Walking by, Cheryl jabs me in the side. “I convinced her to use an extra half bag of marshmallows in your honor.”
“Consolation prize for being dumped?” I mumble.
Cheryl rolls her eyes. “Enough with the pity party.”
Of all my friends and family members, Cheryl is the least sympathetic about Philip getting back together with his wife. She urged me to focus less on my own disappointment and more on a marriage being saved and two less children growing up in a broken home.
I know she’s right, but I’m hurt she gave me the cold shoulder rather than a shoulder to cry on. Dropping the subject, I say, “Bummer Jim isn’t here. But at least I don’t have to fight him for a drumstick.”
“Daddy not here,” Michael says, wrapping his chubby arms around Cheryl’s legs.
Bending down to hug him, Cheryl says, “Daddy went to Grandma and Grandpa’s house this year. You’ll see him tomorrow.”
“Miss Daddy,” he says, rubbing his eyes.
“Oh, I know, sweetheart. We’ll call him after dinner, okay?” Patting him on the bum, Cheryl says, “Be a good boy and ask Nana if she wants red or white wine.”
Michael toddles away with his ratty teddy bear clutched to his chest.
“What’s up with Jim going to his parents’ house?” I ask Cheryl.
“What, he doesn’t have a right to see his own parents on Thanksgiving?” she asks crossly.
Surprised at being snapped at, I calmly respond, “Of course he does. But don’t you guys usually alternate Thanksgiving with Chanukah?”
“Not this year,” she says curtly as Michael pokes her leg. Bending down to him, she asks, “What, sweetie?”
“Nana wants white wine.”
Cheryl beams at her youngest child. “Good boy. Now go play with your sister until dinner, okay?”
“Aunt Maggie play with me?”
“Can you read to him or something?” Cheryl asks.
Swooping him up in my arms, I say, “Can’t think of anything I’d like better.” My gorgeous nephew is currently far better company than his mommy. I carry him into the living room, place him on the floor, and immediately start tickling his pudgy belly. He titters uncontrollably and squirms under my touch. Finally, he brings his short legs towards his tummy, obstructing my access. His body still quaking, he says, “Stop, Aunt Maggie.”
“Okay, okay.” I remove my hands before blowing a raspberry on his stomach. Only I’m horrible at giving raspberries, and the sound is barely audible to the human ear and sounds nothing like a fart.
Leaning her body against my back, Cady says, “Uncle Doug does it bettow.”
At the sound of his name, I feel an ache in my gut. Not wanting the kids to sense my discomfort, I say, “Is that so?” before pulling Cady over my shoulder and blowing on her stomach too.
Thirty minutes later, plates are being passed around the table, turkey has been cut for the kiddies, and I’m on my second serving of sweet potato pie when Cady pounds her sippy cup on the table. “I have a ’nouncement,” she says.
“What kind of announcement, honey?” my mom asks.
“It’s time to go wound the table and say what we aw thankful fow.”
I surreptitiously roll my eyes and kick Cheryl under the table. We implemented the tradition when we were little and our moms insisted we continue long after we outgrew it.
“Terrific idea, Cady,” Aunt Helen says. “How about you go first?”
Cady smiles, showing a gap where one of her front teeth used to be. “I’m thankful fow Mommy and Daddy, Aunt Maggie, and cwanbewy sauce.”
My heart swells with love. Cady and her brother are at the very top of my own grateful list.
“Great job, Cady. But what about Nana Helen, Aunt Doris, and your brother?” Cheryl prods.
“I wasn’t finished yet,” Cady says as her lower lip protrudes into a pout. “I’m also thankful fow my baby bwotho Michael, Nana Helen, Aunt Dawis, and Blue’s Clues.”
Cady beams with pride as we all offer a round of applause. “Michael is next,” she says to her brother.
As all eyes focus on Michael, his face drains of color, a tear lodges in the corner of his eye, and he wails, “Don’t wanna.”
Holding him to her, Cheryl kisses his head. “You don’t have to.” As if by magic, the color returns to his face, and he continues to pick at his turkey as if nothing happened. I stifle a giggle.
