by Gina Henning
I successfully reach the bathroom door without encountering Brian. That is a small feat in itself. I push open the door and find Aurora praying to the porcelain god.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I close the door and then open it again.
“Can I get you anything?”
Aurora heaves into the toilet. Little blink blink sounds follow. She stands up and takes some tissue from the back of the commode. With one swipe her face is clear.
“No thanks. Did you get the items on my list?” Aurora picks up what I had thought was Megan’s toothbrush and drops some toothpaste on the bristles. She brushes her teeth without any signs of confusion to whether or not she is using the proper toothbrush.
“Yes, I did. I left them on the kitchen counter.”
“Great, thank you.” She bows and leaves the room.
Okay. I close the door behind her and lock it. Shiat, I had intended to borrow some of her shampoo but I’m not in the mood to chat it up with everyone before I take my shower. I open up my toiletry bag. My toothbrush is secured safely inside. Note to self, never leave toothbrush in the bathroom when visiting. I do not believe in Aurora’s opinion of communal toothbrush sharing. At the bottom of my bag is a deep conditioning sample my hairstylist gave me on my last visit. Perfect. This will help with the frizz situation that needs to be rendered with more than my typical conditioner. I rip open the top of the package and climb into the tub. I turn the knob to the right. The water is warm and full of promises about a great experience. I shampoo my hair as if I’m trying to qualify for the Indy 500 in speed. I don’t let my optimism overshadow my desire to finish quickly. Though, my hopes don’t fade about the possibility of this being an uneventful bathing experience.
I make it through rinsing my deep conditioner before the water turns to a drizzle. This is an accomplishment. I dry off my body and hair and slide into my robe. Back in my room, I select a few options for my Thanksgiving outfit. Of course, I’ve brought a suitcase full of clothes. But I know I’m going to settle on something brown.
Why is it that I associate Thanksgiving with the color brown? Is it a nod to the poor turkeys or maybe to my Native American relatives? I’m not quite sure. Maybe it’s my mother’s sense of holiday-inspired clothing rubbing off on me? My eyes bulge out. Am I turning into my mother already?
From my suitcase, I shake out my brown suede skirt. The cold front has returned to the north. However, the projected forecast for today is low sixties per my charged phone. A cream button-down shirt and my favorite turquoise scarf—this is the perfect Thanksgiving attire. I give myself a wink in the mirror after I finish applying my eye shadow. I flitter my eyelashes, the wink reminds me of Jack and his wink and his eyes. I take in a deep breath and exhale.
I pick up Jack’s note and read it for the I’m-not-counting-how-many-times-this-is. My heart is dancing a soft melody as though a ballerina is spinning pirouettes in an empty dance studio. I place it back down on my nightstand. I move it a few times with my fingers. I wish I could pick it up and shake it like a magic eight ball. Wanting advice from a plastic ball is probably not the best idea.
I sigh and make my way down the stairs. I shake my head at the photos along the way. Sitting at the kitchen table are Winter, River, Aurora, and my mom. Megan is comparing the items on the stove to her binder. She has her game face on. She’s even dressed the part and is wearing the fleece pilgrim pajamas that my mom and dad gave her last Christmas. I have the Native American version but I forgot to bring it along unfortunately. Her long, blonde hair is wrapped up in a bun with a pencil holding it all in place. Obviously we’re in for a well-choreographed meal. The aroma of cilantro, eggs, cheese, and peppers is wafting through the air. Migas!
“Happy Thanksgiving, everybody,” I say.
Winter and River peek over at me and giggle. My mom is in her turkey robe. She shuffles over to me and stretches to embrace me in a big hug. The feathers flap against my waist and back. “Happy Thanksgiving, honey.”
“What’s so funny, you guys?” I ask, ignoring the possibility that it could be Mom’s robe. They’ve seen it before, so it must be something else.
Winter is wiggling around so much, almost as if she is going to fall out of her chair. She can hardly contain herself.
“Grandma says you have a boyfriend.” Her face is beaming as she sings out the last word.
