Home Is the Place

by Ann M. Martin

  “There she is!” exclaimed her grandmother.

  Nana Dana was still wearing her coat, a large cloth coat, and when she turned to Georgia and opened her arms, the sleeves fanned out like bat wings.

  Georgia couldn’t help smiling. She ran to her grandmother and threw herself against her. “I didn’t know you were coming,” she managed to say.

  “Of course not. None of you did. That’s why this is such a good surprise. I thought you needed a surprise, and a little holiday cheer.”

  The door to Richard and Henry’s room opened then, and Richard limped out, his eyes bleary.

  Nana Dana stood back from Georgia and watched Richard cross the room. “My goodness,” she said at last. “You look terrible.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then Richard grinned. “I have a paper due on Monday.”

  “And you’ve been working on Thanksgiving?”

  “Yup.”

  Georgia saw her parents smile at each other.

  “Well, for heaven’s sake,” said her mother after a moment. “Take your coat off, Dana. What’s all that?” She indicated the shopping bags at Nana Dana’s feet. “And how on earth did you get here?”

  “Train,” replied Nana Dana. “And a cab. And all that,” she said, “is food from the Big Apple. I intend for you to have a proper Thanksgiving feast. Well, maybe not a proper one, but a feast at any rate. I understand,” she went on, glancing at Henry, “that you’re somewhat lacking in Thanksgiving spirit around here.”

  Henry blushed slightly. But then he said, “What did you bring?”

  Nana Dana smiled at him. “I couldn’t bring a turkey on the train, but there’s canned turkey and, well, go ahead and open the bags.”

  Henry dove for them, followed by Richard and Georgia.

  “Bagels!” cried Georgia holding a cardboard box aloft.

  “Oil-cured olives,” said Richard, squinting at the label on a plastic container.

  “Like I said, it might not be a traditional Thanksgiving dinner,” said Nana Dana. “But it will be festive.”

  “It will be better than spaghetti,” said Henry, examining a box of chocolate-covered marzipan candies.

  * * *

  At 3:00 that afternoon, the Nobles and Nana Dana gathered around the kitchen table, which was covered with a red cloth and set for six people. A chocolate turkey stood by each water glass, and Georgia had even made place cards, just as she used to do when she was a little girl.

  “Serve yourselves from the counter,” said Georgia’s mother. “Let Nana Dana go first.”

  Georgia looked at the array of food: canned turkey, bagels and lox, Chinese noodles, a vegetable she couldn’t identify but wanted to try anyway, curried lentil soup, the olives, and at the far end of the counter, the pot of spaghetti.

  When everyone was seated and looking longingly at their plates, Nana Dana said, “Before we start eating, I’d like for each one of us to say what we’re thankful for. Henry, you go first.”

  Georgia looked around the table and saw lowered eyes and fidgeting hands, but Nana Dana was serious about her request.

  “Um, okay, well, I’m thankful you brought all this food here and we don’t have to have a spaghetti dinner,” said Henry.

  Nana Dana smiled. “Georgia?”

  Georgia stared out the window. “I don’t know.”

  Her grandmother eyed her. “You aren’t thankful about anything?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Okay. I’m thankful you’re here.”

  “All right. Richard?”

  “I — well, I’m thankful I’m here. And I’m not being funny.”

  Silence. Then Georgia’s father said, “It may not have been the best year —”

  “I’ll say,” muttered Georgia.

  “Excuse me. Georgia? You had your turn to speak,” said Nana Dana. “Now it’s your father’s turn.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It may not have been the best year,” Georgia’s father said again, “but we survived it, we’re all here, together, and Richard is getting healthy again. That’s a pretty big gift.”

  “Francie?” said Nana Dana, turning to Georgia’s mother.

  “We got Richard back. We got him back.”

  “Now you,” said Henry, looking at his grandmother.

  “I’m thankful to be sitting at a table with the people I love best in the world. All right. Dig in, everybody.”

