David gives the dogs a perfunctory greeting. Sensing his mood, they soon move off to other areas of the house. In the kitchen, David grabs an open bottle of wine from the refrigerator, pours himself a full glass, and skims through the mail. He skips through the bills and correspondence and pulls out a magazine—the jumbo “Thanksgiving Issue” of Food and Wine.
Taking his wine and magazine to the living room, David drops onto our couch and begins paging through the glossy images of the family gatherings and beautiful holiday tables he believes he will never see.
Sally emerges from the back of the house. “How was your day?”
David manages a smile. “Fine.” The smile quickly becomes a smirk. “You know, people yelling at each other about money. Yours?”
“Great. No yelling and certainly no conversations about money, although I think Collette might be pushing us soon for a new house for her. How about some tea?”
“I’m good, thanks,” David says, gesturing to his glass. Sally is about to tell David of her trip to see Joshua, but the look on David’s face, the glass of wine in his hand, and finally the magazine in his lap make her think better of it. Instead, she starts collecting her bag and coat for her trip home as David watches her over his magazine.
“Clifford’s not with you?” David sounds a little disappointed.
“No. He was tired, so the sitter put him to bed.”
“How’d you pull him away from Skippy?”
“With difficulty.”
“Big plans for Thanksgiving?” David asks her, waving the magazine in the air.
“Clifford and I are expected by my father and his wife. It’s sort of a tradition.”
David nods and takes a long drink from his glass. “I didn’t realize your father was still with us.”
“Alive and kicking. He remarried after my mother died.”
“Does Cliff like her?”
“Not really. She’s not my favorite, either. But she’s a gracious host and treats Clifford well.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a good plan then. If you’re done early, you’re welcome here. Our friend… my friend Liza will be coming over. And probably Joshua this year.”
“Joshua? Does he really ever leave the hospital?” Sally asks.
“On Thanksgiving, at least, after he makes his rounds.”
“Well, the offer is very thoughtful, but we probably won’t be back until Friday morning. Will you be off from work?”
“Officially, yes. But I may go in. Still lots to catch up on.”
“Well, I’ll be here if you need to go, so don’t worry.”
“Thanks.” David downs the rest of his wine as Sally puts on her coat. “Sort of odd, you know?”
“What’s that?”
“Did you ever see Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer?” he asks.
Sally smiles. “Every year.”
“Remember the Island of the Misfit Toys? That used to be our house on Thanksgiving—the place where everyone with no better place could go and feel welcome.” David refills his glass in the kitchen, and Sally waits for his return. “Now I guess I’m just another broken toy.”
“It’s hard. I know,” Sally offers.
David clears his throat and tries to sound casual when he finally asks Sally, “So how long did it take you to… you know… with your husband…?”
Sally quickens her pace to leave. “I’m really the wrong person to use for comparison. I was young, with a child. It’s just different.”
David knows where he’s not welcome. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I just thought…”
“It’s okay,” Sally says as she concentrates way too hard on the act of putting on her gloves. “I’d better get going.” As David walks her to the door, Sally mumbles something just below audible.
“Excuse me?” David asks.
Sally sighs, knowing that her plan for a quick getaway has failed. This time I understand her. It has failed mostly because, although Sally wants to believe she is hard and therefore immune from further hurt, she is anything but and just as vulnerable as she ever was. For her this means that when the next hurt comes—and she knows that it always does—she will not be able to wish it away or ignore it. Instead, she will need to live through it, and she’s already done so much of that type of living.
Sally turns to face David straight-on and then gently places her hands on his shoulders. “The first holiday is by far the hardest. Try to stay out of the house until it’s time to go to sleep. Distract yourself with whatever you can find that you won’t feel bad about in the morning. No one—and I mean no one—will be able to understand, so don’t ask for it, don’t expect it, and don’t be angry when you don’t get it. Their perfect words will fail you. And so will yours. Understand?” Sally’s voice trembles with memory.
She releases David’s shoulders and gives him a quick peck on the cheek. “It’s not my business to tell you how you should manage your pain,” she says. “And God knows I don’t have any good answers. But one thing I can tell you is that looking at your own grief is a lot like looking at the sun. You can’t do it for very long before it screws up your vision. Sometimes permanently.”
Without further comment, Sally turns up the collar of her coat against the cold and walks out of the house into the night.
Liza arrived at our home a little after two PM on Thanksgiving Day. Thankfully, she came without a date, but holding a pumpkin pie. The pie was a running joke. The three of us hate pumpkin pie. It is Collette’s favorite, though.
The wine came out immediately, and Liza and David drank quickly—one glass, then another and then a third, all before the food made it to the table. The last several months have increased David’s alcohol tolerance. Liza, however, was always something of a lightweight to begin with, and three glasses of wine in quick succession without any food took their toll on her. I guess that was her intention.
“You know,” David says, taking a big gulp from his glass, “I think you may have a drinking problem.”
Liza laughs into her glass. “Well, there’s a pot, kettle, black thing if ever I heard one.” She clinks David’s glass with her own. “Besides, I can’t have a drinking problem; I’m a mental health professional.”