“A boyfriend?” I’m confused.
Is my mother going senile already? That’d be a bit premature. She’s not even sixty yet.
I roll my eyes and stare in her direction. She picks up her turkey mug, which matches her robe, takes a sip, and smiles at me. I need coffee, or brown water with a dash of powder.
Megan pours me a cup. “Here you go. Now give us the scoop. No details left out. Spell if you have to.” She points down at Winter and River.
I raise my eyebrow at Megan and take a sip of the coffee. This is not the weak brew I was expecting. Megan must have gotten up early to beat my mom to the machine this morning. Happy Thanksgiving, indeed. I take another sip. Mmm, now this is coffee. I appreciate the effort Megan is putting forth. But I’m still a bit miffed from her pie scheming.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I say dismissively. This can’t be about Jack. I just met the guy. In fact, I’ve known him for less than twenty-four hours.
“Lauren, don’t play the shy girl routine. Tell us about Jack.” Megan dishes out supersized globs of migas onto everyone’s plate.
I’m suddenly starving. She makes it around the circular table to my side and stops in front of me.
“Are you hungry?” Megan asks with one hand carrying the bowl and the other with the delicious Instagram-worthy spoon of food, ready to deliver some onto my empty plate.
“Yes, very.”
The savory smells from my sister’s migas are making my mouth water. My taste buds are popping up ready to indulge in the bright green jalapenos smashed between fluffy yellow eggs and crispy corn tortillas, smothered together in orange and white Mexican cheese.
“Bite for bite, I want details.” Megan peers down at me. Two straight lines form at her mouth, and she is squinting at me. If it weren’t for her pilgrim pajamas I might be intimidated.
I nod at her, hoping this will be her cue to go sit down. No one likes to be hovered over while they eat. Megan sits down and eyes me with indignation as I raise my fork to my mouth.
“I’ve only known him a day.” I take a big bite of food, delighting in the flavor cohesion.
Carpe diem. This recipe is phenomenal. The cilantro is so fresh. I wish I could eat migas every day.
My coffee has no stipulations. I sip it contently. My family is all eating peacefully, as though they’re enjoying every bite. My sister, however, is watching me like a rabid dog. Is she that interested in my somewhat uneventful moment with Jack? It’s not like we even kissed. Although, we did embrace and he held my hand. That was nice. Technically, it was more than nice. But I should probably downplay all of this emotionally since I most likely will not see him again.
I scoop up some migas onto my fork. My eyes shift to Megan.
For Christmas I’m going to get her the entire Sex and the City series on DVD. Then again, maybe she needs something with more romance. I know—Nicholas Sparks’s Film Collection. You can’t go wrong with The Notebook. She’ll be bawling her eyes out, too consumed with tissues to bother me for insignificant information in the future.
I sigh. “Good grief. I met him at the pecan farm, and then I got the flat tire and he gave me a ride home.”
I take a big bite of food and mentally count the details I supplied to my interrogator. Three. I thoroughly chew each morsel and take another bite. Megan is shaking her head at me as if I’m doing something wrong. I wave three fingers at her, indicating that my bites match up to my disbursement of information. If I don’t play along, I’m assuming the next thing Megan will do is shine a bright light in my face and then deny me any water until I give her answers. She might be in some
sort of interrogating nonfiction book kick. Last year her focus was on introverts and their contributions to society.
“Honey, these migas turned out great,” my mom says to Megan. She’s probably trying to change the subject to make amends with me for telling everyone about Jack.
“How far from home were you when you got the flat tire?” Aurora asks. She’s circling her stomach again, giving me a conspiratorial smile.
I guess today’s hair theme is braids. Every day she does something different with her long, auburn hair and fixes Winter’s hair the exact same way. Last Thanksgiving, Aurora was really into multiple buns, not one or two, but nine. I counted them. Today, she has four sets of braids on each side of her head. Each braid is tied with some sort of recycled bottle cap hair holder. Not metal bottle caps. These are the twenty-ounce, plastic bottle lid type. My brother, my dear brother, he seems so…straight-laced. I don’t understand what they see in each other—they’re so different.
