirt, and the poor guy looks beyond frazzled.

“Help!” he mouths.

“James, I have to run. There seems to be a pie emergency.”

“No problem.”

“I’ll talk to you soon.” I go to hang up, but he stops me.

“Hey, Blythe?”

“Yeah?”

“Have a good Thanksgiving.”

“You, too, James. Watch out for the bag of guts.”

“Will do, sis.”

I toss the phone on my bed and head off to bake pies with Chris. I am outrageously happy.

It’s 11:30 p.m. before we have successfully made all of our assigned desserts. Well, maybe successfully isn’t exactly the right word. “These look revolting.” Chris has his hands on his hips and an extremely dissatisfied look on his face as he surveys our dessert spread. It’s true that each pie is either lopsided, slightly charred, or rather grotesquely discolored. The pumpkin pie appears to be all three. “Eric is going to kill us.”

“Tough shit. He was asking a lot of two inexperienced bakers working in a bare-bones dorm kitchen.” I look down at the food-stained recipe printouts in my hands. “And then tomorrow we’re supposed to make four side dishes? I can’t even read what these are!”

“Puréed squash, cranberry sauce, sautéed Brussels sprouts, and scalloped potatoes with three cheeses and heavy cream,” Chris recites.

I lower the recipes and watch as he continues to glare at the pies. He’s just listed the exact four side dishes that my mom used to make at every Thanksgiving. I smile as I realize that Eric is behind this; we’d discussed holiday food last month during one of our study sessions.

“Here’s the deal,” Chris says. “We’ll just dim the lights really low while we eat dessert so no one sees what these look like. It’ll be fine.”