  Georgia watched her family. Henry stuffed four olives into his mouth. Richard reached for the cream cheese and said, “Do you think the Pilgrims ate lox and bagels?” Georgia’s mother dropped a roll on the floor and Nana Dana picked it up and lobbed it across the kitchen, directly into the garbage pail. Georgia’s father began to laugh.

  Nana Dana turned to Georgia. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  Suddenly Georgia smiled. “Yup,” she said, reaching for her fork. “I am. But while we eat, could we tell Thanksgiving stories? Like the year your turkey caught on fire?”

  “Haven’t you heard that a zillion times?”

  “Yes, but I want to hear it again.”

  “Will you tell Great-Grandma’s story about the Thanksgiving blizzard in the olden days?” asked Henry.

  So the stories began. Georgia sat with her family around the table in the kitchen, eating strange food from New York City, and watching the light fade outside until her mother had to get up to turn on the lamps.

  Georgia stood for a moment with her hand on the knob of her bedroom door. She took two deep breaths and let them out slowly. Breath in, breath out, breath in, breath out. She was going to have to play the breakfast conversation very, very carefully.

  She opened her door.

  Then she adjusted the strap of her guitar and headed for the kitchen.

  “Morning, everyone,” she said.

  “Morning, Georgie Girl,” replied her mother.

  “Guitar lesson this afternoon?” asked her father.

  “Yup,” said Georgia. She set her guitar and books on the couch in the living room, then returned to the kitchen and took her place at the table.

  “Why does Mrs. Windham give us so much homework?” Henry was moaning. “She’s so mean. And so unfair.”

  “You have to spread yourself out,” Richard told him. “Don’t save everything for the last minute. If you do, then you’ll have to finish all your work in a clump.”

  “Unh,” grunted Henry. “I guess.”

  He took a bite of cereal so enormous that Georgia was tempted to ask him why he didn’t just use a ladle, but she held her tongue. She needed her parents’ approval this morning.

  “Guess what,” said Georgia brightly. She put on a smile and looked around at each member of her family.

  “What?” said Richard, and it occurred to Georgia that she should have enlisted her brother to help her in this venture, but it was too late. She needed to give Natalie and the other girls an answer before school ended that day.

  “It’s the best thing,” Georgia went on. She glanced at the clock and saw that she had only ten minutes before she and her brothers would have to leave for school. Perfect. She wanted to rush her parents into a decision, not give them too much time to mull things over — or for her mother to list eight million reasons why Georgia shouldn’t be allowed to take advantage of the best opportunity that had come her way in years.

  “What is it, sweetie?” asked her mother.

  “Okay. Well, you know Natalie Lauck?”

  “That senior?” interrupted Richard. “She’s hot.”

  “Ahem,” said Mr. Noble.

  “Let me speak, please,” said Georgia, and then caught herself. She didn’t want any accusations about her tone of voice. “Yes, she’s a senior,” she said carefully, “and she and her friends have a band.”

  “Hot Chix,” said Richard. “Which is why I called her hot. But how come the band is called Hot Chix when there are boys in it?”

  “There’s only one
boy,” Georgia replied. “He plays bass, sort of in the background. The lead singers are three girls, and they started the band. Anyway, they have, um, a gig. In Bar Harbor this weekend. One of their guitar players can’t go with them and they asked me to fill in. So can I? Please?”

  Henry suddenly looked interested. “You want to go on a road trip?”

  Georgia glared at him. “I want to help them out. Being asked to fill in is a really big honor. They’re all seniors, but they know me because they’ve heard me play in the talent shows. It would be a great experience for me. Musically.”

  “Honey, that’s wonderful,” said her father.

  “Who’s driving?” her mother wanted to know.

  “I don’t know.”

  “One of their parents?”

  “No, I don’t think any parents will be going along.”

  “So one of the kids will be driving?” asked her mother, just as her father asked, “When is the show?”

  “Saturday night.”

  “So when would you be home?”

  “I don’t know exactly. If it’s really late we might spend the night there and come home on Sunday.”