“I think around an hour. I’m not sure because of the ice storm.” I take a sip of coffee, and then roll my eyes. “We had to drive super slow coming back.”
Fortunately this interrogation is taking place in front of only my female relatives, excluding River, of course. He’s only three years old. River has the face of a chubby cherub flying around in a white cloth diaper. However, Luke and Aurora dress him like a mini-version of my brother in khakis and polo shirts.
“Did Brian and Luke go golfing with dad?” I’m surprised by their absence.
Megan laughs. “I don’t think Luke will be golfing anytime soon with dad, right Aurora?”
“Megan.” My mother shakes her head at my sister. “They went to change the tire on my car.” My mom catches Aurora’s attention and smiles.
Hopefully, Luke will keep Brian from doing some weird type of tire change and just stick with the standard tire change, no upgrades or tweaks to the wheel. I think the stereo system is the most upgrading my mom’s car can take.
My dad is away, playing his traditional Thanksgiving charity golf tournament. I think it’s so he can avoid having to attend three family meals and, of course, to golf. Though, I can’t say I blame him. Listening to Aurora give the most intimate details regarding her diet and exercise program gnaws at my skull. It reminds me of speakerphone conference meetings I’m forced to attend, but get nothing from—put that as a “key takeaway”.
“Megan, did you use organic vegetables in this dish?” Aurora asks as she takes a larger-than-life bite.
One year over Thanksgiving dinner, Aurora monopolized our dinner discussion by her detailed description of how her jaw is wider than average. She boasted about how she could consume large items without gagging. My brother, Luke, left the table to actually do the dishes that year. My dad excused himself, saying he pulled his shoulder earlier playing golf. My mother, sister, and I shot death glares at each other over who would leave the table next. Brian, however, actually seemed interested and pressed on for more information.
“Always.” Megan forms her lips into a straight-lipped smile. Aurora’s lengthy dietary requests, among other things, annoy her.
Megan pokes me with her fork. “When were you planning on making the pecan pie?”
“Ow.” I rub my arm. “Last night. It’s already done.”
All eyes are on me, as though they’re surprised, including Winter and River. I’m a little disappointed that such young minds have so little faith in me.
“You didn’t make it here, though,” Megan says in more of a statement than a question.
“No, I made it at Jack’s company.”
Once the words come out of my mouth, I regret them. I wish I could press rewind and be vague like Jack.
“Jack’s company? What is that?” Megan squints at me.
“Um…he owns some apartments or something.”
“And you decided to bake our pecan pie with him?” Megan places her fork on her plate.
“It’s weird. It just worked out that way.” I spoon more of the migas into my mouth.
“Baking our family pecan pie at someone’s company doesn’t just happen.” She places her finger over her lips, as if she’s Sherlock Holmes about to solve a case. “Something must have led up to that situation.”
When did she become such an intense inquisitor? I don’t remember her being like this in high school. Maybe being a corporate manager has made her a control freak. She definitely needs a hobby. Perhaps I’ll get her some knitting supplies for Christmas. That would be a better outlet for this type of intensity.
“Megan, it’s a long, boring story. The ending is our family pecan pie is made.” I take a sip of coffee, feeling satisfied with my response.
“They should be back by now.” Aurora scoots her chair back, causing her braids to bang up against her chest. The sounds of the plastic swish together.
Her stomach is huge. Will the announcement come over Thanksgiving dinner? At least the pecan pie debate isn’t interesting to her and she’s changed the subject.
“Any moment,” my mom agrees and casts her eyes on me. “Lauren, after you finish, can you go and pick up Grandmother?”
“Of course. I’m ready now.” I stuff the last piece of migas deliciousness into my mouth and put my plate in the sink. My mom gave me a first class escape ticket and I’m cashing in.
“You can take your father’s car. Buddy picked him up this morning for their traditional Thanksgiving round,” my mom says. There’s a slight roll to her eyes with the word “round”.
