Authors: Ellen Hopkins
She turned me down, however.
I'm pretty sure she plans to spend
the holiday with Kenny. And that's
all right by me. I leave very early
Thursday morning. Driving seventy,
it will take around six hours. I nudge
the speedometer to seventy-five. Hope
the highway patrol feels generous today.
For coffee and another to pee
it out, I arrive home a little after
one. Nostalgia sweeps over me
as I turn up the long, curved driveway.
It's been a dry autumn. The hills
are parchment brown, beneath
sprawling, green oak canopies.
Representative California. I park
in front of our low stucco ranch-
style house with a red-tile roof.
Buster, our golden retriever, lifts
his head from the front porch, too
lazy to come investigate. Besides,
he knows it's me. I can see his tail
thumping. I get out of the car, stretch
a minute, inhaling familiar air.
Why is it appreciating home comes
easier after you've been away for
a while? I stop long enough to pat
Buster's head, go on inside.
I hear football in the family room.
That will be Dad, and I know Mom's
in the kitchen. What I don't expect
is to see my brother, no longer in Europe.
Three heads swivel toward meâ
Dad's, Troy's, and one very blond one,
with a cute, freckled face I don't recognize.
Hey, Sis. Come meet Gretchen.
She's a very sweet German, who
speaks delicate English and hangs
on to Troy like he's her anchor
here in this crazy country. I say
hi, hug Troy, and give Dad a quick kiss
right before the Niners score.
He and Troy both jump to their feet,
cheering. Gretchen looks anxious.
“I'm going to go help Mom with
dinner. Want to come?” I invite.
Now Gretchen looks grateful.
She follows me to the kitchen,
where Mom is peeling potatoes.
“Hey. Can we help you with that?”
Hi sweetheart. How was your
drive?
She keeps on peeling.
“Uneventful.” I look for something
for Gretchen and I to do. “How about
if we open some wine? I know it's early,
but hey, it's Thanksgiving, right?”
Go for it. The wineglasses are in
the hutch. Gretchen, white or red?
Gretchen barely looks old enough
to drink. But she chooses white.
I hand her a bottle of each and
a corkscrew, go off to find the glasses.
And a muffin for breakfast,
the wine produces a nice, little
buzz before very long. I try to
keep it in check, sipping slowly.
I also try to let everyone else
do most of the talking. We learn
Gretchen is from Dresden, but
she met Troy at a café in Munich.
Her dream is to work in publishing.
As an editor, perhaps, or public
relations. Whatever will get her foot
in the door. Meanwhile, she's living
off a small inheritance.
This is the time
to travel,
she says.
Before I must get
serious. I think then I will grow old.
Mom laughs.
Getting serious
about a man will make you grow
old. Don't you think so, Ashley?
“Depends on the man, I guess.”
I've been hoping to steer clear
of talking about Cole. No such luck.
Ashley's boyfriend is a soldier.
Mom tells Gretchen.
This war
has made her much older.
Except she's right. I turn twenty-five
in a week. I feel ten years older.
It's the war, yes, and Cole's fighting
there. It's a consequence of worry.
The oven buzzer sounds. I go to take
out the turkey. Open the door. Find
ham. No wonder the smell wasn't
familiar. I guess I'd noticed that on
some level. “Ham this year? Was
there a turkey shortage I didn't hear
about?” We've never had ham for
Thanksgiving dinner. Mom drains
the potatoes.
Nope. Plenty of turkeys.
Just thought it was time to shake
things up a little. It's a lovely spiral
cut. There's some pineapple-cherry
sauce on the stove. Would you mind
basting it? It should sit a few minutes
before we carve it. By then, I'll have
these potatoes mashed.
Gretchen
beats me to the pan and baster,
so I refill our glasses. When I reach
into the fridge for the Pinot Grigio,
I notice a beautiful chocolate cheesecake.
“No apple pie, either?” This shaking
stuff up thing is slightly disturbing.
Wonder what else she's agitating.
This feels a little bit like a revolt.
As we sit down to dinner. Mom's chair used
to always be right next to Dad's. Today,
they're at opposite ends of the table.
Putting Gretchen and Troy straight
across from me. We say grace, then
Mom and I go into the kitchen to get
the serving platters. Dad gives
the sauced-up ham slices a hard
double take.
What the hell is that?
Okay, he has been drinking rum
most of the afternoon. But that
was pretty harsh. “It's ham, Dad.”
Yes,
chirps Mom.
And you paid
a pretty penny for it, and I've spent
most of the day making it special
for you. Us. Is there a problem?
It's not like you don't eat pork.
We have ham all the time.
He looks at her like she's crazy.
Not for Thanksgiving. But I guess
there's a first time for everything.
Troy and I exchange “phews.”
Gretchen looks alternately terrified
and relieved. We start passing trays,
bowls, and baskets of meat, veggies,
and Mom's homemade buttermilk
biscuits. And I think it might all
be perfectly fine until suddenly Troy
whistles.
