Page 15 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
“Counter argument,” I say, “you’re getting fat.”
He smiles because he isn’t. Cal is in unreasonably good shape for anadult. He spoons cranberries into Kelsey’s mouth, and she does a little shimmy, which happens whenever she eats something sweet.
“That’s it, girl,” Cal says. “Shake that thang.”
Sally picks yams out of Kelsey’s hair.
“And then suddenly, boom,” says my dad. “Down I go.”
“You should’ve heard the thud,” my mom says. She was there, too, on an elliptical machine ten feet away.
My dad waves a drumstick. “It sounded worse than it was.”
As Kelsey gives me a gummy little smile, I think of Brynn. Kelsey was born about a month after the crash, so Brynn never got to meet her. She would’ve loved being an aunt. The whole day has been filled with thoughts like this—sad reminders that Brynn isn’t here—like when we all stepped into the dining room earlier and I took in the weird Brynnless configuration of the chairs.
“The best part, though,” my mom says, “all these trainers and gym people come running to help, and he’s trying to act like nothing happened.”
“I thought I could play it off like I was stretching,” my dad says.
“I mean, he could’ve died, you know,” my mom says. “People die in dumb accidents all the time.”
I think nothing of this as I watch Kelsey do her little cranberry dance again, but then Ihaveto think about it because everyone is suddenly studying the centerpiece in silence. People get weird around me now when death comes up—even fictional death by exercise equipment.
“Deep-fried turkey’s great, Cal,” I say. “Nailed it.”
There’s a football game on in the other room that no one particularly cares about, but I appreciate the noise. Conversation picks back up, a whole thing about how warm it is today, then Aunt Judy says, “You know, I work with a young woman who’s recently divorced.” This seems apropos of nothing, but at least we’re not talking about death.
She takes a bite of turkey, chews carefully. “Apparently her ex-husband is a real son of a something,” she says. “Pretty girl, though.Lovelyfigure.”
Realization arrives slowly. I haven’t thought much about Grace or her kids or her weird little dog since I left her parents’ backyard on Sunday. I think of her now, though, small-looking on that big outdoor chair.Better get used to it,she told me.
Cal seems to realize what’s happening here, too. “Interesting,” he says, covering Kelsey’s ears. “Aunt Judy, could you maybe…describe her figure?”
“You can start by wipingthat effing dumbass smile off your rosy effing cheeks,” I say.
“And you can give me an effing automobile,” says Cal.
“An effing Datsun,” I say. “An effing Toyota, an effing Mustang, an effing Buick.”
“Four effing wheels and a seat,” says Cal.
My brother and I are in the TV room now, playingMario Kartwhile quotingPlanes, Trains and Automobilesfrom memory, which we always do on Thanksgiving. Kelsey is in the TV room with us—Cal is wearing her in a BabyBjörn—hence the censorship. Our parents introduced us to the movie when we were kids, and it’s been one of our favorites ever since. When Cal, Sally, and Kelsey arrived earlier this afternoon, my brother jumped out of his truck and loudly quoted Steve Martin at me from across the driveway. “Those aren’t pillows!”
“God, I love that movie,” he says now.
“Because it’s great,” I say.
“That scene at the end,” he says. “Steve Martin helping John Candy carry that giant suitcase. Ugh, ruins me every time.”
“Classic,” I say.
“The problem is it’s a Thanksgiving movie, so it doesn’t get enough holiday-movie love,” he says. “I’m totally gonna pass you, by the way. Why are you driving so slow?”
“I won the Mushroom Cup five times last week,” I say.
“Oh, right,” he says. “I read about that on you’re-obviously-lying dot com.”
Kelsey makes a grab for Cal’s controller. “No, sweetie. Daddy needs that to embarrass your uncle Henry.”
