The setback, p.14
The Setback, page 14
“Don’t look at me,” Mandy says from where she’s leaning on the edge of the kitchen table. “I usually buy the nicest TV dinner they have. And I’ve already done my part.” She holds up a bottle of wine.
My mom breezes into the room—which is about right. She’s been up around eleven a.m. every morning this week since I told her to just come stay with us. “Did someone say green beans?”
We all look at her like she’s out of place.
Because she is.
It hasn’t been as awful to have my mom around as I thought, but even during her time here, she’s steered clear of the kitchen. My girls make the meals now, mostly, thanks to Abby’s kids training them and my general failure at all things cooking-related. Maybe I got that from my mom. . .
“Did you know that Mom started a cookie company?” Maren can’t help her snort. She’s never going to stop talking about that one.
“You did?” Mom’s eyes light up. “Ooh, where is it? I’d love to go.”
“You’d need a very precise time machine for that,” Maren says. “Not only did it already close, it was barely open before it did.”
“That’s a cryin’ shame,” Mom says.
“Here.” Emery hands my mother the very recipe she just took from me. “Mom doesn’t want to make this now that she saw it has mushroom soup in it.”
Mom spins toward me. “Is she still fussing about that?”
“That?” Maren looks like a hound who just scented a big, smelly fox. “What is that, exactly? Be specific.”
I shake my head. “There’s no need to—”
Mom claps in delight. “So one year, we were busy celebrating on the porch out front. The weather was great.”
I consider telling them that celebrating means she and Dad were piss-drunk, but I decide not to share.
“Anyhow, the boys had gone to a friend’s house or something, I think. And then your dad and I hear this huge bang, and when we rush inside.” She starts laughing. Then she points. Like I’m a carnival side show. A court jester.
My mom’s mocking me in my own home.
I’m not even surprised. It’s actually her behavior of the past few weeks that has been more shocking.
“She was covered, head to toe, in mushroom soup.”
“Rotten mushroom soup,” I explain. “Mom never bothered cleaning out the pantry, and I didn’t know that when a can swells up, it’s because it’s full of bacteria.”
Maren’s nose scrunches up.
Emery covers her mouth like she can smell it.
“Bacteria makes things smell really, really bad.” I shake my head. “Haven’t been able to touch mushroom soup since that day.”
“But you ate Aunt Abigail’s green beans last year.” Maren’s looking at me in a superior way that really chuffs.
“I didn’t know what was in them,” I say. “It’s the rotten smell that really throws me off, but when I’ve tried opening mushroom soup, it just overtakes me.”
“Well, you’re in luck,” Mom says. “My recipe for green beans doesn’t have no mushrooms of any kind.”
“Did you bring your recipes?” Emery asks. “That was smart.”
Mom taps her head. “I got it locked up in here.”
“Oh.” Emery’s too kind for her own good. I’m quite positive that Mom’s green beans will be terrible. In all the years I lived at home, I never ate a single thing she made, because she rarely cooked. But when she did, nothing she made was ever edible.
Or even edible-adjacent.
“It’s fine, Mom. I can—”
“Oh, no, I insist,” she says.
“Let your mother make her green beans.” Mandy has a look on her face that makes me nervous. When she goes out onto the porch to put up the Thanksgiving wreath we took down for the most recent snowstorm, I follow her out.
“What was that face for?”
“What face?” Mandy’s making her best Bambi eyes, but I’m not buying it.
“Why did you take her side?”
Mandy hangs the wreath, and then turns toward me slowly, her face a picture of delight. “Amanda Brooks, what part of today do you think is going to taste good?”
“Excuse me?”
She pins me with a stare. “You heard me.”
“It’s Thanksgiving,” I say. “Abby gave us her recipes.”
Her laugh-turned-bark grates on my nerves. “Abigail gave you her recipes. That would be like me giving my pig Jed the ingredients to a soufflé and being upset when it tasted like a bowl of pig-licked mush.”
“I may not be Abby, but I’m better than a pig. I can read, for one.”
She arches one eyebrow.
“It’s Thanksgiving,” I say.
“And I plan to enjoy the car crash as much as humanly possible.” She jabs me in the stomach. “And you should, too.”
“Why do you assume that the first time I host Thanksgiving, it’ll be a car crash?”
“You should have listened to me and Helen and had it catered.” Mandy shrugs. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but most things you do are a bit of a car crash. People love stopping to look at those. It’s entertaining.”
“Do you really think this entire day is going to be a mess?”
