Page 40 of Santa Has a Six-Pack
“I enjoyed walking and talking with you, too.” With that, she gives me a shy wave and heads into the store.
Me? I head back to my apartment with a new skip in my step and a cheesy ass smile on my face.
Chapter 11
Penny
“’Cha doin’?” my older sister says over the video call propped up on my desk. She’s mashing a big bowl of potatoes.
“Don’t ’cha doin’ me, Banks,” I say. “You know exactly what I’m doing.”
“Yes, I do. You’re avoiding your family.”
“No. I’m working.”
Currently, I’m holed up in the back offices in the Herald’s building. I wrapped up all my post-parade tasks about an hour ago, and I’ve been staring at spreadsheets and placing merchandise orders ever since. My vision is blurring, and my stomach is rumbling. But the work isn’t letting up any time soon.
“Besides,” I continue, “I’m not avoiding you, am I? I picked up your call on the first ring.”
“Second ring, but who’s counting?” She clears her throat. “Allow me to be more specific. You’re avoiding the people who raised us. Are you seriously not coming tonight?” she whines. “Because I just checked the train schedules. If you hustle over to Grand Central right now and hop on the 4:11, you can still make it here before the main course.”
Banks and I grew up in the same house. Same parents. But you’d never know it. I love her dearly, but we see the world so very differently. Always have. Always will.
“Would you call what they did raising us, though?” I ask. “Squashing, stifling, and smothering us feel like more accurate word choices if you ask me. For Mom, anyway. Dad was more of the tolerate, intimidate, and obfuscate variety.”
“Alright, Merriam-Webster.” Banks lowers the volume on her side of the call, gets closer to the phone, and whispers, “You’re not wrong, Penn. But come on. They’re family.”
Well-meaning people always say that. “But they’re family.” Like it’s perfectly acceptable to allow people to treat you like crap if those people happen to be blood-related. But I deserve better than that. Banks does too. Hell, we all do.
I lower my voice now, too. “Why are we whispering? Wait, are you already there?” I squint at the tiny screen. “That doesn’t look like their kitchen.”
“They just remodeled.”
“Again?!”
“You know what Mom always says. ‘If you’re not moving with the times…’”
“You’re dying with them. Yeah, yeah.” My heart rate picks up. “I should go.”
“No, don’t rush off! She’s upstairs beautifying. And Dad’s in the garage doing whatever Dad does. I would like some time with my sister on Thanksgiving if you can spare another minute or two.”
“Of course I want to spend time with you,” I say, feeling guilty. “But look, I skirted my work responsibilities last year so I could come to Thanksgiving. And it was an emotional shit show. I have no desire to put myself through that again.”
What kind of woman lays out a Thanksgiving feast in front of her children, then proceeds to criticize them for eating it? My mother, that’s who. I try to have compassion for her. After all, it’s her own issues as a former ballerina that made her this way, but I’ll be damned if she passes those issues down to me.
Banks doesn’t respond. She knows I’m right. But I do hate seeing her sad. And I miss her too. In the past, we could count on seeing each other in person at our parents’ once-a-month Sunday dinners, until I decided last year that I couldn’t stomach them anymore. I’m not proud to say that since then, my relationship with my sister—and her kids—relies mostly on video calls and the cards I put in the mail.
An idea lands. “Hey, obviously, I’m heading into the busy season at work, but I do have Tuesday mornings off. What if I hopped the train up to Connecticut late one Monday night? We could have a sister sleepover, hang out for breakfast and early lunch the next day, then I can catch the 12:58 and still be back in Manhattan in time for my Tuesday afternoon shift.”
“That sounds insane, Penn.”
“Nah.” I smile. “It would be worth it to see my favorite sister. And my niece and nephew. Not to mention my nibling-to-be! You’re gonna pop any day now, right?”
“Consider me officially popped.” Banks backs away from the phone and gives me a full view of her pregnant belly. “But what the heck is a nibling?”
“Gender neutral niece or nephew?” I say. “Someone taught me the term the other day.”
Someone I’m trying very hard not to think about.