I snatch my Dad’s keys from the hook on the wall next to the garage and nod at Megan. “The migas were marvelous!” I blow air kisses to everyone as I dramatically exit.
Chapter Six
My mom follows me out to the car. “Honey, here is her address. When you park, walk in through the entrance and the receptionist can show you to her apartment. She’s in suite two-zero-one.”
“Got it.” I take the paper.
I type the address into my phone. The trip is only a fifteen-minute drive. That’s convenient. My dad’s stereo stares back at me. I want to play some tunes, but I decide against it. Definitely don’t want to revisit yesterday with the chanting, pain-inducing sounds.
This is the first time I’m visiting my grandmother at her new place. Last year she took a really big fall at her house and broke a hip. My dad offered for her to move in with my parents, but my grandmother wouldn’t have it. She said she valued her independence too much. I study the building. It’s a four-story grey complex, it looks like a cross between an apartment complex and a set of commercial offices. The parking lot is lined with birch trees and the front of the building is planked by poinsettia plants. Stay far away from those, Lauren. I’m highly allergic. I walk up to the entrance as my mother advised. Does she think I’m an idiot? Walk in through the entrance. Thanks for that advice, Mom!
The mauve-colored receptionist desk is empty, which kind of makes sense as it’s Thanksgiving. The silver elevator doors are to the left of the desk. I push the translucent up button. An older man wheels out of the door when the elevator opens. He clearly doesn’t see me, as he almost knocks me down. I slide to the right to miss a head-on collision. Spending the day tending to a concussion does not rank high on my idea of fun ways to celebrate Thanksgiving. I bet Pinterest doesn’t have a board for concussions received over the holidays. No one would want to “Pin It To Win It” under that category, especially not me.
I push the number two circle and the doors slowly close. There is a familiar scent in the elevator. It’s not the “old people home” smell. It’s something else. I can’t place it. I inhale, trying to get a better whiff, but it’s gone, whatever it was.
My grandmother’s suite is right outside the elevator. That’s nice. Is this a good thing in a retirement home to be the near the elevator? I form a fist and hit the door, twice. The oak is solid underneath my knuckles. Was that knock loud enough for her to hear?
The door opens, and a large man is holding onto the knob. I
take a step back. I need to get my head in gear. I know the mind is a powerful thing, I know…I know. But how is this possible? Have I seriously just created a hologram of Jack?
“Lauren,” Jack says to me. Not only a three-dimensional image of Jack, but with his voice. He’s wearing a starched blue shirt. The fabric is clinging to his biceps. I want to reach out and grab them, again. I swipe my hand over his shirt. The cotton is smooth against my fingers. This image does not waver. I shake my head and blink a few times.
Jack places his hand over top of mine and holds our hands over his chest. His warm thumb rubs the back of my hand. “Are you okay?” He cocks his head to the right.
I skim the paper my mom gave me. Two hundred and one is written clearly. My mother has good penmanship—a trait that wasn’t passed down to me.
“Um…what are you doing here?” I whisper.
“I’m visiting with one of my favorite residents. What are you doing here?” Jack whispers back. He squeezes my hand. “I’m happy you took me up on my offer.”
“Your offer?” I raise an eyebrow at him and pull my hand back.
“Yes, my offer last night, to join us for lunch. That’s why you’re here, right?” Jack braces himself against the roof of the door jam.
“No…I’m here to see my grandmother.”
“Sandra Hauser?” Jack whispers, lower this time.
I am speechless. My grandmother pulls the door open and wraps her arm around Jack’s waist. She’s dressed in a cream-colored blouse and a beige satin skirt that stops at her knees. Her hair is fluffed up in curls. It’s white—the kind of white you see on Mrs. Claus in the movies.
Jack smiles down at her like they’ve known each other for years. Yet, my grandmother hasn’t even lived here for an entire twelve months.
“Lauren, darling, come in. I see you’ve met Jack, yes?” A Cheshire grin creeps out from the sides of her mouth. She raises her eyebrows as if she is trying to force the grin into hibernation.