“Emery’s store-bought dough will probably be just fine, assuming we don’t burn the rolls. And Eddy’s bringing pie, so I bet those are fine. Abby and her kids are coming with a turkey, thank heavens. But I bet the mashed potatoes are lumpy—”
“We decided to use the boxed kind.”
“Even better.” She’s beaming. “I bet Abigail has never had those in her life.”
“Look,” I say.
“No, you look. One of the beauties of a large family is that you have a lot of oddballs, and it makes for great stories, like your exploding mushroom soup.”
“That traumatized me.”
“I’m sure it did.” Mandy cocks her head sideways. “Do you know what humor is, girl?”
“It’s stuff that’s funny.”
“Yes, but why is it funny?”
I have no idea what she’s saying.
“It’s funny because it’s something horrible. Something we shouldn’t talk about. But for some reason, it’s been made okay.”
“What?”
“When I get bad news, sometimes I laugh about it. It’s a nervous reaction our body has.”
“Okay.” I’m starting to freeze to death, but if we go back inside, Maren and Emery and my mom will hound me again. I rub my hands on my upper arms.
“Why are racist jokes funny?”
“They’re not.” I scowl.
“That’s right!” She slaps my shoulder. “Because now we don’t just get nervous about them. We all agree they’re wrong. So they’re not okay anymore. But someone who’s fat making jokes about their own weight? That’s fine. Someone making jokes about their own religion, that’s also okay. A black man can make a joke about black people—it’s okay, because he’s a part of the group being targeted so he can’t really mean harm. Your trauma from back then is funny precisely because it’s been a long time since it happened. You have to laugh about it so you can stop crying.”
“You’re saying it’s good that this Thanksgiving is going to be really bad.”
“I’m saying that, as a group, we have some rough edges right now. Your mother. Helen. Ethan and Beth.” She drops her voice down low. “Something is going on with those two. I don’t know what, but I’ve heard Abby whispering, and. . .” She shakes her head. “Mark my word, girl. Something.” She tsks.
“Alright, well.”
“Let your mother make her horrible green beans, and you’re investing in a hilarious joke for a future Thanksgiving.”
When we walk back inside, my mom’s scooping Crisco out of a jar and dropping it into a pot.
“Oh, no. Forget everything I said,” Mandy whispers. “We need to get rid of those discreetly.”
“Too late.” I’m barely able to suppress my laughter. “I’ll get you an extra helping so you’re fully in on the joke next year.”
She jabs me in the ribs, but it’s worth it.
About ten minutes before everyone’s supposed to arrive, as I’m changing into a cable knit sweater and spraying on some perfume, it occurs to me that my mom may not have something nice to wear. I zip down the hall toward her room, which is open a hair, but when I hear her talking, I pull up short.
Are Maren or Emery in there, getting some grandma bonding time? My greatest hope has been that they, without the damage I’ve had from years of neglect and indifferent behavior, might be able to actually get to know her. That they might learn a little something about where I came from.
“—told you that I can’t help you with that. No, I’m not going to ask her for money. Not this time.”
There’s a pause.
“Because I said so. You’re working, and that should be enough for now.”
After the next pause, she raises her voice. “I already said no.” She spins around then, and sees me.
“Hi.” I wave awkwardly.
Her eyes widen. “Oh. Hey, dumplin.”
“Can I come in?”
She glances at the floor as if she’s embarrassed the room is a mess. In all the years of my life, I’ve never seen any room she has inhabited that would not rival a pigsty for filth. And we have an actual pig living in this house.
I feel a little bad for using a pigsty as my comparison. Jed’s really pretty clean.
She waves me in, kicking at piles of clothes as I walk through the door. I try not to think about how many dust bunnies she’s kicked her dirty clothes through.
“I wasn’t trying to listen in, but I couldn’t help hearing.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Your dad’s just been a little stressed out.”
When were they not? “Mom, to be honest, I’ve expected you to ask for money since the moment you arrived.”
She sighs. “I know.”
“I’m sure you owe plenty of people.” Because they always do. “How about this? You’ve come and you’ve stayed longer than I ever thought you might.” I force a smile. “But I have money saved, so how about I give you ten grand, and you head back home?”
Her eyes widen.
“Would that help?”
“We couldn’t possibly—”
“And I can start sending you a thousand dollars a month.” I haven’t checked with Eddy, but I doubt he’ll mind. Some people have child support. I have crazy-parent-keep-away money. Is that really so bad?
“Amanda.” Mom reaches her hand out like she’s going to set it on mine.
