by Mae Wood
“Good morning, Claire Bear,” I said once my baby girl answered her phone.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“What are you doing this morning?”
“I’m off to Theories of Animal Cognition.”
“What?”
“You know, like how animals process the world. How bees communicate to form hives and collect pollen. We’ve been talking about numeracy and how animals can count.”
“Oh, ask your professor about Clever Hans.”
“Is that a set up for a bad joke?”
“No, but it was a great hoax. A guy trained a horse in such a way that people thought he could count.”
“But what if the horse really could count and people just assumed he couldn’t count because he was a horse and they were exhibiting a cognitive bias that says only humans can count?”
“Are you sure you don’t want to change back to your philosophy major instead of sticking with this psychology one?”
“Funny. I’ve got to leave for class in a few minutes. What’s up?”
“Miller is balking about Thanksgiving. Says he can’t break away from school for Thanksgiving with us, so you and Cassie will come to Memphis and we’ll do Thanksgiving here.”
“With her?” she asked.
“Yes. Cassie’s on board. She’s going to a party while she’s here. Maybe you can go with her.”
“No. Your girlfriend. Are we having Thanksgiving with your girlfriend?”
A few months ago she was cheering me on for “getting out there.” Gave her blessing over the Fourth of July. They all did. I wasn’t expecting this.
“Haven’t talked with Amy about it. She has her own family thing.”
“You know Thanksgiving was Mom’s favorite holiday.”
“I do,” I said, measuring out my words in two careful syllables.
And I knew why Laurie liked Thanksgiving. Because when she passed me a slice of pumpkin pie at the tiny table in my tiny Evansville apartment before she headed in for her shift, I told her that we were doing this for every Thanksgiving for the rest of our lives.
And I kept my word on that, making the kids show up at my Thanksgiving table each year. Dinner. Movie. Home. That was the rhythm.
After Laurie passed, we started going skiing for Christmas. My second year of crying after the children went to bed as I looked at the Christmas tree crammed with homemade ornaments and knew I didn’t have the strength to do it again. But Thanksgiving. That was different. And I’d kept Thanksgiving sacred. Until now.
“Memphis is so far from Portland,” Claire whined.
“It’s closer than Boston.”
“There are no direct flights.”
“So you’ll have to change planes. Worse things have happened, Claire Bear.”
“Well, if Miller’s not coming, I’m going to Mount Hood.”
“What?”
“Miller won’t be there, so it won’t be a real family thing, and a bunch of people are headed up to Mount Hood to ski that week. The college has a cabin and a bunch of folks I know are having a Friendsgiving.”
“A friends what? You need to come home.”
“It’s not my home, Dad. Memphis is not my home. I’ve never lived there. I don’t have a home.”
“You have a home. Hell, you have a whole room here.”
“You know what I mean. And I really have to get to class.” Her fast breaths indicated that she was running to not miss her class or I’d made her cry. And while I might intentionally be oblivious to Cassie’s New York dreams or Miller’s love life, I couldn’t kid myself—she was crying. And those tears made me feel like a bastard.
“Claire, Claire,” I pleaded. “Sweetie love. We’ll be okay.”
“I know.” Her whimper betrayed the lie from her lips.
“I miss her, too. Every damn day. That’s not changing because Miller won’t be at Thanksgiving or that we’ll be in Memphis.”
“It is changing.” She blew out a big breath before speaking in marginally steadier words. “Let me think about it.” While Miller dug his feet in and Cassie flitted between bold choices, Claire was more circumspect and needed her own space to make up her mind. And I’d give that to her. Even if that meant she’d be skiing instead of eating pumpkin pie with me.
“Okay, Claire Bear. Ball’s in your court. You tell me what you want to do and that’ll be what you do. I love you so much.”
“Love you, too, Dad. Gotta go.”
She didn’t even wait for me to say goodbye before she ended the call. While I hoped she’d feel better soon, I didn’t. And I didn’t know how I was going to broach the subject of Amy and Grady joining us in Deer Valley.
