by Kelli Warner
“Excuse me,” Jay warns. “I think what you mean to say is, it’s something your mother encourages you to do because it’s an appropriate gesture on Thanksgiving.”
Tanner looks at Aunt Faye sheepishly. “Yeah, that’s what I meant.”
“So, what is it?” I ask.
“We go around the table and tell one another what we’re thankful for,” Jay explains.
“It can be anything, really,” Connie adds. “I’ll start. I’m thankful that Faye is able to be here with us today and that Paige has joined our family.” She smiles so brightly when she says the last part that I divert my gaze to my glass and take a sip of my milk.
Lily begs to go next. She’s thankful for the new Barbie Dreamhouse she got for her birthday. “And I’m thankful for my new sister, Paige. I’ve never had a sister before. It’s fun!” Jay and Connie beam at their polite little girl, who claps her hands together, then sticks her index finger into a black olive on her plate and waves it at me. Aunt Faye squeezes my hand underneath the table.
Tanner is thankful that he’s no longer getting a D in science class, and both Jay and Connie nod in agreement. He’s also grateful that some new video game I’ve never heard of is coming out in time for Christmas.
“Tanner,” Jay says. “We are giving thanks, not plugging our Christmas lists.”
“Sorry. I was just sayin’.”
“Paige?” Connie asks. “Do you want to go next?”
I hesitate. Should I be honest and admit that I’m not sure what I’m thankful for after losing so much in the past couple of months? Or is this dinnertime ritual supposed to be for touchy-feely effect only? “I’m thankful for this amazing meal. I think I’ve already gained five pounds.” They all laugh. “And I’m thankful for my new job at the bookstore.” I pause, not sure what else to say. Fortunately, Jay steps in.
“I’m thankful for my family. And this year, that includes Paige. I wish we’d had the chance to have more Thanksgivings together.”
But we didn’t, because my mother lied to you.
“The important thing is that you’re here now,” he says, as if he heard my thoughts. “I’m thankful that you gave us a chance.” He takes Connie’s hand, and they both look at me as if they’re waiting for my reaction. I want to fall into my half-eaten piece of pumpkin pie and disappear.
“Thank you,” I say, shifting my gaze to the rim of my plate.
Aunt Faye squeezes my hand again, then dabs the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “As you all know, this has been a difficult season for Paige and me,” she says. “I want you to know how much I truly appreciate you all.” She turns her gentle gaze on Jay and Connie. “You’ve been so understanding and—I’m just very grateful. For everything.” She takes a sip of her wine as silence falls across the table.
Jay raises his glass. “To family.”
“To family,” Connie repeats. We all raise our glasses and then clink them with our neighbors, sealing the toast.
After dinner, Jay and Tanner return to their respective couches in the living room to resume their football watching. Lily helps me clear the table and Aunt Faye puts the leftovers away as Connie works on the dishes. When we’re finished, I announce that I’m taking Aunt Faye upstairs to show her my room. Connie drops her dish towel on the counter and pulls me into a tight hug. I’ve accepted that her ambush hugs are part of her method of operation. “Happy Thanksgiving, Paige.” When she draws back, her eyes are glossy. I offer her a smile, then tug Aunt Faye away to my room, where we can finally be alone.
“So, how are you—really?” Faye asks the second the door closes.
“Good,” I answer, for the fourth time since she arrived. She studies my face, as if she’s waiting for some tiny crack to surface. “Don’t you believe me?”
“I just worry, that’s all.”
And I love you for that.
I take a seat on the bed while Faye investigates my room. “This is nice. I like the color.”
“Connie painted it before I got here.”
“She seems sweet,” Faye says, then turns for my reaction. I shrug. “You don’t like her?”
“It’s not that. Connie’s just trying really hard. It’s a little suffocating, that’s all.” Like snorkeling without a breathing tube.
