Still a Work in Progress (11 page)

“I’m glad you don’t think I’m in misery,” Sam says. “Because I am actually very happy.”

Ryan just gives him a look.

“Are dogs in misery?” I ask.

“No, they just age really fast, which is sad,” Ryan explains.

Ryan has become a little too good at being a downer.

On Thanksgiving morning, Emma and my dad are busy in the kitchen making preparations for dinner. My parents invited Ryan’s mom, since she’s alone for the holiday. It’s going to be weird having her here without Ryan. They also invited Emma’s friend Sara and her parents. And the new couple who moved in a few houses down, Mark and Mitch. My parents are obsessed with making sure no one they know is alone during the holidays. My mom is all stressed-out, though, because Emma freaked when my dad said he thought we should serve a real turkey. But my dad put his foot down and said since we are having guests, we had to serve a traditional meal along with her vegan one. When I go into the kitchen, I can tell Emma is still upset, because she’s chopping vegetables with a vengeance and every time my dad opens the oven to baste the turkey, she runs out of the room, saying the smell is making her sick.

I have nowhere to go but escape to my room with the Captain, who hates it when Emma gets angry. I wonder if his dog-years ratio is even worse because of all the stress around here.

I stare up at the Super-Ball marks on the ceiling and wish Sam and Ryan were here, even if they do bicker too much. At least it’s not over food.

I scroll through my last set of messages I got from Sam and think about writing back but don’t. It’s all Molly, Molly, Molly, and I have no advice. He’s already stressing about what to get her for Christmas! I hope he’s not sending stuff like this to Ryan, because I don’t know how much more of this lovey-dovey stuff Ryan can take before he snaps.

I decide to text Ryan and see how he’s doing with his dad, but I get a
DELIVERY FAILED
message.

The first guest to arrive is Ryan’s mom. She’s about twenty minutes early, and my dad and Emma are still busy making last-minute dishes, so my mom and I keep her company. She looks pretty miserable. In fact, I don’t really think I’ve seen her look happy since she and Ryan’s dad got divorced last year. The whole story is pretty terrible. She supposedly fell in love with her hair stylist and told Ryan’s dad. His dad flipped out and got really depressed. They tried therapy to save their marriage, but it didn’t work. It’s too bad, because it turns out his mom didn’t even have an affair with the hair stylist. She just loved him. Or the idea of him. He was nice to her and talked to her and seemed to listen as if he cared, which, according to my mom, is what all stylists do to get big tips. Ryan says his mom just loved the
idea
of her stylist. She didn’t really love
him.
But by the time she figured that out, Ryan’s dad had moved out and gotten a new girlfriend. So after telling her husband she liked someone else because he paid attention to her, she ended up feeling even more alone than she was before.

This kind of explains why Ryan gets bitter around happy couples.

“I wish Ryan was here,” she says sadly.

My mom pats her knee. “Would you like a drink? I make a mean Bloody Mary.”

“Oh, that sounds perfect,” she says, putting her hand on my mom’s. “Thanks, Louise.”

“You got it.” My mom rushes off to make the drink and leaves us alone.

Mrs. Lamper is wearing an off-white shiny blouse that seems to be missing a button. I wish I hadn’t noticed that, but when she leaned forward, her shirt sort of bulged open and her bra showed, and now I can’t unsee it.

She fidgets with a long gold necklace and smiles awkwardly. “It was nice of your parents to invite me,” she says. She leans forward to take a nut from the dish on the coffee table.

I quickly look away as the missing-button space gapes open again.

She sits back and eats an almond.

This is probably the longest five minutes of my life so far.

“Have you heard from Ryan?” she asks when she finishes chewing.

“No,” I say.

She looks disappointed.

“Sam?”

I shake my head.

“They don’t seem to be getting along too well. Do you know what that’s about?”

She starts to bend forward for another nut.

“I’ll go see what’s taking my mom so long,” I say. How long does it take to make a stupid drink, anyway?

Emma and my dad are busy putting dishes together while my mom pours vegetable juice into a glass. “How much vodka do I add, Jeff? I can’t remember.”

“Depends on who it’s for,” my dad says.

