Page 12 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
“The firsts,” I say. “Yeah, all the firsts suck. Halloween was terrible. Last Valentine’s Day was a real kick in the shorts.” I don’t mention how terrible the anniversary of Tim’s death will be, because I’m sure he’s already thought about that.
“I’m worried about the seconds, too,” he says. “The thirds. Will I someday be like, ‘This is my eleventh Arbor Day without her’?”
“Yeah,” I say, “Arbor Day is a particularly difficult time in the grief community.”
Henry taps his chest. “Stay strong.”
I don’t know if he’s cute in his own way, but he’s funny in his own way, which I like.
“We can be friends if you want,” I tell him. This surprises me because it doesn’t sound like something I’d say, more like something scared kids tell each other on the first day of summer camp.
He seems unsure. That’s fair—I’m just some woman in Crocs he didn’t even expect to meet today.
“It makes sense, right?” I say. “We’re the only people who know what it’s like to be us.”
He nods slowly a few times at the fire, like he’s processing this. “Okay, yeah, let’s do it.” He holds out his hand. I brace myself for it to be cold, but it’s not. “Our moms will be happy, at least,” he says.
“I’m gonna tell mine that we’re boning,” I say. “You know, just to give her a little thrill.”
It’s not exactly a spit take, but Henrylaughlaughs this time, which makes me smile even though I was going for deadpan. Maybe it’s my imagination, but the poor guy looks better already.
Planes, Trains and Automobiles
Thanksgiving
An orchestral version of “The First Noel” is playing because my mom believes Christmas music should run on a loop from Thanksgiving until New Year’s Day.
I’m sitting next to my little sister, Ruth, who’s visiting from Manhattan. Beside Ruth is Nick, her husband. There are maybe thirty other people here, too—uncles, aunts, cousins, spouses, random family friends, and partners. My mom is the oldest of eight kids and anyone associated with my family in any way is invited.
The music swells, and Ruth nods to my mom’s Bose six-disk CD changer from the ’90s. “Feels like church in here.”
“Does it, though?” asks Nick. “Your cousin’s shirt has boobs on it.”
This is true. One table over, Danny’s wearing a surf shop T-shirt that features a topless cartoon girl. It’s seventy degrees and humid today, so we’re all dressed for summer, except my mom who’s sweating it out in cable-knit because she committed to her outfits weeks ago.
Ruth looks at the chandelier and folds her hands. “Dear, Jesus,” she says. “We ask you to bless these poor dumb turkeys who died for our gluttony. Also bless the green beans that Grace spilled on the floor and didn’t clean properly.”
“I’m not a theologian, babe,” says Nick, “but I think that’s sacrilegious.”
Everyone here is Catholic to some degree, but Nick is the least lapsed of all of us. Four years ago, he and my sister were married in an actual church of all things.
At yet another table—there are four in total—some relatives are arguing about politics. Uncle Bobby just apologized loudly because he’s “not woke enough, apparently,” and everyone rolls their eyes. Here at our table, my mom is talking about how all the performers at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade were clearly lip-syncing. My dad smiles even though I’m pretty sure he can’t hear anything. Ian and Bella are directly across from me, and Harry Styles is pacing around on the floor waiting for people to drop food.
“Get away, you little freak,” Ruth tells him. “He just licked my foot.”
“Harry Styles likes licking feet,” says Bella.
“That’s because he’s a pervert,” says Ruth.
“What’s a pervert?”
My brother-in-law tips his wineglass. “To my wife, everyone. She’s great with kids.”
The music dips and makes a whirling sound, which leads to Michael Bublé’s version of “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas,” and I catch Ian sneaking Harry Styles a lump of mashed potatoes.
“Michael Bublé is a slippery slope,” says Ruth.
My mom looks up. “What’re you talking about, Ruth?”