37
Amy
“So, tell me about Mrs. Lennick.”
“Audrey?”
“No, the other Mrs. Lennick you’ve been having dinner with for years.”
The turkey was bleeding. Well, it wasn’t actually bleeding, but it was inedible. As pre-Bert and post-divorce tradition dictated, I tried to roast a turkey. A whole turkey. And it was always an epic failure. My house or my dad’s. Brined or frozen or fresh. It didn’t matter. Inedible was the consistent result. This year the bird looked golden and beautiful, but the serving dish flooded with bright pink juice. I didn’t even pretend to be frustrated or surprised. I just pulled open the garbage bin and dumped the damn thing in.
“Are you upset?” he asked.
“About the bird? Not in the least. And not about Mrs. Lennick either. But tomorrow we really are going to look at some condos or something for you.”
He opened his mouth to protest and I cut him off. “I’m not saying that you move now. I’m not saying that you’ll ever move here. I am saying that we’re both getting older and I’d like to at least have an idea of where you’d live if you did move here.”
“Not moving here.”
“Not now, I know. But like in a few years.”
“You can move, too, you know? Get a condo yourself. Not in my building, but near the water. Teeth need straightening in Connecticut and you know the money is good up there.”
“But Grady—”
“But Grady nothing,” he cut me off, opening the refrigerator to pull out the sliced turkey and fancy mustard I’d bought at the grocery for our sandwich dinner. “Grady is a man. He’ll go off to Duke and then there is no telling where he’ll be. In fact, I’d bet there’s better odds he’ll wind up in New York than back in Memphis. And who doesn’t want their kid a train ride away? Or a few blocks?” He teased me with a wink. “So, none of this poor old man stuff. You should think about moving home. Take over my practice. Take Floss out on the water. Holly Goodhead won’t care,” he said, waving a mustard covered knife toward my kitten grooming herself in a patch of sunshine.
“It’s Honey Rider. And we’ll see. Also, nice diversion, but let’s talk about Mrs. Lennick.”
“Not much to say. She cooks me dinner at her place on Tuesdays. On Saturdays, I repay the favor and take her out.”
“Quite the routine you have there.” A wry grin on my lips as that schedule sounded quite familiar.
“It works.”
“How long has it worked?”
“After Walt died. Sometime after that.” Pieces of bread in each hand, I paused. I came home for that funeral. Without Bert. It was after the divorce.
“Like three years?” I guessed.
“I suppose,” he said. “Where are the chips?”
“Where they always are.”
I watched him pull a bag of salt and vinegar chips from the pantry. “You want some?” he offered.
“Sure.” He shook some chips out on both our plates and we settled into the big dining room table, complete with festive centerpiece with our chips and sandwiches.
“God bless us, everyone,” he intoned and we ate in silence for a few minutes. “Still seeing that fellow?”
His question surprised me. Not that there really had been anyone before Bert or since Bert or other than Bert to ask about, but that he a
sked. It had been months since I’d seen him, and although we talked and emailed, he hadn’t asked about Thomas and I hadn’t offered any information.
“Yeah,” I said, munching a few chips.
“Might I get to meet him this weekend?”
“Maybe?” I hadn’t planned on it, but the idea didn’t sound awful. If they’d get along, and I hoped they would, it would actually make me quite happy to see them together.
“Tell me about him.”
“Well,” I said, wiping my hands on my napkin and taking a sip of Diet Coke. “He’s the COO at the local hospital. Penn and then Northwestern.”
“Sweetheart. I know you think I’m old, but I’m not so old that I don’t know how to look up a man on the Internet. And you know that’s not what I’m asking about.”
“What are you asking about, then?”
“What do you do together?”
I blanched.
“No, no,” he said, wide eyed and equally embarrassed. “I mean, what do you like to do together. Your mother and I played cards. Audrey and I like to watch old movies. What do you and Thomas do?”
“Movies, mainly. And bad jokes. And books. A lot of books, now that I think about it. He’s a Jeffrey Deaver fan.” That earned an appreciative nod from my father, the true crime buff.