“I’ll go,” says Aunt Helen. “I’m thankful for my family, especially my lovely grandkids, and my health.” She points at my mother. “Your turn, Doris.”
With a straight face, my mom says, “I’m thankful for my mahjong game.”
I burst out laughing. My mom cracks me up.
Helen shakes her head in annoyance. “Doris. Be serious.” Then she scowls at me as if it’s my fault.
“I’m thankful for the love of my wonderful family, and I’m grateful we can all spend another Thanksgiving together. I’m also thankful I didn’t dry out the turkey, and last but not least, I am thankful for my mahjong game.” She sticks her tongue out at Aunt Helen. Motioning to me with her head, she says, “Your turn, Magpie.”
Folding my hands on my lap, I say, “I have a lot to be thankful for. Firstly, I’m thankful for my brilliant and gorgeous niece and nephew.” I blow a kiss at Cady who catches it with her hand and holds it to her heart like I taught her. “I’m also thankful for the continued health of my mother.” I smile at her across the table and she mouths, “I love you.” I continue, “And I’m thankful for the support and encouragement of my friends.” I take a deep breath as if trying to swallow enough nerve to say the rest out loud. “And I’m thankful for the time I’m taking to learn about myself and what makes me happy. I’m getting to know myself better with each and every day. I might make mistakes, but hopefully they will lead me in the right direction.”
The table falls silent as my family stares at me. My annual proclamations usually include being thankful for my young-looking genes, and I’m sure I’ve surprised them with the depth of my pronouncements this year. I slide down in my chair as I await their reaction.
With a gleam in her eye, my mom says, “Beautiful sentiment, Maggie.”
Aunt Helen nods. “That was very heartfelt. You’re finally growing up. With any luck, you’ll make your mom a grandmother soon.”
“Let’s get her married first,” my mom says with a wink.
“In her case, I think God would understand if she did things out of order,” Aunt Helen says.
Cheryl drops her napkin on her plate. “Not everyone’s happiness revolves around getting married and having children,” she says.
Aunt Helen waves her hand in dismissal. “Fine. Your turn, dear.”
Cheryl pushes her seat back and stands up. “I’m thankful for you,” she says kissing Cady on both cheeks. “And I’m thankful for you.” She ruffles Michael’s hair until he laughs. Then she walks her dirty dishes to the kitchen without another word.
My mom and Aunt Helen seem none the wiser, but I know something is up with Cheryl. I remember standing outside her math class my freshman year in high school the day I got my period for the first time. My friends all assumed I began menstruating a year earlier since that’s what I told them, and I didn’t want to confide in the school nurse out of fear she would give me an old-fashioned sanitary napkin with a belt. Instead, I told Cheryl, who cut her next class to drive me home. She readily embraced the role of supportive older sister, yet she never relied on me in return. Years later, not much has changed. I want to be there for her like she has always been there for me, but I need to find a way to broach the subject without alienating her.
Sitting down again, Cheryl says, “Who’s ready for some pie?”
“I hope we have enough this year,” I joke. The year before, Doug brought a pie in every flavor imaginable—apple, cherry, p
ecan, pumpkin, peach, and chocolate cream—so each of us could have our favorites. “Doug and I were eating leftover pie through New Year’s Day last year. We found bits of crust and fruit filling in bed every time we changed the sheets for a month.” I smile at the memory until I notice my entire family staring at me. All except Cady, who is having too much fun mashing her leftover sweet potato pie with a fork, and Michael, who appears to be on the brink of falling asleep. “What?”
My mother clears her throat. “Nothing.”
Cheryl shrugs. “You’ve got me.”
“Such a shame,” Aunt Helen mutters.
I tap my fingertip to the table and sigh heavily. Standing up to bring my empty plate to the sink, I say, “I’m happy with where I am in my life.” For now. “Don’t go making me feel bad or second guess myself now.”
From behind me, I hear Aunt Helen say assuredly, “If you were so happy, we wouldn’t be able to.”