My entire body tenses up. We are definitely not in a place where she can comfort me with her touch. She freezes and drops her hand back to her own lap. “That’s a very nice offer, and you know we always wind up in a tight spot.” She inhales sharply through her nose. “But this time, we decided not to ask, and I ain’t changing.” She shakes her head. “No, ma’am.”
I must have temporarily suffered some kind of brain fog. “You’re saying no?”
“Yes. I’m saying no.” She leans a little closer. “But if you could not mention the offer to your dad, that’d be really good.”
“Mom.” She’s never tried this strategy before, and frankly, it’s a good one. “Alright. Fifteen thousand now, and fifteen hundred a month for the next year.”
It might be worth that forever, if they don’t come back and cause problems again. Honestly, I bet Mandy spent close to two grand on their hotel rooms for the two plus weeks that Dad and the boys stuck around. Maybe more. She kept telling me that she got a deal for being friends with the hotel owner, but isn’t everyone friends with her? I mean, she knows the whole town. If that’s really her business model, how can she keep the doors open?
But even when I push again, Mom still turns me down. “Let’s just go out there and celebrate being together for Thanksgiving.” Mom smiles. “It’s our first Thanksgiving together since you left home.”
I don’t mention that I didn’t leave home. We were all evicted, and I landed on the couch of one of my friends, which was a huge step up at the time. “Alright. We can do that.”
When I leave, I realize that I didn’t even offer to loan her something to wear. I guess the conversation we had was both more important and more honest than the one I had planned.
After the tornado of people arrive, I lose track of any coherent thoughts.
Abigail, Steve, and their five arrive—his daughter’s in town for Thanksgiving this year. I can’t believe there will be six the next time she comes out. Abby must have lost her mind.
Next come Donna, Will, Beth, and Aiden. When I go to hug Beth, she yanks back like I’m carrying the plague. “Sorry,” she says. “I have a little cold. Don’t want to get you sick.”
I guess she’s not worried about Ethan, though, because they’re holding hands and she keeps leaning against his chest.
And finally, Eddy makes it. “Sorry.” He’s unwinding his scarf when I realize he’s not alone. He’s got Snuggles on a leash. “She was freaking out when I went to leave. I tried to calm her down for almost twenty minutes, but no dice.”
Roscoe rushes to her side, licking her face.
She growls at him an awful lot, but I guess like me, she’s more growl than bite. At first, the pair of them circle the room like they’re on guard duty, but after a few moments of hand sniffs and licks, they calm down. Then, a bit later, they wander off and lie down in a big pile in the corner of the family room, by the Christmas tree.
Thank goodness.
“Oh, no!” I spin around, looking for Jed. Roscoe’s gotten used to Mandy’s pig, but Snuggles might try to eat him.
“I put him in my bathroom,” Mandy says. “Even if someone inadvertently opens my door.” She glares at Aiden and Gabe. “He still won’t get loose.”
“Smart,” Abby says. “You never know with this many kids what hare-brained things they’ll do.”
Helen breezes through the door five moments later and looks around the room. “I need some men.”
“Excuse me?” Eddy looks at Steve, who shrugs.
“To help me carry things, obviously.” She rolls her eyes like they’re the idiots.
They follow her out, and Mandy catches my eye. “You could see where we were confused by that statement.” Her conspiratorial grin may be the best thing about her. “I mean. I could use some men, too.”
A moment later, when Eddy and Steve return, each toting large boxes, I’m the one who’s lost. “What is that?”
“Abby said she was making the turkey, but Steve insisted on doing it.” She waves her hand near her face. “Pregnancy gag reflexes and all that.”
“Okay.”
“So I asked what I’m supposed to do, and she said nothing, which I guess is fair. I’m not known for being a cook. But then it hit me what I could do.”
“Which was?” Abigail stands up and walks into the room. She’s not waddling, but her belly’s pronounced. I don’t miss that at all.
“What did Dad’s friend always bring when he came for Thanksgiving?” She’s beaming at Abigail.
“Chocolate covered cherries?” Her eyes light up.
I hate it.
“You didn’t.” Abby’s rubbing her hands together.
Helen nods. “You betcha. I almost forgot how much we loved them. Remember when we each ate an entire box and Mom screamed for like an hour?”
“She never screamed,” Abby says. “Except for that year.”
“I got everyone their own huge box.” Helen gestures to where the guys put the boxes on the exterior wall. “So when we’re all done with dinner, you can each grab yours.”
“I hate cherries,” I say.
“You ate them on that cheesecake,” Abby says.
“Cherry Coke is your favorite.” