by Nicole Baart
I caught one last glimpse of the Walkers as the postlude played, and as far as I could see, Francesca was not among them. But Fellowship Community was a massive congregation for our small town—almost five hundred people filled the pews on any given Sunday—and I could have easily missed her somewhere in the crowd. It hadn’t seemed like anyone other than Maggie had noticed me, and it was plausible to imagine that I, in turn, had simply overlooked Francesca. Or maybe she wasn’t feeling well. Maybe she had stayed home.
Watching their backs retreat from the sanctuary and rush to the coatracks to gather their things, I could almost hear Mrs. Walker chiding everyone to get a move on; there was a turkey in the oven and a million things to do. Our hellos would have to wait a few hours until Thanksgiving officially started at two o’clock in the afternoon. It was just enough time to make us ridiculously hungry for the delectable feast that Mrs. Walker had slaved over for days but not late enough to make us cranky and irritable.
Grandma and I hurried home behind them to bake the pies we had prepared and change clothes for the afternoon.
We walked over a little earlier than expected, but Maggie had been waiting for us. When we emerged from the path that cut through the grove in between the two farms, she came tripping down the front steps and threw her arms around my waist. I was holding a shallow cardboard box with a pie in each hand and almost dropped them both.
“Julia!” she screeched, looking up at me expectantly. “Why don’t you visit us anymore? I haven’t seen you in so long.”
I kissed the top of her brunette head as I tried to recall the last time I had seen her. Surely it hadn’t been a year. … “I missed you, Maggie. But school is so busy—”
“That’s a pathetic excuse,” she chastised.
I had to suppress a grin because she was no longer the slightly chubby, silky-skinned toddler who had curled up on my lap to watch Dora the Explorer. There were little gold earrings in her ears, and I could already hear the whine of preteen posturing in her voice. She was only eight, but her older sister, Emily, was knocking on the door of boy-girl parties and the wonderful world of makeup. Apparently Maggie had gotten in on the action a bit before her time.
“Sorry, Maggie,” I confessed. “I have no excuse. I’m a terrible friend.”
“You’re not a terrible friend,” she conceded. “But don’t go away for so long ever again.” She poked me in the side twice, emphasizing the last two words with all the melodrama of a little princess. Everything about her betrayed her elite status as the baby of the family.
I laughed. “Okay. I won’t go away for so long ever again.”
Grandma had ascended the porch steps in front of us, and Mrs. Walker had met her at the door. “Hi, Julia!” she called over Grandma’s head. “Welcome home!” Then she put a hand beneath my grandmother’s arm, and they ambled into the house, their heads bowed together, chatting cheerfully in the entryway.
I don’t think they heard when Maggie leaned in and said in a too-loud whisper, “Francesca isn’t here today, and I’m so glad. You’re way nicer than her. She treats me like I’m seven.”
Torn between shock and amusement, I nodded and let her take one of the pies out of my hands. Deciding it might be interpreted as condescending, I resisted the urge to tell her to be careful and watched warily as the Dutch apple pie tilted at an alarming angle. But I kept my mouth shut, wondering why the remarkable Miss Hernandez wasn’t here and secretly relishing the knowledge that I was the favorite. As I crossed the threshold of the Walker house, it was hard not to smirk just a little that Maggie liked me better than Francesca. But it’s not a competition! I rushed to scold myself. I don’t want Thomas. She can have him.
The house was warm and humming and infused with the rich aromas of Mrs. Walker’s handiwork. There was a no-television-on-Thanksgiving rule, so there was something upbeat in the CD player and people were scattered around the great room. I tried not to look too obvious as I craned my neck to search out Thomas, but he was nowhere to be seen. In the basement pining after Francesca, I concluded. I ignored whatever emotion that thought tried to push to the surface.
Pulling off my coat, I focused instead on the Walker home. A bright and spacious kitchen gave way to a dining room that was less a room and more a sweeping curve in the wall filled with an enormous harvest table in front of a bay window overlooking the grove. From there the ceiling arched dizzyingly to match the pitch of the roofline, and the room opened up graciously to include a fireplace with a stone mantel, a sitting area around a flat-screen television, and a pool table beneath a low, antique, green-glass light in the far corner.
As I set my pie on the counter and returned Mrs. Walker’s tight, sincere hug, I marveled a bit at the surroundings and questioned my youthful attraction to the Walker family. I couldn’t help wondering if part of their appeal had been the luxury and comfort of their home. When I was younger, I never really thought of them as rich or of myself as poor. Seeing everything now, it hit me that we were indeed polar opposites.
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked Mrs. Walker, forcing myself to focus on the present, on the woman right in front of me who had been, at least in some small way, like a mother to me for those few years of my life.
She was examining me intently but smiled when she said, “I don’t think so, honey. The table is set, the potatoes are mashed, and the turkey is about to be carved by my husband. … ” Mrs. Walker raised her voice a bit at the end, and when Mr. Walker glanced over his shoulder from his perch on the arm of a chair in the living room, she pinned him with a meaningful look.
“Time to carve the turkey already?” he asked as if on cue.
Mrs. Walker just smiled at him.
He hoisted himself off the chair with a theatrical sigh, and she gave his arm an affectionate little squeeze as he walked past.
“Hi, Julia,” he said, pausing to give me a quick hug. “It’s good to see you. You look great!”
I gave him a discomfited smile, but when he was out of earshot, Mrs. Walker refused to let me off the hook and instead echoed his sentiments. “You do look great, Julia.”
“Thanks,” I stammered, succumbing to a full-on blush. “I’ve been doing my hair differently.”
Mrs. Walker touched my cheek, and my breath caught at the tenderness of the action. “Your hair is pretty, but I wasn’t talking about your hair. It goes deeper than that.” She lowered her voice just for me. “You look happy.”
“I am happy,” I said softly.
“I’m glad.” She nodded once and patted my cheek gently before bustling back into the kitchen. “Not like that, Jonathan!” she admonished boisterously, mocking her husband’s carving efforts. But there was laughter in her voice.
I crossed my arms around myself and watched them for a moment, wavering a bit between undying love and commitment to this beautiful, exceptional family and slightly jaded skepticism because they were just too perfect. I would have never fit into this family as anything more than the mildly misfit friend, and I allowed myself to dwell on Parker and his addictive idiosyncrasies for a moment. It hit me that I was happy because I had finally given up on trying to be something that I was not.
We were all gathering around the table when I saw Thomas for the first time. He emerged from the basement looking tired and cheerless, and he walked with his eyes glued to the floor. I took a deep breath; smiled at him as a dear, old friend; and waited for him to look up. He didn’t.
There was an unspoken seating arrangement, and when Thomas took his spot next to me, he had to acknowledge my presence. A smile drifted across his face, and I realized that he was surprised to see me. I was a bit taken aback at his seeming indifference after he had beseeched me to attend, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the dullness in his gaze. I touched his arm in a display of solidarity and friendship, and something like gratefulness flashed behind his eyes.
The seven Walkers sat arranged around Mr. Walker, who was at the head of the table by the expansive window. I
was beside Thomas, and Grandma took the spot next to me. Then came Mrs. Walker’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Martin, who were both nearly deaf but cute and wrinkly and old in a way that made you love them simply because they had known so much life. Rounding out the table were Mrs. Walker’s only sister and her husband. They had never had children and insisted on being called Uncle Matt and Aunt Kathy even by me.
I studied the table after everyone sat down and tried to act completely normal and not at all perturbed that I sat next to Thomas instead of Francesca, who had filled that particular space with striking grace and beauty for the last two years.
It wasn’t until we were done praying and the platters were being passed that Thomas finally spoke. “I’m glad you came, Julia,” he said, passing me the sweet potatoes. They were glistening with butter and brown sugar, and I helped myself to a heaping spoonful.
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world!” I said, trying to communicate my contentment and utter disinterest in anything he might have to say to me that was even remotely different from the just-friends mantra that he had perfected over the last few years.
Thomas was silent for a minute as he selected a still-warm-from-the-oven roll and handed the basket to me. “I’m sorry I haven’t e-mailed you for so long.” He stole a glance at me out of the corner of his eye. “My modem was broken.” An obvious lie. “Did you get my e-mail from a few days ago?”
“No,” I said brightly. Another obvious lie. “I haven’t checked my e-mail in a while.” Sitting next to him, without the dazzling Francesca in between, I couldn’t help wondering what his motives were, why he looked so sad. I decided I didn’t want to know. Drop it, I begged him silently. Just let it go. Don’t tempt me. Don’t make me want you. Don’t use me as a confidence boost after a painful breakup. I’m happy now—don’t mess that up.
“Oh” was all he said, obviously disappointed.
I decided he was on the verge of revealing a hint of what he wanted to talk to me about when the conversation around the table broke in on our little private chat.
“Where’s Francesca?” Aunt Kathy asked loudly. Her mouth was slightly agape, and her eyebrows knit together in confusion.
The last two Thanksgivings had seen Aunt Kathy and Francesca hit it off like long-lost friends. They had giggled and made plans to go shopping together for Christmas, and Uncle Matt even switched places with Francesca last year so she and Aunt Kathy could talk and gossip unhindered. I had slipped out after dessert with a pounding headache and resolved never, ever to come back. Funny how those sorts of resolutions never keep. Funny how I would have actually preferred to have Francesca sitting beside me this year.
Mrs. Walker shot Thomas a look, but he was staring at his plate. She filled in diplomatically. “Fran couldn’t make it this year.”
My ears perked up. Fran? Pet name? Or was there a little bitterness in the tone of Mrs. Walker’s voice?
“What do you mean?” Aunt Kathy exclaimed, completely clueless to her sister’s sensitive attempt to bury the topic. “Francesca’s practically family! She should be here.”
“She was busy,” Mrs. Walker offered, rather tight-lipped.
“Too busy to drive twenty minutes for a home-cooked meal with family?”
Thomas cut in. “Actually, Aunt Kathy, Francesca and I are taking a break for a while.”
Aunt Kathy looked dumbstruck. “But—”
“Kathy, let it go.” Mrs. Walker’s voice left no room for another word on the subject. “Who still needs potatoes?” she added, holding up the casserole dish as if it were a trophy.
Maggie caught my eye from across the table and gave me an ambitious wink.
I pretended I hadn’t seen her, feeling troubled that at least one person around the table was hoping I would step into Francesca’s now-empty shoes. They were heels. I was more of a hiking boots kind of girl.
Aunt Kathy seemed mildly offended, and it cast a cloud over the rest of the meal. Mrs. Walker countered her sister and wore her cheerfulness like a distasteful responsibility, and though every word she said and every smile she forced was happy and light, there was a sense of martyrdom seeping through her spirited veneer. Everyone else seemed caught somewhere in the middle, and I ended up feeling just plain depressed that Francesca’s absence had more or less ruined the first Thanksgiving I had looked forward to in two years. I silently berated Thomas for either breaking up with Francesca or doing something stupid enough to make her break up with him. Their separation was obviously making everyone miserable. Well, except for Maggie.
After the dessert had been served and everyone gratefully left the table to escape to some corner of the house, Thomas finally made his move. I had gotten up to clear the dishes, and when I reached for his plate, he grabbed my wrist.
“Can we talk?” he asked quietly, and his fingers loosened on my skin so that he was encircling me but not touching me. It was as if he was afraid to make contact.
