Before I Called You Mine

by Nicole Deese

  I continued collecting ribbon, burlap, and twine from the floor. “Yeah, it’s at the end of the fifth-grade hall. There’s all kinds of randomness stored back in there.”

  He hopped a little, trying to get a grip on the slippery fabric.

  “Um . . . do you need help?”

  Still engulfed inside a silicone turkey head, he flashed me a semi-embarrassed grin. “I won’t turn you down if you’re offering. I’d really rather not show up at my parents’ house looking like a sumo wrestler who lost three hundred pounds overnight.”

  I laughed and moved toward him to help. “I agree that it’s probably a sight you should spare your loved ones.”

  The teeth of the cheap zipper snagged several times on its way down his back, forcing me to use my other hand to pinch the plastic beneath it to act as a guide. I worked it lower, uncovering the full length of his damp white undershirt. The fabric seemed to breathe with him, exposing every ripple and muscle beneath it. And suddenly my own oxygen intake seemed at risk. I swallowed, tugging the zipper lower still, until the tines jammed at the top of his waistband.

  “Okay.” My voice felt sluggish, my mouth not quite in sync with my thoughts. “You’re in the clear now.”

  I took several steps back, allowing space for him to take over. Making quick work with my hands, I gathered the rest of the decorative apples from a wicker basket on the floor.

  “Thanks. Gosh, the fresh air feels good. It was hot in there.”

  Out here, too. “I bet it was.”

  From the corner of my eye, I watched as he peeled away the silicone cap suctioned around his neck and head and allowed the fleshy layers of plastic to fall in a heap at his feet. He stepped out of the costume and raked a hand through his sweat-slicked hair. Soft curls curved above the tips of his ears and at the nape of his neck while the rest of his hair stood at attention. An apple dropped from my hand and bounced on the linoleum.

  He bent to pick it up, tossed it into my collection basket, then reached for the stack of crates beside me. “How about I carry these babies to the storage room for you?”

  “Oh . . . uh . . .” Words, Lauren. Speak words now. “You don’t have to do that. I can totally handle it on my own.”

  He gripped the bottom crates and hefted them up. “I’m sure you could,” he said. “But why not split the load with a guy who needs to earn back a hefty dose of masculinity after identifying as naked poultry for the last two hours?”

  He didn’t need to earn anything back in my book, but arguing with him would be as pointless as the hollow fruit in my arms. “Okay, thanks.” I lifted the basket filled with pumpkins and all things fake and draped the Thanksgiving banner and the emerald, orange, and gold tablecloth used as a backdrop around my neck like a scarf.

  “That’s a good look for you,” he said, appraisingly. “Not many people can pull off holiday plaid.”

  “Says the man who just took off a turkey suit.”

  “Touché.”

  We made the trek down the fifth-grade hall and took a hard right at the backstage door, which led to an even narrower passageway crammed with miscellaneous fundraiser signs, art supplies, and auction materials. I stopped in front of a black door and reached for the keys in my back pocket. Once unlocked, I propped the door open for Joshua to set his load down inside first before I did the same.

  “So what’s on the docket for you tomorrow?” He dusted off his hands with a hard clap and swipe. “Do you do the whole extended family thing? Or are you more of the immediate family gathering type?”

  The mention of my family brought the mental jolt I needed to keep my thoughts focused. I relocked the closet, then twisted the knob to double check it. “Let’s see, it will just be my parents, my sister, Lisa, and her husband, her stepsons, and my niece, Iris.”

  “Sounds like a manageable size.”

  I shot him a loaded grin. “You might not say that if you met them.”

  “Why not?” He laughed. “They a tough crowd?”

  “They’re just . . .” What were they exactly? “Really different from me.” I stopped, shook my head. “That sounds stuck up. I didn’t mean it to come out like that.”

  His gaze rested on mine, his hands finding the pockets of his shorts as if he had all the time in the world for a pre-holiday therapy session. “How do you mean it, then?”