Hey, Ashley. What's that?
Did you forget to tell us something,
uh . . . kind of important?
He's staring
at my left hand, and now everyone
else is, too. I swear, I forgot all about
the ring, which I just got back, sized,
from the jeweler's two days ago.
“Uh, well, yeah. I guess I did.
Cole and I are getting married.
Probably in June. We haven't set
a date yet or anything, but that's
what we were thinking. I know,
relatively speaking, that's not a whole
lot of time, but I think we can pull
it together . . . .” Troy is grinning.
Gretchen is nodding. Dad is shaking
his head. But Mom . . . I don't know.
All color has drained from her face,
and any hint of a smile went with it.
Did she have too much wine?
She kind of looks sick. “Are you okay,
Mom? I'm sorry I didn't mention it.”
Approximating a smile.
Says she's fine. Turns
her attention back to
her dinner, though she's
really only picking at it
now. It is Dad who says,
Have you thought this
through, Ashley? I mean,
all the way through? Why
get married now? Aren't
things good just as they are?
Déjà vu, and annoying
déjà vu, at that. “You sound
like Darian. God, Dad, I'm
almost twenty-five. Don't
you think that's old enough?”
It's not exactly over the hill.
Why rush into marriage?
You're not . . .
Okay, now
it's anger-inspiring déjà vu.
“Pregnant? No, Dad. No
shotguns involved. And
as far as ârushing,' Cole
and I have been together
for five years. Not exactly
jumping the gun. Why do
I have to keep defending
this decision? Everyone
should be happy for me.”
I push back from the table, carry
my plate into the kitchen. Rinse
it, put it in the dishwasher, along
with the pots and pans Mom left
in the sink. Then I step outside
to cry in private. The back patio
is in the sun, and warm. But I'm
shivering. Nerves. Anger. Hurt.
I'm cold, from the inside out.
It's quiet behind the dining room
window. At least they're not talking
about meâabout what a fool I am
or how I'm too young to know
what I want. Ha. What would
they say if I told them I'm not sure
about social work, either? Dad
would freak, that's for sure. I can
hear him now.
After all that time
and money invested you want
to change your mind now?
I sit on the old porch glider.
It has seen better days, for sure.
The door opens, and Mom comes
outside.
May I join you?
She sits
beside me, knowing I'd never say
no. We rock gently back and forth
for a minute. Finally, she says,
I need to tell you something I've
never shared with you before.
You know my mother and father
died in a car accident, right? What
you don't know is that it wasn't
really an accident. It was a murder
suicide. Daddy was never right
after he got back from Viet Nam.
It was a long time ago, and I was
little, but I remember how the sound
of a helicopter sent him to the floor.
How he heard noises that I never
did. How if someone looked at him
in a certain way, he'd go ballistic.
He was arrested a couple of times
for starting a fight in a bar. Drinking
made everything worse because
then he saw ghosts. Really. I know
he did horrible things in the jungle.
Things no amount of alcohol or pills
could erase. War stains soldiers,
all the way through their psyches,
into their souls. I understand that,
and could almost forgive him for taking
his own life, to quiet the ghosts. But
I can never forgive him for taking
my mother with him. He thought
of her as a possession. One he wouldn't
leave behind for someone else to own.
And I worry about that for you.
Cole reminds me of my father.
One I never even suspected.
I am trembling. Mom slides
her arm around my shoulder,
pulls me into her embrace.
I can't remember the last time
we sat like this. Now I am young.
Like, four or five. We freeze
in this place, wordlessly watching
a covey of fat quail foraging
for several minutes. Finally,
I clear my throat. “I understand
why you're worried for me, Mom.
But I've never seen Cole do
any of the things you described.”
Wait. Not true. There was the time
he heard the helicopter and
pushed me to the floor. Except,
he was protecting me, so that
was not the same thing at all.
“Cole would never, ever hurt me.
It would go against his code of honor.”
Her arm falls away.
That's what
Momma thought. I want to support
your decision. I'm just not sure I can.
It's Troy, checking up on us, though
he pretends it's all about cheesecake.
Dad said I had to ask you before
I cut it. He also said to ask if you
bought brandy for the eggnog.
Mom vacates the slider.
I'll cut
the cheesecake. Think I'd leave that
to a man? You up for eggnog, Ashley?
“A little, I guess. Actually, maybe
straight brandy. Save the calories
for the cheesecake. I'll be right in.”
Mom brushes past Troy, who
doesn't follow. Instead, he comes
over to me.
So you know, I think
it's cool you're getting married.
I have to smile. “Thanks, Troy.
You going to be here this summer?
I don't think we can have a wedding
if you're not going to be part of it.”
No worries. I'll be here. I like
Europe. But it's not California.
“What about Gretchen? You