He looked so sad and desperate that I abandoned my earlier strategy of avoiding time alone at all costs. Thomas had been there when I needed him; it was only right that I was here for him now. “Of course.” Though I tried to keep my voice blithe, it was burdened with the depth of emotion I felt for him. I couldn’t say no to him and he knew it.
“I’ll meet you downstairs in a few minutes.” He got up from the table without looking at me again and disappeared down the staircase at the far end of the great room.
I brought the stack of plates I was holding into the kitchen and set them next to the sink.
Mrs. Walker was rinsing dishes, and she looked up when I added them to her pile. “Talk to him, Julia, would you? He’s so sad. …” Her eyes betrayed the muddle of emotions that she felt. There was something in her that resented Francesca for some reason, but I could also see that she wanted her son to be happy, even if happiness was Francesca.
I touched her arm, thankful that for once I could do something for her. “I’m going to. He’s waiting for me downstairs.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” she whispered urgently. “Get out of here—we’ll take care of the kitchen.”
The basement was exactly as I remembered it, and I had to shake my head to clear the cobweb of memories and emotions that came with this life-laden place. I hadn’t been down here in years. Thanksgivings with Francesca had sent me straight home after dinner, so it had been over two years—back when Thomas was still preparing for his first year of college—since I had been surrounded by the road signs, patched couches, and incense-scented milieu of my old hangout. I took a moment to breathe in the air.
Thomas was sitting on the couch, and when I was able to register his presence, I moved to sit in the love seat against the wall. He patted the space beside him. I barely even thought about it before I sank down next to him.
We stayed there for the span of a few heartbeats, Thomas studyingthe carpet and me studying him. Finally I shook off some of the heaviness and managed to say, “Hey, Thomas, what’s going on?”
He gave his head the slightest shake and looked up at me as if from a trance. “Isn’t it obvious?” he asked at length. “Francesca broke up with me.”
I didn’t want to feel a rush of hope, but I couldn’t stop it any more than I could forget that Thomas had saved me when no one else would. Parker, I reminded myself. Brighton, engineering, Parker … Thomas was my past. I was living my future.
“I’m sorry,” I said eventually, quietly. “What happened?” It seemed like the right thing to say.
Thomas sighed almost angrily. “She dated a guy for a long time before coming to college. They were supposed to get married, but she broke off the relationship when she met me.” He stopped to rub his face with his hands. “I was going to ask her to marry me, Julia, but she said she needed to find out if she still had feelings for him. She said she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life wondering what if.” He stopped as abruptly as he had started.
I appreciated the fact that this was probably the first time he had tried
to explain it all to anyone. The bitterness his mother felt was shallow enough to confirm that her version of the story started and stopped with Francesca breaking up with her son for some unexplained and indiscernible reason.
I tried very hard to be objective and said, “What does that mean? Is she getting back together with her ex-boyfriend?”
“I don’t know,” Thomas said forlornly. “I don’t know what it means. I’m just supposed to leave her alone for a month while she finds out if she can’t live without me. She says there’s a difference between being able to live with someone—theoretically you could make yourself live with anyone—and not being able to live without them.” Thomas turned to look me full in the face. “Do you understand that? Do you get the difference? Because I think it’s just semantics.”
I thought about it for a moment. Being able to live with someone versus not being able to live without them. I decided I couldn’t speak from experience on that one. However, I could tell Francesca a thing or two about living without someone after you knew with all your heart and soul that you could never, ever do such a thing. I had lived without my father. I had lived without Thomas. I had survived.
“I don’t know, Thomas,” I finally said. “I guess it makes sense that she would want to be absolutely sure before making a lifelong commitment. … ” It was the wrong thing to say. Thomas looked at me as if I had just slapped him in the face. Frozen, I didn’t know what he wanted me to do, so I just sat there waiting for him to make the next move.
I had almost given up on our hopeless conversation when Thomas spoke again. He wasn’t looking at me, and his words were so quiet that I could hardly make them out. “That’s not all. Francesca thinks that I have an unresolved relationship in my past.”