“That’s not funny,” she says, smiling. She dumps some vodka in and stirs it with a celery stick. “I need to get back out there and keep her company. Noah, can you help put food out? The hot plates are all plugged in on the buffet. You just need to set things on it. I want everything to be ready so we can enjoy cocktails with our guests before dinner.”

Emma hands me a plate of mashed potatoes to bring out. “Come back for the squash, OK? And please put all my dishes on one end of the sideboard and Dad’s meat ones on the other.” She says “meat” in this exaggerated way, like she really means maggots or something equally offensive.

I go back and forth for all Emma’s dishes. There’s squash, green beans with slivered almonds, tiny pumpkins filled with soup, cauliflower with fake cheese melted on top, dinner rolls, and, of course, a seitan turkey, which smells nothing like turkey and doesn’t really look like one, either. In fact, it smells like what you might imagine hell to smell like, so that’s appropriate. The gravy Emma made smells suspicious, too.

My dad’s dishes, on the other hand, smell amazing. It’s been so long since I ate meat, I kind of forgot how good it smelled. I’m tempted to sneak a bunch of the stuffing made with turkey broth, but if Emma saw me, I know she’d be upset. I wonder if my parents will eat it or just offer it to the guests.

While people start to arrive, I see Emma go into the dining room and put little paper signs in front of each dish. I wander over to see if she wants help. In front of my dad’s roasted turkey, she’s put a little paper taped to a toothpick that says
CONTAINS DEATH
.

“Seriously?” I ask.

She gives me a look.

“You can’t,” I say. “Besides, I’m pretty sure people can tell the difference.” I gesture toward her hideously shaped fake turkey.

“Fine,” she says, snatching the label away. “But I’m not eating anything. The presence of death has ruined everything.”

“You have to,” I say. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

“It’s disgusting. I don’t even want to be in the same room.”

“Emma, get it together,” I whisper. “Don’t ruin the day for Mom and Dad.”

“Whatever,” she says, and stomps back into the kitchen.

My mom catches my eye from the other room and gives me a worried look. I try to nod at her reassuringly, but it feels like a giant lie.

After everyone’s had a drink and settled in, my dad ushers us all into our tiny dining room, and we get in line to start loading up at the buffet. Emma is in front of me. She puts tiny amounts of each of her dishes in neat little piles on her plate.

“Emma, you can take more than that. There’s plenty to go around,” my mom tells her.

Emma ignores her.

I fill most of my plate with mashed potatoes and a big scoop of real butter to make a butter pond. Emma gives me a dirty look because I didn’t choose her gross fake kind. Nothing died to make it, so I refuse to feel guilty. Especially on Thanksgiving, when you’re supposed to eat this stuff.

“Noah, you need to eat more than potatoes,” my mom says.

“Way to hog it all,” Emma adds.

“There’s only one person behind me!”

“Whatever.”

“Take some of mine if you want it. It’s not like you’ll eat it, anyway,” I say.

The last part slips out. My mom gives me the evil eye.

“Not now that you put butter on it,” Emma says. “Way to ruin everything.”

“Sorry,” I mutter. I take a tiny serving of her gross fake turkey to show her I mostly mean it.

My dad leans over and tells me not to make it any more of an issue. My mom gives me another warning look, as if
I’m
the one who needs a warning.

Emma whispers something to Sara, whose plate is even emptier than Emma’s. I make a point not to sit near them.

When we’re finally all squeezed around the dining-room table, my dad asks us to join hands to give thanks. My family says grace about three times a year: Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter. We’re not the most religious people in the world, but my parents seem to like giving thanks for being together every so often. I always feel awkward having to hold someone’s hand, but Mrs. Lamper isn’t shy at all and reaches for mine. So I’ve got Mrs. Lamper on one side and my dad on the other, and their hand-holding styles couldn’t be more different.

My dad’s hands are kind of big and puffy and hot, which is gross. Also, he’s squeezing the life out of my left hand. Mrs. Lamper’s hands are small and fragile and cold and barely holding on. I think my hand must feel to her like my dad’s feels to me, except for the hot part, I hope.

My dad clears his throat. “Thank you for the food we are about to receive. We’re blessed today to be here with friends old and new, and family, and we are thinking of the loved ones we miss.”

This is kind of lame as far as giving thanks goes, but it seems to please everyone.

Before we let go of hands, though, Emma pipes up.