  I released a nervous laugh, wishing I’d just kept my mouth shut. “You really don’t want to hear about the Bailey drama.”

  He glanced behind him and pulled up the half bookshelf someone once painted into a fake fireplace for a play. “Actually, I do.”

  He gestured for me to have a seat while he moved a rickety stepladder over for himself in a passageway half the width of a mining tunnel.

  “Really?” I looked around at the tight quarters. “You just want me to sit here and talk about all the dysfunction in my family?”

  “Do you have somewhere else to be?” he asked, as if this were a totally normal thing to do in a musty storage space, in an empty school building, on the day before a major holiday.

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Perfect.”

  I laughed and shook my head, giving in and arranging myself on the faux-fireplace-bookshelf combo across from him. And maybe the strangeness of it all—the isolated quiet in the middle of a school day, the upcoming four-day holiday weekend, the fact that tomorrow I’d be spending the day with people who likely wouldn’t support my future life decisions—was the exact reason I found myself providing an answer I hadn’t fully shared with anyone outside of Gail.

  “For various reasons, my family has always struggled to be close, but about five years ago, things between us all got even more distant after I . . . after I made some changes in my life.”

  He remained quiet, but his eyes shone with interest, compelling me to go on.

  Why was this so hard for me? Gail never seemed hesitant when it came to sharing about her faith. “My parents didn’t raise my sister and me to believe in organized religion of any kind. I never went to Sunday school or attended church camps or any of that. And honestly, that was all totally okay with me. I wasn’t against church or God exactly, I just couldn’t imagine any of that being a part of my life.”

  “So what changed?” A simple, straightforward question that revealed little of his own convictions or feelings.

  “I was given an invitation to go to a Christmas play at a student’s church, with a family I’d come to love during that school year.” I smiled at the memory of Benny handing me a beautifully embroidered card with red and green holly on the corners. A ticket to the play was tucked inside. “I went with them that night, and afterward they invited me back to their house for hot cider and cookies. We talked until late in the evening, mostly just get-to-know-you type conversation, but at one point, I remember telling them that I wanted to know more about what they believed and what they shared together as a family. Over the next few weeks they answered dozens of my questions, and shortly after the new year, I accepted Christ as my Savior.” I blinked away the moisture building behind my eyes. “I felt like I had purpose for the first time in my adult life.”

  He sat quietly for several seconds. “I couldn’t agree more. Faith in God is what gives our lives purpose.” A response that matched what I’d believed to be true about him for some time. “So . . .” He hedged, clasping his hands together with a slight frown on his face. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that when you told your family all that, it didn’t go so well?”

  “Understatement,” I said, plucking invisible lint off my turkey sweatshirt. “After I told them that my previous misconceptions about God and the church weren’t how I believed anymore, the wheels on our family wagon fell off . . . and we’d only been operating with three to begin with. In the beginning they asked some questions, but mostly to debate their own views and opinions. Now it just feels like my ‘weird convictions’ are the elephant in every room we’re in together, which makes conversing about anything
that matters . . . challenging.” To say the least. Especially when those conversations would soon revolve around a life change that would affect them all.

  “So you’re the only believer in your family. That’s tough.” He seemed to mull the statement over. “My brother was on the fence for a lot of years, nearly tore us apart with his anger over an offense that happened inside his home church. He told me once that if God and church were a package deal, he didn’t want any part of either of them.”

  “What happened with him?”

  “He met Rebekah.” He chuckled. “And she wouldn’t give him the time of day until he made a complete U-turn with his life, a one-eighty we’d been praying he’d make for a long time. After they married, my dad started referring to her as Saint Rebekah.”

  I smiled at the sweetness of such a nickname. I could hardly imagine such an alternate reality. Me as a wayward prodigal, my parents as the faithful prayer warriors who prayed me home. “You’re really blessed to have a family like that, you know.”

  He dipped his head, pinching his mouth to one side in contemplation until his eyes found mine again. “Sometimes that’s easy to forget. But you’re right. They are a blessing.” His lips parted into his signature expression once again. “What’s your game plan for surviving tomorrow?”