  “No,” Mrs. Noble said firmly.

  “What?” said Georgia.

  “No. I don’t want you riding around with a bunch of kids —”

  “They’re eighteen.”

  “All right, with a bunch of eighteen-year-olds, and spending the night in some strange place. You’re only sixteen, Georgia.”

  “And I’ve never been in trouble! I get straight As, I’m on the honor roll, I found a new guitar teacher all by myself, and I pay for my own lessons now —”

  “I’m not saying you aren’t responsible,” her mother continued. “But I don’t know how responsible those other kids are. They’re eighteen. They could do a lot of stupid things.”

  “Are you saying they’re too old or too young?”

  “Georgia,” said her mother.

  “But seriously!” Georgia slammed her hands on the table and stood up so fast that her chair skidded away from her and shot into the wall.

  “Seriously, what?” asked Henry, looking from his sister to his parents.

  “Seriously, I should be allowed to go.”

  “You’re not making a very good case,” said Mrs. Noble quietly.

  “I was making a good case. You’re just being overprotective. As usual.”

  “I think she should go,” said Georgia’s father.

  “Absolutely not.” Georgia’s mother stood and began to clear the table. “Case closed. It’s time for you to leave for school.”

  Georgia could feel her face burning. “But Mom!” She pictured Natalie Lauck and tried to envision telling her that she wasn’t allowed to go. It would be like turning up for a field trip and saying that her mother wouldn’t sign her permission slip and she’d have to stay behind and spend the day with the librarian.

  “I said case closed.”

  “Talk about unfair.” Georgia didn’t bother to lower her voice. There was no point. She’d lost the battle.

  “You could be in an accident,” said her mother. “I’m not about to have another one of my children involved in a car accident.”

  “Mr. Elden was in a car accident, and he was an adult. A sober adult. Accidents can happen to anyone, any time. That’s the definition of an accident.”

  This time her mother didn’t reply, and just like that Georgia made a decision. It wasn’t something she’d thought of before, it wasn’t something she’d planned. But the idea came to her now, fully formed. She left the kitchen, went into her room, closing the door behind her, and grabbed a small duffel bag from her closet.

  Why wouldn’t her mother trust her? Georgia had made only good decisions, done only the right things. All her life. (Mostly.) She’d been the perfect daughter, the perfect sister, the perfect student. And what was her reward? A concert of denial. A festival of mistrust.

  Georgia stuffed underwear and some random clothing into the duffel. Then she plunged her hand into the back of her bottom desk drawer and retrieved the wad of cash she’d been saving. She put it into an empty makeup bag and zipped the bag into a compartment of the duffel.

  She patted Noelle and bounced out of her room. “Ready,” she announced.

  Her father and brothers were waiting at the front door. Georgia retrieved her guitar and backpack and joined them. “Bye,” she called cheerfully to her mother.

  Mrs. Noble smiled at her. “You’ll see that you’ve made the right decision,” she said.

  “Sure. Bye.”

  Georgia’s father dropped Henry at the middle school, and let Richard and Georgia out in front of the high school. Georgia looked at her older brother as their father drove away. “You go ahead,” she told him. “I’m going to wait here for Ava.” Richard loped off. Georgia watched until he had disappeared through the front doors. Then she turned and walked into town.

  An hour later she was sitting on a Greyhound bus, Barnegat Point sliding away behind her.

  * * *

  She reached Nana Dana’s apartment building at seven thirty that evening. Most of her cash was gone, fifteen dollars having recently been spent on a cab from the Port Authority to the Upper West Side after Georgia decided she was too nervous to try to figure out the subway system.

  “I’m here to see Dana Goldberg,” she said to the doorman. “I’m her granddaughter.”

  “Just a moment,” he replied. He spoke into a phone, then turned to her and said, “Go on up. Fourth floor. Apartment D.”

  When the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, Georgia found herself facing her grandmother, who was crying.