“Let’s go around the table and say what we’re thankful for,” she says, all fakey cheerful.

Ugh.

“Can we let go of hands?” I ask. I don’t mean to be rude, but I can only be this uncomfortable for so long. Plus my dad’s holding on so tight, he’s cutting off the circulation to my fingers.

“No. Don’t break the circle,” Emma says.

My dad and Mrs. Lamper squeeze harder.

Emma motions for Sara to go first. “I’m grateful that you invited us here,” Sara says. “It would have been totally boring to stay at home. No offense, Mom and Dad.”

“I’m grateful to those of you who chose to eat vegan today,” Emma says. “And I’m sorry for the lives that were lost to create the rest of this meal.”

“Emma!” my dad says.

“Emma’s a real animal lover,” my mom apologizes. She shoots Emma her warning look.

“Mitch and I are really happy to be here,” Mark says quickly. “Thanks for being so welcoming.”

Slowly we move around the table, and people list all the predictable things they’re grateful for. Good health. Good friends. Family. Even though I have plenty of time to think of something, I still don’t have a clue what to say when it’s nearly my turn.

“I’m thankful for people like Jeff and Louise, who always make sure their friends have a place to go on Thanksgiving so they’re not alone,” Mrs. Lamper says. Her voice quivers as she says “alone,” and she squeezes my hand harder. Her eyes start to brim up, but she won’t let go of hands to wipe them, so her tears keep collecting, and she blinks and blinks and looks so awkward that I want to wipe them for her, but I can’t because my own hands are trapped. Finally, a single drop oozes out the corner of her eye and starts to slip down her cheek. She turns to me and smiles as the drop slips down the side of her face. It is the worst combination of sad and awkward I’ve ever seen.

“Noah?” my dad says. “It’s your turn. What are you thankful for this year?”

Who’s to say?
I want to ask. But don’t.

I look away from the tear streak before it drops onto Mrs. Lamper’s blouse. I glance around the table at all the waiting faces.

“I’m thankful for . . . um . . .”

“Say anything,” Emma says impatiently.

“Anything,” I say. It’s our old joke.

She rolls her eyes.

“Noah, act serious,” my dad says.

“I’m grateful for Thanksgiving,” I say lamely.

My mom makes a disappointed face.

“I’m thankful for mashed potatoes and my family and being able to cook with my beautiful daughter,” my dad says. “She’s turning into an amazing cook.”

I look at the seitan lump on my plate. Yeah. Amazing.

My dad was last, so we can finally let go of hands. Mine is a little wet with my dad’s sweat, which is totally disgusting. I wipe it on my napkin.

Everyone starts eating, and for a little while it’s quiet, except for when people say how good the food is. I guess most of it is OK. The Captain wanders in and squeezes between my and my dad’s chairs to find his usual spot under the table.

I push the devil turkey across my plate and eat the stuffing and potatoes. Across the table, Emma looks very busy with her fork and knife, but neither leaves the four-inch zone above her plate.

I catch my mom noticing the same thing. Emma sees, too, and then makes a big show of putting a small piece of potato in her mouth. It looks like it causes her physical pain. I stop watching and stuff my face.

“Slow down, Noah. Jeez,” my dad jokes.

“This really does taste just like turkey, Emma,” Mrs. Lamper tells her, holding a wrinkled piece of fake meat on her fork. “I’ll have to get the recipe from you.”

“Thanks,” Emma says, moving her already-moved food again.

My dad gets up for seconds and encourages everyone to follow him.

My mom keeps looking at Emma’s plate and making a concerned face until Emma forces another bite down. Then another. While they do their stare-off, I sneak pieces of devil meat under the table and feed it to the dog, who licks my hand appreciatively. I feel like a rotten friend. Especially when, toward the end of dinner, there’s a strange sound that starts coming from under the table. It sounds like an old man groaning.

My dad gives me a look. “Did you feed him something?”

I don’t answer. Everyone stops eating to listen, which is probably a horrible idea.

A quiet whistle sound comes from under the table, and starts to get louder and more high-pitched.

“What is that?” Sara’s mom asks.

My guess is they don’t have a dog.

The whistle gets louder, then goes silent.

I know we have about three seconds before the actual bomb hits.

“Oh!” Emma says, covering her face.