  “Hot fudge brownies.”

  Joshua busted out a laugh that melted the remaining tension in my chest. But the truth was, hot fudge brownies did have a way of making everything better. Even ridiculously hard conversations with the Bailey family.

  chapter

  ten

  I placed my Jeep in park and something like reflux flared in my chest. My parents’ three-story, craftsman-style home loomed before me, confirming the never-judge-a-book-by-its-cover sentiment of old. Where the exterior might be polished and pristine, the reality of the dysfunction inside was . . . well, not.

  Was it too late to ask Jesus to take the wheel now that I was no longer driving? Surely there was some catchy country song about entering the lion’s den on Thanksgiving Day. Where was Jenna when I needed her? She was a walking Spotify channel, always at the ready to throw out a symbolic lyric or show tune.

  I stepped out of the car and opened the door to the back seat, grateful I’d gone the extra mile and frosted my out-of-the-box brownies. Double-fudge with chocolate icing might be my only ally for the next three hours. Two, if luck were on my side.

  An expletive soared through the crisp afternoon air, and I turned in time to see two teen boys rounding the corner of my parents’ garage. A pair of glowing embers crashed to the ground. In an instant, the light was snuffed out completely on the paved driveway. Cigarettes. Of the many things my stepnephews had been caught doing since gaining my sister as a stepmom six years ago, this one fell somewhere in the middle. At fifteen and thirteen, Austin and Andrew Metzer walked through life with the maturity of toddlers in adolescent packages.

  Neither of the boys moved an inch as I approached. Maybe, like several of my first graders, they believed if they stood still long enough, they’d simply acquire invisibility superpowers. Or perhaps they just hoped my eyesight was too poor to have seen the cancer sticks hanging from their mouths.

  Unfortunately for them, neither was true.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, boys.” Balancing the brownies on top of my mostly apple and grape fruit salad, I headed for the porch steps. “Would one of you mind holding the door for me, please?”

  At my casual tone, the boys looked momentarily dumbstruck. Austin, the older of the two, elbowed his younger brother in the ribs as if he’d just tagged him in a game, then hightailed it around the side of the house.

  The thirteen-year-old jogged toward me, bounding up the short flight of stairs in pants I suspected weren’t nearly as flexible as he made them look. How much longer would the super-skinny jean trend survive?

  “Thank you, Andrew. How very gentlemanly of you.”

  He refused to make eye contact. “Uh-huh.”

  “Andrew?” Somehow, he managed to shove the tips of fingers into his too-tight pockets. Really, that should be a universal requirement for all pants: pockets made to fit an entire hand. “Smoker’s lung won’t get you a girlfriend.”

  Eyes still averted, he mumbled, “I didn’t even inhale.”

  “Okay,” I said, in an I-wasn’t-born-yesterday tone.

  He stared out at the spot his older brother had occupied moments ago. “Just, please don’t tell Lisa, okay? She’s super pis—I mean, she’s really ticked at me—about my grades. I already lost my phone for a week.”

  I smiled and touched his shoulder. I didn’t have it in me to rat either of them out tonight. Not when the holiday agenda would soon be overthrown by judgmental commentary over my reckless decision: a.k.a. adopting a child as a single woman on a teacher’s salary. A decision that would not align well with my mother’s “security first” life mantra.

  But neither of my nephews needed to know all that.

  “I’ll tell you what, if you and Austin handle dish duty for Grandma after dinner without complaining, I’ll forget what I saw.”

  Relief flooded his acne-pocked face. “Wait—seriously?”

  “Seriously, but you’re going to go tell Austin to put that stolen pack back in his dad’s truck, right?”

  He swallowed. “Right.”

  “And you’ll never touch them again? Because if I find out otherwise, I can pretty much guarantee your phone will be confiscated for a lot longer than a week.”

  “Yes. Promise.”