“Well, I’m glad she’s taking care of you.” Faye surveys the bulletin board above my desk, her eyes scanning the photos of Mom and me and her and Tyler, and a crazy picture of all four of us on Halloween four years ago. We dressed up as the Justice League in costumes Mom and Faye threw together.
She laughs. “Oh, I remember that night! Abby insisted on being Wonder Woman. She said any woman who could fight crime and accessorize so well was her kind of superhero.” As our eyes connect, her smile falters. Faye takes a seat on the bed and clasps my hand in hers. “How’s school going?”
“It’s all right.”
“Just all right?”
“Well, my classes aren’t horrible.”
“Have you made friends?”
“A few.”
“Any boys in that group?” I raise an eyebrow. “What? You used to share that stuff with me all the time.” It’s true. Faye always loved hearing about my latest crush.
“No one serious,” I say. I can’t tell Faye about Cade. I can’t risk her saying anything to Jay and Connie. That’s my job—if I ever find the nerve.
“And how are things with Jay?”
I think carefully about how I should answer that question. Things with Jay are strange. Like that awkward moment in the living room, when I saw a side of him I hadn’t expected; when he’d nearly cursed my mother for stealing my existence from him. I’m still not quite sure what to think about that. I mean, he went from detached and aloof the moment I stepped off the plane to experiencing an emotional breakdown in front of me over my baby pictures, then pretending that moment never happened and acting all businesslike ever since.
“It’s an adjustment,” I say.
Aunt Faye’s sigh is troubled. From the phone calls and emails we’ve shared since I left San Diego, I know she still feels guilty for letting me go and responsible for any difficulty or discomfort I’m experiencing trying to adapt to this new life I never chose. I don’t blame her for any of this—not anymore. I still don’t understand why my mother did what she did, but I no longer hold Faye accountable for any of it. She’d done what her baby sister wanted, even though it made no sense.
“Would you like me to help you unpack?” Faye asks, motioning to the four boxes stacked against the wall. As promised, she’d brought more of my things from San Diego. “I boxed up what I thought you’d want to have. The rest is in storage for now.”
I cross the room, tear off the tape on the top box and pull back the flaps. Inside are DVDs of my favorite movies, more framed photos, mostly of me with my friends from school, and more clothes I couldn’t fit into my suitcase.
“If there’s anything I forgot, I can always mail it to you,” Aunt Faye assures me as she opens the next box. I dive into it and find more clothes, school yearbooks, assorted CDs and photo albums.
“Thanks for bringing all of this to me. I almost—” I freeze as my hands touch something soft at the bottom of the box.
“Paige, are you all right?” Faye’s hand is on my shoulder. She peers into the box as my fingers withdraw my pink pointe shoes. I stare at them like I can’t identify them, as if they are foreign objects in my hands. The memories that come flying out of the box with them attack me almost immediately. I had some of the happiest and proudest moments of my life in these shoes. But now, in my trembling fingers, I’m swallowed up by a sadness so blinding that my stomach aches.
There’s light pressure on my shoulder. “I thought you might want those. Is that okay?”
I can’t answer. There are no words, only a torrent of emotions swirling up from my core like a funnel cloud ready to slam down and destroy everything in its path. I shove the slippers back into the box and close it up.
Aunt Faye calls my name, but it sounds far away. I grab up the box and take it to my closet. I drop it on the floor and shove it into the back, against the wall, underneath the clothes that hang there. When I close the door, I turn to find Aunt Faye watching me beneath furrowed brows. The corners of her mouth turn down.
“Sweetie, we need to talk about this.”
“No, we don’t,” I say. “I’ll go through that stuff later. I just don’t know if I have room for it, that’s all.”
“Paige, sit down.” She motions to the bed, and I know what’s coming. I cross my arms over my chest. She gestures to the bed a second time. With a defeated sigh, I lower myself onto the edge of the mattress, my hands folded tightly in my lap.
“Talk to me. I’m pretty sure you’re not talking to anyone else, and I’m worried. How are you really feeling?”
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to make my words sound light, the same way I do when Mrs. Hopkins asks me that ridiculous question.
“Fine is not a feeling,” Aunt Faye replies. I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard her say that over the years. I should have known better.
“What exactly is it you want me to say?” I ask.
“I want you to be honest with me. If you’re feeling bad, I need you to tell me. Even if it’s something you don’t think I want to hear, I still want you to say it. Keeping things inside will only hurt you more.”
I flop back on the comforter and stare up at the ceiling. What’s the point of spilling my guts and telling her the truth? It will only make her feel guilty and accomplish nothing.
The mattress bows as Faye takes a seat beside me. She pats my thigh. “I know you miss your mom. I miss her, too. Every day, Paige. But I can’t leave here knowing that I could have helped you and I didn’t get the chance.”
I lay my forearm over my eyes. Even in the darkness, Aunt Faye is watching me. I can sense it. “I told you, it’s an adjustment, that’s all. Some days are harder than others, but I’m doing the best I can.” Silence. I slide my arm from my face. Aunt Faye’s eyes stare out into the nothingness of the room around us. As I pull myself to a seated position, she puts a gentle arm around me.
“I know you want to fix this. Fix me. And I wish you could, but—maybe I’m beyond fixing right now.” There. I said it. The odd thing is, Faye doesn’t react as I expect. I’d imagined a horrified expression, immense guilt, anything but what she’s giving me now. She studies my face, then touches my cheek with the side of her thumb.
“There’s no question that you’re in a difficult situation right now. I wish you could have met your father in some other way, before Abby—while she was still alive. But hopefully, something great will come out of all this.”
I close my eyes and sink deeper into Faye’s embrace. “I just wish I knew what Mom was thinking. I tried to ask Jay about the time they dated in high school, but I think I made him uncomfortable.”
Faye pulls back, and I gaze up at her. “Your mother was crazy about him.”
“How do you know that?”
“We used to talk on the phone a couple of times a week before she graduated. I was living in California by then, but we kept in touch.”
“She talked to you about Jay? What did she say?” I press.
“They met in science class, and they just clicked. Jay was Abby’s first serious relationship.” She smiles at the memories. “She fell for him hard. Unfortunately, our father didn’t like him.”
“Why not?” I recall my conversation with Jay in his office on the first day of school, when I’d tried to extract some morsel of information about him and my mother. He’d mentioned that Martin Bryant didn’t like him, but he’d refused to offer details.
Faye shakes her head. “I don’t know why. Abby never talked about it. All she told me was that Dad wasn’t interested in giving Jay a chance, and he was adamant that she shouldn’t either. It was a tough time for her. I’m not sure she ever really got over him.”
“I don’t understand. If Mom loved Jay so much, why didn’t she tell him about me? And if she decided for whatever reason to move on with her life, why would she bring him back into it now?”
Aunt Faye ponders my questions. “I found something that I think may help.” She moves to her suitcase, shuffling a few items around before extracting two small books. She brings them to me, and my questioning eyes probe hers.
“These are Abby’s journals.”
I stare down at them, my hold instantly softening, as if they might explode or simply vanish in a puff of smoke. My words are barely audible when I ask dumbly, “These were Mom’s?”
“I found them when I was sorting through her belongings.” Her voice cracks. I look at her, really look at her for the first time since she arrived, and I see all the things I didn’t see before. Faye’s sorrowful, downcast eyes lack their usual sparkle. She’s thinner, too, and I wonder if she’s eating enough. I think of what the last month has been like for her and shame presses down on me. She’s the one who’d had to pack up our home. I knew before I left San Diego that it would have to be sold. Aunt Faye had sorted through closets and cupboards and drawers, finding memories of my mother at every turn. And I wasn’t there. She’d done it alone, with no one to lean on.
“I didn’t know my mother kept a journal,” I say.
“She started writing in high school,” Faye says. “Abby said it helped her to think straight, to remember the important things in her life and sort of process the stuff that wasn’t so good.” She joins me on the edge of the bed again, reaching out and running her hand across the journal closest to her, still resting in my quivering hands. It’s a deep turquoise, with a pair of white ballet slippers embossed on the cover. “This is the one.”