  “Georgia!” exclaimed Nana Dana. “What on earth!” She hauled her out of the elevator and into the hallway. “I should turn you over my knee,” she went on, but then she drew Georgia into a tight hug. “Do you know what your parents are going through?”

  Georgia followed her grandmother down the hall and into her apartment. She had a feeling that Nana Dana and her parents had already spoken. Probably many times that day. She had purposely not checked her phone for messages, not wanting to be tempted to turn around and go home.

  “They’ve been worried sick.”

  “Did Mom tell you what happened this morning?”

  Nana Dana sighed, then sank into an armchair. “Yes. But I’d like to hear your version of the story.” She paused. “Are you hungry? Have you been traveling all day? How did you get here? You must be starved. Let me fix you something. I’ll make you a sandwich while you call your parents.”

  “What? I’m not calling them.”

  “Oh, yes, you are. Right this minute. You tell them that you’re okay and that you’re here with me. They’ve already called the police.”

  “I’m not calling them,” said Georgia flatly.

  “Fine. I’ll call them.”

  “Before you hear what happened?”

  “Georgia. You weren’t in school today. No one has heard from you since this morning. Yes, of course I’m going to call your parents. That’s the end of this discussion.”

  Dana Burley Goldberg had a brief conversation with Georgia’s parents. Then she clicked off the phone and, with her back to Georgia, began to make a sandwich. “I want to hear what happened,” she told her granddaughter. “We can stay up all night talking about it, if need be. Then I’m going to take you home.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Maybe not tomorrow. But in a couple of days.”

  Georgia let out a prolonged sigh.

  “Go put your things in the spare room,” said Nana Dana. “Wash up. Then come back out here, eat your sandwich, and tell me what happened.”

  Georgia did as she was told. She related the morning’s events and wound up by saying, “It’s so unfair! I do everything right. I’m not like Richard. I do everything right, and Mom never trusts me. Never. I can’t take it anymore.”

  “Which is exactly why you’re going to go back home. I don’t want you and y
our mother to end up with the kind of relationship I have with Great-Grandma Abby.”

  “I don’t know if Mom and I will be able to work things out,” muttered Georgia.

  “I’m not sure either, but I’m going to go to Maine with you, I’m going to ask my mother to join us at the cottage, and then your mother and you and my mother and I are going to have a talk. A great big one.”

  “Period, the end?” asked Georgia.

  “Period, the end.”

  Georgia sat on the front porch of the cottage and let her gaze drift not across the street to the roiling ocean, gray under a leaden sky, but around the screened-in room at the three women who were sitting with her. She tucked her bare feet under her blue jean–clad legs, crossed her arms, and looked nervously from her mother to Nana Dana to Great-Grandma Abby. She couldn’t remember a time, not a single time, when all four generations of women in her family had gathered in one spot.

  At first no one spoke, and Georgia sneaked a glance at her watch. Six o’clock in the evening. At that very moment, Natalie and the Hot Chix were rehearsing for their performance at the club in Bar Harbor. Minus one guitar player. Georgia had phoned Natalie from Manhattan on Wednesday to say that she wouldn’t be able to play with them. She was pretty certain she wouldn’t be asked a second time.

  Georgia shifted her gaze to her mother, who was looking at her mother, who was looking at her mother. “So what are we supposed to do now?” she asked.

  “Now,” said Dana, turning to her, “we talk. There’s far too much in this family that’s left unsaid. And there are far too many secrets. It’s time for a good airing out.”

  “When you were a teenager, I practically begged for an airing out,” said Abby. “More than once. But you just kept getting more and more distant.”

  “That’s why we need an airing out now. I’m not a teenager anymore, Mother. I see the need for honesty and openness. You were right. You can go ahead and say ‘I told you so’ if you must, but I’m agreeing with you. We needed to talk then, we need to talk now, and if Francie and Georgia don’t talk now as well, then they’re going to go down the same road we traveled. Please, let’s all of us try to set aside the hurts and concentrate on healing.”