“I know it’s not easy being here.”
“Not easy, no. But at least with you I don’t have to pretend.” Liza slowly takes in the living room and then all my books still where I’d left them. “It’s just that it’s the first time I’ve been in this house without her being here. I’ve been avoiding it.”
“Really? I didn’t notice,” David jokes.
They make small talk for an hour about David’s job, Liza’s patients, her new love interest of the moment (who “has the kids for the holiday”), Sally, and of course the animals. There is, however, a large white elephant in the room—and I am it and I hate being it. I become larger and whiter as their wine buzz begins to fade.
“Do you want to talk about how you’re really doing?” Liza finally asks as the two of them sit down to a dinner from the small gourmet store in town—mashed potatoes, roast asparagus, stuffing, cranberries, and spinach.
“You first.”
“C’mon now. Stop playing around. I’m worried about you.”
“You said I had five years,” David says as he makes himself a plate. “It hasn’t even been two months.”
“You have as long as you need. It’s not a race.”
“But…?”
“But the only difference between a rut and a grave is the depth and the grief. Moving on doesn’t just happen. It takes some work, too.”
“I thought I was working.”
Liza makes a sweeping gesture with her arm toward the bookcases. “Nothing’s been moved. I don’t see a single box.”
“So?”
“This house was all about Helena, and it still is. I bet if I went into the bedroom and opened up her closet, I’d still find her clothes.”
“That’s a pretty good bet. So what?”
&nb
sp; “Doesn’t it hurt every time you see her things?”
“Of course, but wouldn’t it hurt more to get rid of them?”
“Sure, at first. It’s called catharsis.” Liza reaches out and touches David’s hand. “It’s why we bury people and have funerals instead of hanging the bodies from the ceiling. It hurts really, really bad and then the wounds scab over.”
“Can we talk about something else? It’s Thanksgiving, after all.” David reaches for the wine bottle.
“Sure.” Liza moves the food around on her plate for a few tense moments. “Who do you like for governor?” she says with smile.
David almost passes a mouthful of wine through his nose. Liza has never voted in any election and believes the capital of New York is Manhattan. When he finally composes himself, David asks, “Are you, you know, working past it?”
“I’m not a fair comparison. I mean, I knew her longer than you, but she wasn’t my wife. I didn’t share a bed with her. And besides, all joking aside, I do have five years of training in emotional objectivity, coping mechanisms, and grief counseling, and a dozen years of private practice in psychotherapy. You don’t have any of that background.”
“So, is that a yes or a no?”
Liza shrugs and looks down at her plate. “Both.”
David pushes back from the table and rubs his hands together. “Enough shop talk. I’ve got something for you.”
He leaves the room and returns a few seconds later with a small box wrapped in Christmas paper. He goes to the couch in the living room and pats the spot next to him. Liza joins him.
David hands Liza the package. “An early Christmas present, since you’ll be in Mexico with what’s-his-name.”
She opens the paper to reveal a small square jewelry box. “You proposing to me?”
“Just open it, you moron.”
Liza lifts the lid on the box. Her eyes widen and her breath catches. “Oh, my,” is all she can manage before the tears come.
Like most women, over the years I’d accumulated several drawers of jewelry. Very few pieces actually had meaning to me and, of these, two mattered the most. The first, a pendant consisting of all the tags of the dogs I had loved and lost, was cremated with me at my request. Those tags had meaning only to me, so I thought that was fair.
The second item was an antique platinum-and-sapphire ring David had found in Paris during our honeymoon. Liza always loved the ring and jokingly (long before I knew I was sick and never after) asked me to leave it to her if I died first. This is what David gives to Liza now.
“I know Helena wanted to be sure you got it after…”
“That bitch,” Liza sobs as she throws her arms around David and buries her face in his shoulder.
The doorbell rings and the dogs bark at the intrusion. “You better get the door,” Liza says into David’s shirt, but she shows no intention of letting go.
Before David can extract himself, Joshua lets himself in and, followed by the three dogs, finds Liza and David in the living room. David offers Joshua a weak smile.
“Is everyone all right?” Joshua asks over the sound of Liza’s sobs.
“Just fine,” David answers. “Our professionally trained and emotionally objective friend over here is just having a moment.” Liza punches David on the shoulder. “Ouch.”
“You’re such a wuss,” Liza says as she wipes her eyes. “Happy Thanksgiving, Joshua.” Liza gives Joshua a kiss on the cheek. “Excuse me.” Liza heads for the bathroom, leaving David and Joshua alone.
“I was beginning to wonder whether you were ever going to come over,” David says.
“I know,” Joshua says. “I wanted to be able to… I couldn’t find the…”
David lifts himself off the couch. “I understand. I wouldn’t be here, either, if I didn’t live here.”
“I didn’t mean that.” Joshua stops himself, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Maybe I did.”
“Doesn’t matter.” David hugs him. “You’re here with me now.”
Liza, a little more composed and blowing her nose, makes a noisy return.
David lifts his glass to Joshua and Liza. “Welcome to my home,” he says. The emphasis on the word my is painfully clear.