“What’s he think of Plenty O’Toole over there?”
“He has his own cat.”
“A cat man, eh?” he said with a lift of an eyebrow. “So, cats and mysteries and movies. I’m liking this. Can he cook? Or even better, does he know that you don’t?”
“Oh, he knows. Doesn’t seem to faze him though. We mainly eat out.”
“So, he’s a foodie then. Like Bert?”
“Yes and no. I mean, he likes nice food and we go to great places, but it’s not like that’s his thing.”
“What’s his thing, Amy love?” I thought about it for a second. What was Thomas’s thing? Before I could answer, Pop spoke. “If the answer to that question is anything other than his kids and you, he’s not the man I hope he is.”
Suddenly I wanted to show Thomas off to my dad. Let him see that Thomas was a good man. Let him see how happy Thomas made me. “Want to meet him?”
“Sweetheart, no offense. But I didn’t fly down for the sandwich.”
Thomas answered my call on the third ring, just as I was rehearsing a voicemail message in my head. I told him that my dad was in town and that he’d be flying out Saturday morning, but that if he was free tonight, we’d love it if he’d come over for leftover pie and I swore up and down that while I didn’t cook, I could bake pie. His response: “You don’t have to sell me on the pie.”
As I laid down for my traditional nap that followed our untraditional Thanksgiving dinner, I thought about my dad meeting Thomas in a few hours. My dad meeting a man who hadn’t knocked me up. First time for everything.
That Thanksgiving was eighteen years ago now. When Bert had flown home to Connecticut with me so we could tell my dad. I’d only found out a few days before, and my blunt self, told Bert as soon as the line appeared on the fifth pregnancy test I took. I’d never been so thankful that I’d been lucky enough to get my own dorm room senior year at that moment when I had a private place to tell him that I didn’t know what happened. That I was on the pill. That I took it religiously. That I didn’t plan for this. That this wasn’t my plan. That he wasn’t my plan. That I had no scientific explanation for why I was pregnant besides the obvious—that Bert and I had been fucking like rabbits since we’d gotten drunk together a week after we’d moved into McTyeire Hall and our paths had crossed for the first time.
I’d cried. I told myself I wouldn’t. That we’d have a serious, grown-up discussion, but that didn’t happen. I was in shambles. And he held me. Sat next to me on my single bed, an arm draped across my shoulder for a while as I cried into my hands. Then he hauled me into his lap and I cried more. Harder. Because no matter how much comfort I found in his arms, as I sobbed and gasped for breath, my tears soaking his soft navy sweater, I knew I was alone. That my dad would be embarrassed and mad, but that he’d probably forgive me eventually. That Bert was being a good guy for the moment, but that he hadn’t signed up for this and he didn’t have to do anything. That he could get up and walk down the hall to his own single dorm room and pretend not to know me.
I wore myself out with tears. I had nothing left. Bert laid us down on the bed and spooned me. His long and strong swimmer’s arms holding me tight to his chest. Kisses dropping onto the crown of my head and soft assurances coming from his lips into my ear.
“We will get married. And we’ll have a family together. If that’s what you want.”
His kindness was too much. It felt like pity. “I’m not asking you to do that. That’s not what this is about,” I protested, fresh tears welling in my eyes.
“You didn’t ask me. I’m asking you. I’m asking you to marry me.”
We had options. I had options. And I’d scrolled through them in my mind a million times since I’d picked up that box of pregnancy tests at the pharmacy. But in my heart and in my head, I’d settled on a plan. Of me leaving school, leaving my perfect grades and years of exhausting work behind and going home to Connecticut. To join my dad in his practice, not as a dentist with him, but as a dental hygienist. I could be certified by the time the baby arrived and I’d have a job and some place to live. In my childhood bedroom with my and Bert’s baby just down the hall.
Because I didn’t want his pity.
He rolled me over onto my back and hovered above me, perched on his elbows as he’d done so many times before. All of those times before when we hadn’t been wearing clothes.
