Page 21 of A World Without You
FIVE
Thursday, November 23rd
Thanksgiving
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REGRET POOLS IN MYstomach as soon as I wake up.
I had this whole idea of us created in my head. We were married and living in happily wedded bliss with a yappy purse dog named Gloria and beta fish named Peter.
The idea, though specific, isn’t even remotely outlandish. Five years ago, I was waiting on a proposal. I saw his grandmother’s ring stuffed in his sock drawer. I was going to turn around and find him on bended knee at any moment, promising me his entire world. My gut sinks as I wonder if I told him to stand up.
They’re fine about the wedding.I replay the statement in my mind. We must have postponed the wedding or canceled it altogether. But I can’t imagine why.
I pull the pillow over my face and groan at the ridiculous conclusions I’m coming to. It was just a dream—a stupid dream, full of cognitive assumptions and subconscious ponderings.
Just as the groan turns into a scream, Mom comes into my childhood room/her craft room/office/catch-all space with a cup of coffee in one hand and a mimosa in the other and pulls the pillow off my face, silencing my scream.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” she sings, and I groan like a teenager.
These dreams are too real. Too vivid. My psyche is exhausted from the whiplash, and my heart is screaming, beat by beat for a man I broke up with long ago.
“Coffee is great,” I mutter, reaching for the mug.
“Lame!” she sneers with mock contempt. “Get up and get ready. It’s already eleven. The turkey’s in the oven. The parade is on, and all my hopes and dreams are riding on the game bracket for tonight.”
“Game bracket?” I question, though I’m unsure if I have the brain capacity to retrieve this information.
“Oh yes, honey. This has become a Holland/Baker tradition. First round: Yahtzee. Second: Apples to Apples. Third: Scrabble. Fourth: Left-Right-Center. And—”
“Oh no,” I mutter.
“Fifth round: Exploding Kittens.”
“That game is so stupid.”
“It is not! We always have a blast playing. Last year Shannon had to wear the cone of shame for ten rounds!” She cackles and throws her head back. “They still won the bracket though. But this year is our year!”
“Well, maybe it will be my year,” I challenge and Mom smiles.
“That’s the spirit. Now get up! Melanie, Brian, and the boys are going to be here any minute.”
My heart beats to a happier rhythm at the thought of seeing my sister and her husband and kids. I miss them. Even still, my emotional exhaustion makes my bones feel heavy as I begrudgingly sift out of bed and head downstairs to the kitchen.
Dad greets me with an over-the-top smile and bear hug. “Happy Thanksgiving, kiddo!”
“Happy Thanksgiving, Dad,” I murmur into the fabric of his flannel shirt. “It already smells so good in here. How long have you been cooking?”
“Since I woke up at six,” he answers, stirring the simmering cranberries on the stove. Mom hums softly as she pulls the warm cinnamon rolls out of the oven and begins slathering them with icing.
I nod through a yawn as I grab the creamer from the refrigerator. The rich cream turns my black coffee into the color of café au lait as I stare out the window. The old swing set is still perched in the corner of the yard next to the rhododendron bushes. It’s rusted and would be riddled with recalls and safety issues if sold in this market, but it has provided entertainment and joy for decades despite how the left-back pole pulls out of the ground with each swing.