Later, Cheryl gives me a ride to the train station in her Ford Expedition. I gaze out my window as we drive through the historic center of downtown Peekskill and say, “Did I tell you I tried indoor rock climbing last week?”
Cheryl whips her head in my direction before quickly turning her attention back to the road. “Who replaced my couch-potato cousin with the courageous daredevil in my passenger seat?”
“Ha ha. Melanie coaxed me to step outside of my comfort zone. She thought it would be a healthy change. And if I do it more often, it might offset the imminent slowing of my metabolism.”
“I’ll be sure to tell my mom,” she says with a smirk.
While wondering how I can segue the conversation to Cheryl’s marriage, I stare at the beautiful buttery yellow, amber orange, and burgundy red autumn leaf that has attached itself to my window. Nothing comes to mind so I just say it. “Is everything all right with you and Jim?”
Cheryl peers through her rearview mirror at her sleeping children. “Not now, Mags,” she says pulling into the train station.
“When?”
She parks the car and glances at the time on her dashboard. “This clock is three minutes early. You need to run if you’re going to catch your train.”
I sigh dejectedly and open the door. “Call me?”
She nods. “Get home safe.”
“You too.” I kiss her on the cheek and take one last look at the napping kids. Then I step out of the car and hoof it up the stairs to the platform. It’s only after I’m waiting a good five minutes, I realize Cheryl lied about her clock being early.
I hastily reach for my office phone and tap the first two numbers of Philip’s extension. After months of brainstorming, we finally chose the firm’s new tagline—Small Firm: Big Results. My next assignment is overseeing the creation of a new logo. We will eventually employ a logo design company, but first I want to share my ideas with Philip. I don’t really want to discuss anything with Philip, but since doing so is part of my job description, I don’t have a choice. I dial the last two numbers.
Lila, Philip’s assistant, picks up. “Hi, Maggie.”
I wonder if she knows I used to have sex with her boss. “Hi there. Is he around?”
“One second. I’ll check.”
I nervously tap my fingers along the laminate surface of my desk while I wait.
“Hey there,” Philip says, a little too cheerfully.
I take a deep inhale. “I wondered if you had time to discuss concepts for the new logo.” Over the past month, we conducted most of our back and forth regarding the tagline via email, and, fortunately, he was on vacation—presumably with the family—for the last business development meeting. Since our offices are on different floors, I rarely see him, but I fear we won’t be able to brainstorm the firm’s new logo without meeting face to face.
“Sure. Come around.”
“Will do,” I say, before placing the phone back on the receiver. My vanity prevents me from not caring about my appearance, so I run a brush through my hair and apply lip gloss. Grabbing my legal pad and a folder of logo examples I printed from Shutterstock, I head upstairs to Philip’s corner office.
When I gently tap my knuckles against his open door, I’m surprised to see Brendan, a first-year associate, already sitting in one of his visitor chairs.
Philip waves me in, and when I sit down in his other chair, I glance questioningly at Brendan. “If this is a bad time, I can come back.”
“Not a bad time. Do you know Brendan?” Philip says.
“Of course.” To Brendan, I say, “Hi.”
Brendan, a chubby, baby-faced guy in his mid-twenties, acknowledges me with a nod.
Philip leans his elbows on the desk. “I thought Brendan could help you with the logo.”
I stare blankly at Philip, waiting for further information, but none comes. The room is so quiet you can almost hear the dust swirling around. To break the silence, I turn to Brendan. “Are you an artist?” Maybe the firm is trying to avoid outsourcing the work.
“I can draw stick figures. Does that count?”
Philip and Brendan whoop it up while I attempt to lose my “deer in the headlights” expression. I knew the meeting would be uncomfortable for personal reasons, but I fully expected to maintain my professionalism and am not pleased with the Bambi impression I’m currently perfecting. I will myself to take back control. “I’m thrilled to have you on board, Brendan. How can you help?”
Focusing his gaze on Brendan, Philip says, “Brendan is doing his rotation through the intellectual property group. The partners thought working with you on the logo would be good training.”