  “Perfect.” We reached the top step together. “I’m so glad we had this little chat.”

  “Yeah . . . me too.” He gave me an almost-smile that, on any other day, would have made me laugh. But my brownies were sliding into my fruit salad bowl, and the purse on my shoulder had slipped down to the crook of my elbow, and I really just needed to get this holiday meal over with.

  Andrew twisted the knob and popped the door open for me.

  My plank-walk awaited.

  Andrew slipped behind me, fading into the background of privileged suburbia with ease, while the smell of reheated turkey breast and overdone stuffing saturated the air. For a moment, the familiar aroma took me back to the days of my childhood home—one I hadn’t been inside for over a decade. Funny, because that robin’s-egg blue 1970s split-level resembled absolutely nothing of this custom-built three-story house with hardwood floors and granite countertops. But I supposed that was the thing about moving: A person could upgrade their location, their appliances, and even their tax bracket . . . and still find room to unpack their old habits.

  I stepped through the entryway into the spacious and modern floorplan decked with neutral paint and thick white baseboards my mom had chosen to finish herself.

  “Dad?” I didn’t know why I called it out. I knew exactly where he’d be—the same place he was every time I came over. Recliner by the window, overlooking two acres of a well-groomed lawn. A new crime novel rested on the sofa table beside him—different title and author, same CSI-looking cover, bookmarked with a Juicy Fruit gum wrapper. His aluminum walker and cane resided in the corner, half hidden by the afghan he refused to use.

  “Ren?” My father was the only person who called me by a nickname. “That you?”

  “Sure is. Happy Thanksgiving, Dad.” I crossed the room toward his chair. “Guess what! I baked your favorite dessert.” And hopefully said dessert would sweeten him up to the idea of becoming a surprise grandfather to a child unknown . . . even to the mother.

  “Please tell me it’s brownies. I hate all that mushy canned pumpkin stuff your sister tries to pass off as pie.”

  “Good guess. It is.” I bent to kiss his temple. “How are you today?”

  “As good as any other day, I suppose.” A nonanswer. My father’s favorite kind.

  Distracted by the lack of swirling voices in the house, I glanced toward the kitchen and scanned the empty dining room. “Where is everybody?”

  “Lisa and Trent w
ent to the only open store on the other side of town to get more rolls or something. They took Iris with them.”

  “Ah.” That explained why the boys were wandering around outside unsupervised. “And Mom?” I ventured cautiously.

  “Putting together some new closet hack downstairs.”

  “Gotcha.” Because, naturally, Thanksgiving dinner was the best time to assemble an organizational unit for her business. I shoved the thought down and worked to re-engage my happy face.

  “You cut your hair?” he asked unexpectedly.

  I fingered the ashy blond ends of hair resting on my shoulders. “Not recently, no. You probably just haven’t seen me wear it down in a while.”

  “You should wear it like that more often. It’s nice.” A high-level compliment coming from him.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “When you were little, I used to tell you it was like corn silk. So pretty and soft.” His eyes glazed over, and I wondered what had inspired this rare stroll down memory lane.

  I leaned against the arm of his chair, wishing I could stretch this rare moment out for forever. “I remember that, too.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  A lifetime ago, really. And yet my heart couldn’t forget that old version of my daddy, even though I hadn’t seen him that way in so many, many years.

  He cleared his throat and the spell was over.

  “You should put that fruit salad in the fridge before it gets warm.” He pointed to the bowl I’d placed on the side table near him.

  “I will.” I straightened out my spine and my sentimentalities. “How can I help out with dinner . . . or with anything, really?”

  He snorted. “Your mother already has everything figured out, Lauren. You might as well just take a seat in here and wait.” He pointed to the sofa across the room. “I’m sure she’ll let you know if you’re needed. But don’t hold your breath.” Years ago, after his accident, his resentful comments about my mother’s take-charge personality would barely scrape off his tongue, like the dull blade on a butter knife. But now his razor tone held a serrated edge, sharp enough to draw blood.