“Now you just need to start filling it with your own things. Don’t you think?” Liza turns to Joshua in the hope of extracting some moral support.
Joshua is a smart man. He’s seen the house. “How does that poem go again?” Joshua asks. “The one about home?”
“ ‘… bereft of anyone to please…,’ ” Liza starts.
“ ‘… it withers so,’ ” David finishes and then swallows the remains of his wine.
Barely five miles from David’s house, Sally and Clifford finish their own modest but happy Thanksgiving dinner in their tiny dining room.
“Thank you, Mama. That tasted very good,” Clifford says. It is precisely what a normal, polite, and well-brought-up nine-year-old would say at this moment, except that his voice is devoid of affect or warmth; it is like a compliment coming from the voice synthesizer of a computer.
Sally smiles back at her son. “You’re very welcome. What did you like best?”
“Stuffing. You make the best stuffing.”
“Well, thank you, Cliff. Would you like another piece of pie?”
Clifford rubs his stomach. “No thank you, Mama.”
“You know that I’m very proud of you, son.” For an instant, Clifford’s eyes show understanding, but then he cocks his head to one side just like a dog in the face of something it doesn’t comprehend. “I know you work very hard on your exercises and at school and I want you to know that I’m just so proud of you. You never forget that, okay?”
Clifford’s face holds the same blank look. “Do you think Skippy’s sleeping right now?”
Sally works hard to maintain her smile. For just one moment, she had allowed herself to believe that they were a normal family having a normal conversation that lasted more than one precise question and one specific answer. She had permitted herself to imagine that Clifford could verbally acknowledge her love for him.
“I suspect Skippy is asleep by now, honey,” Sally answers. “Would you like to see him tomorrow?”
Clifford doesn’t answer the question. He’s already moved on to something else. “Can I watch television now, Mama?”
“Yes, you may,” Sally says. “Only one of your DVDs, okay? It’s already set up for you.” Clifford hops down from the chair and runs into the adjoining room. Within seconds, I can hear the muffled sounds of the television.
Even with the noise, the apartment is remarkably still and quiet. This is what loneliness sounds like.
The phone in the kitchen rings. Sally stares at it like it is a downed power line—inherently dangerous, capable of causing great pain, and unpredictable. She finally answers it. “Yes?”
“Hi, Sally. It’s Joshua. I’m not disturbing you, am I?”
“Nope.”
“David said you were up with your father.”
“Yes, well, I’m home now. Were you with David?”
“For a little while.”
“How was he?”
“About what you’d expect, I guess.”
“It was nice of you to go. It’s a hard holiday to grieve.”
“Yes, it is,” Joshua answers from too-personal knowledge. “How was your holiday with your father?”
Sally laughs bitterly. “Not what you’d expect, I think.”
“Oh?”
“Really long story,” Sally says, closing off further inquiry.
“Well…,” Joshua stammers. “I just really… um… I want to wish you and Clifford a happy Thanksgiving.”
“Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure.” Joshua braces for something rejecting.
“Let’s you and I give each other the gift of three minutes of honesty. Tonight I’m just too old and too tired for anything else.”
“Okay, starting when?”
“Right
now,” Sally says. “Why did you really want to call tonight?” Joshua pauses in his answer. “No thinking now,” Sally commands. “Just tell me.”
“Okay, here goes… Okay, now.”
“I’m aging here, Joshua. Just get it out, man. Why did you call?”
Now Joshua’s words come out in a rush. “I was thinking about you. Since you’ve reappeared after all this time, I find myself thinking about you. I don’t really know why or what it means. But I’d like to take you out for an evening and see what happens?”
“Wow,” Sally says. “That was good.”
“Now your turn,” Joshua says.
“No way,” Sally says, laughing.
“But… but you said,” Joshua stammers.
“I lied,” she says, still laughing. “But I will accept your invitation for an outing. You can call in the IOU for your three minutes then.”
“You’re a cruel, cruel woman, you know that?” Joshua says, but his tone is lighthearted.
“I may be cruel, but I’m not stupid. And here’s a down payment—you made me laugh tonight. I needed that. Thank you.”
As the shadows outside my house deepen and finally—thankfully—turn to dark, David finishes the Thanksgiving dishes. Having Liza and Joshua over may have been a good thing for him, but I know he was happy to see them go so he could face the white elephant by himself.
David eyes my books on the shelves in the living room and Liza’s parting words echo in his ears—“This house was all about Helena, and it still is.” David nods to himself. “Okay,” he mutters. “But just not tonight.”
My husband lifts his glass of wine off the dining room table and takes it into the den, where the dogs and several of the cats are already asleep.
David turns on the television, pops a DVD into the player, and picks up the remote control. He presses a few buttons and watches the screen. Within moments I see the familiar beginning of Homeward Bound.
David drops into the recliner in front of the television. As soon as he gets comfortable, Skippy jumps into his lap and turns so that he, too, is facing the TV. Skippy’s alert eyes watch the movement on the screen.
David falls asleep in a matter of minutes. He’s made it through his Thanksgiving.
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