Before I can stop myself, I ask, “Which partners?” How partners make decisions is none of my business, but I want to see how Philip talks himself out of this one. I’m positive the suggestion to delegate the assignment to Brendan under the guise of training was his and his alone.
Philip gives me a quick glance. “The IP partners.” He turns back to Brendan. “You can review the search reports with any of the senior associates.”
We will have to confirm through trademark searches that any design we want is not confusingly similar to an existing image, but Philip is skipping the first phase of the project entirely. “Terrific,” I say. “But first we need to come up with a concept.” It’s obvious the desire to maintain distance from each other is mutual, but I’m afraid it won’t be as easy to avoid as Philip seems to think.
Philip opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. He scratches his Van Dyke beard and meets my eyes.
I wonder if the tension in the room is obvious to Brendan. Through the corner of my eyes, I see him shifting his gaze from Philip to me.
I say, “How about I—” at the same time Philip says, “Why don’t you—”
After a nervous chuckle, I say, “You first.”
“I assume you have some ideas in there,” he says, pointing at the manila folder on my lap. “I trust you. Why don’t you show your favorites to the design company and see what they come up with? You can email the results to me, and if I like them, we’ll order searches. If I don’t, we’ll start over.”
This is exactly what I was going to suggest, and I nod in Philip’s direction.
Philip lets out a deep exhale. “So, we’re good?”
“We’re good.” Rising from the chair, I tuck the folder under my arm. To Brendan, I say, “I’ll let you know when I have designs to search.”
Without saying anything to Philip, I force myself to assume a normal gait as I walk out of his office and down the internal stairs. When I’m back in my own quarters and safely out of sight, I throw myself in my chair and intake what feels like the first breath of oxygen I’ve inhaled in days.
December
“The doctor is so guilty. Never trust a ginger!” I scream at my television set while watching the latest episode of Castle. I twirl a strand of my own strawberry blond hair wi
th one hand while shoveling microwave popcorn into my mouth with the other. After a particularly busy day at work followed by two hours scouring LinkedIn for possible connections in my job search, I am now sprawled across my couch eating a late, low-maintenance, not-too-nutritious dinner. As the episode moves along, I suspect my initial guess misses the mark. With only burnt kernels of corn left in the bag, I have nothing to chew on except my fingernails as I contemplate the identity of the guilty party. And then it dawns on me. I know who did it. “It’s 3XK. He’s alive. He’s alive!” I place the empty bag of popcorn on my coffee table and stand up at the precise moment Castle and Detective Beckett collectively realize Jerry Tyson, a.k.a. major bad guy “3XK,” is alive.
Feeling victorious for solving the crime before it was revealed on screen, I chant, “Be Aggressive. B-E Aggressive.” I kick my legs up in a classic cheerleading move, and then in my mind’s eye, I see him—Doug—about a year into our relationship, doing the spinning running-man dance after deciphering the twist in Fight Club before me. We were always playfully competitive with each other, and that day, even as I pouted in typical sore-loser mode, I had to hold my stomach after roaring so hard watching him dance.
I stop mid-cheer and begin to cry. After pulling my old, stuffed Snoopy doll from the top of my closet, I crawl into bed and weep until Snoopy is soaked with my tears.
* * *
Hearing the familiar cackle of laughter, I glance at Jodie across the rectangular bar at Butterfield 8 in White Plains. Her cheeks rosy from drinking multiple glasses of red wine, she’s twirling a curly tendril of hair around her finger and in stitches over whatever some guy with a goatee is whispering in her ear. I’ve never seen him before and wonder if they work together at the bank where Jodie is employed as a financial analyst. It hardly feels like over twenty years since the day I walked into our dorm room for the first time and found her kneeling by the tiny closet we would share, attempting to find space for her not-so-tiny collection of Keds in every color of the rainbow. I still can’t believe the girl who taught me how to do a funnel is forty years old, divorced, and the mother of two children. As if sensing me watching her, Jodie turns away from the guy, catches my eye across the room and winks. I wave but her attention is once again stolen by the dude with the goatee. If I didn’t know better, I would assume they were dating, or at least contemplating it.
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