“And this one?” I prompt, holding up the other journal. It’s brown leather, with Mom’s initials stamped in gold lettering in the center.
“She started that one about a year ago.” Aunt Faye draws a deep breath. “Her last entry was the night before she died.” I set down the books beside me on the bed, as if they are alive. “It’s all right, Paige. I was just as surprised when I found them. I had no idea Abby had started keeping a journal again.”
“You read them?” I ask. She nods slowly. “What’s in them?”
“I could tell you that if you’d like, but I think you should read them for yourself.”
I nibble on my lip. Part of me wants to open them right now, to push back the covers and read every word my mother had written. But another part of me is scared. What will happen when my eyes see her handwriting? I long to feel that a part of her is here with me again, and yet it seems somehow intrusive to read them. These are her personal thoughts, words she’d shared with no one but herself.
“I don’t know what to do right now.”
“You don’t have to do anything.” Faye picks up the journals and places them in the nightstand drawer. “I’ll put them in here for safekeeping, and when you’re ready, you’ll know where they are.”
She closes the drawer and returns to the bed, wrapping her arms tightly around me. “I know that a part of you is angry with Abby right now. And that tears you up, because you love her so much. I get that, Paige, I really do. You’re not the only one who feels that way.” My eyes drop to the floor. “I think these journals might help you understand what was going through your mother’s head because we didn’t get the chance to ask her.”
I want to read them; I’m just not sure I can right now. Had Mom written about Jay on any of the pages? What if the things he isn’t willing to share—she can? I stare at the drawer again with both longing and hesitation.
“I miss her so much,” I whisper. “So much, I think I might split down the middle.”
“I know, honey,” she says. “A little piece of her is in those journals. And when you’re ready, they’re right here for you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Paige
I tap my fingers on my knees to the rhythm of the clock hanging on Mrs. Hopkins’s wall.
We stare at each other across her large wooden desk, calculating each other’s next move, like we’re locked in some intense chess match.
“What frightens you, Paige?”
I blink. “What?”
“What are you afraid of?” Mrs. Hopkins asks again. If there’s one thing I’ve learned during these weekly meetings, it’s that this woman is determined to locate my vault of buried feelings, pry it open with her metaphorical crowbar and put the contents under her psychological microscope. So far, her seemingly benign questions haven’t cracked me. That has to frustrate her, although you wouldn’t know it by the skilled game face she wears.
“I don’t know,” I say airily. “Spiders, I guess. A pop quiz in calculus. Boys who wear Speedos.”
Mrs. Hopkins laughs, propping her elbow on the desktop and resting her chin in her palm. “You have a wonderful sense of humor, Paige.”
I relax back in my chair, pleased that I amuse her.
“But I’m not talking about spiders or unbecoming swimwear. I want to know what truly frightens you.” She leans in and gives me that analytical sizing up she does so well. If it were possible, I feel like Mrs. Hopkins would jump at the chance to peel back my skin and crawl right inside me, just to get an up-close look at what’s really going on in my mind. “I’m talking about the kind of fear that reaches deep and wakes you up at night. Do you have fears like that?”
I retract my previous comment about her question being benign. I should have remembered who I’m dealing with. As always, Mrs. Hopkins has an agenda. “Why do you want to know?” I ask. “If I do, does that mean there’s something wrong with me?”
“No, of course not,” she says. “Everyone experiences fear on some level, Paige. But if you can identify what truly frightens you, you can take back some of the power and make things less scary. So, what are you most afraid of?”
Honestly? That something else bad is going to happen. Isn’t that what they say, that bad luck happens in threes? Maybe it’s that celebrities die in threes. Whatever, the point is that three is a very precarious number. And it’s a little too close for comfort. I’ve lost my mom, been forced to give up my home—what’s next? I’m not sure I’m capable of surviving another blow to my life.