“I’m serious, Amy,” he said, dropping another kiss on my forehead before looking me square in the eyes, his face full of conviction. “Marry me.”
I had no words, just a nod in response. Where that silent agreement came from, I still didn’t know. My heart or my head or from some sort of divine providence. And the day before we both flew home to see my dad, he stood outside the student health clinic, waiting for me, and slipped a ring on my finger as I said yes through tears that were neither happy nor sad. They were just scared.
“Amy, do you have A Knife in the Water?” My dad was animatedly talking about his favorite movie, one that in my view should have been forgotten to the ages. Sailing and a psychological thriller. Two of my dad’s loves rolled into one film. Thomas was sitting at the opposite end of the kitchen island from him, as I unloaded clean dishes from the machine and cleaned up the last evidence of my turkey disaster.
“Um, no, but maybe we can find it on Netflix,” I said, hefting the roasting pan into the cupboard above the fridge where it would stay until next year.
“What’s your favorite movie?” I asked Thomas, turning back to them, surprised it had never come up.
“Like all-time favorite or within a genre?” he asked.
“All-time favorite,” I said, taking a sip of the nice Argentinian merlot that Thomas had brought with him.
“The Usual Suspects,” answered Thomas, forking a bite of pie into his mouth. That’s mine, I thought. But before the words could form, Grady walked in through the kitchen door.
“Hey,” he said like we’d been expecting him.
“I’m not complaining, but aren’t you with the Forsythes this year?” I asked, glad to have him home but hoping that all was well.
“Dinner is over. Dad’s out with his girlfriend,” he answered, tossing his keys into the basket I kept on the island in hopes of keeping our life debris somewhat contained.
“Pie?” I asked, but I was already slicing a big piece for him.
“Absolutely,” he said.
“This is good, Amy,” said Thomas, gesturing at his half-eaten pie with his fork.
“Mom makes good pie. Better than my dad’s.” Grady’s praise surprised me, but his interaction with Thomas, an interaction not laced with harsh looks or accompanied by sulking, that took my breath away
.
“Secret is in the store-bought crust,” I said, passing Grady his plate. I watched him take a seat at the middle stool at the island, in between my dad and my boyfriend. And it felt right. It clicked. I wanted them all forever. The three men in my life all of whom chose to be with me in my kitchen. With two, the connection was borne of blood and biology, but with the third, the connection was primal and inexplicable. And tenuous at the same time.
Six months ago, I had no desire to be married again. But watching them talk and eat pie together, I wanted something real with Thomas. Something that told the world we were together. I wanted him to belong to me and I wanted to belong to him. Not because he was obligated. But because he wanted to be here. To be with me. I wasn’t sure if I could ever deserve any of them. And with the thought of another Thanksgiving like this—with these three great loves of my life—I forked another bite of pie into my mouth and closed my eyes, never wanting this taste of happiness to end.
38
Thomas
I turned my fork sideways and scraped the last of the jammy filling onto the tines before enjoying it. When Amy invited me to join her and her dad for a late second helping of dessert, there hadn’t been any hesitation. And things had gone well. Introductions, a bottle of wine that while Amy didn’t appreciate it, I could tell from the thanks that her father did, chats about movies and mysteries and detectives. About how I liked fiction where her dad loved true crime. And how the best stories were a little of both.
This was my Thanksgiving, I mused, listening to her dad talk with Grady about Duke and his plans for the rest of his senior year while watching Amy clean her kitchen. Cassie and I had gone out to eat. There weren’t many restaurants open, so we’d ended up at Memphis’s esteemed old hotel, The Peabody, for its Thanksgiving dinner. And it had been fine. The food was good. My company was one of my favorite people in the world, but having Cassie with me couldn’t make up for missing Claire and Miller. And Laurie. I’d been in a funk all day, and couldn’t quite shake it. The world didn’t seem right. But as I sat there in Amy’s kitchen, things didn’t feel quite so bad. In fact, they felt kind of all right.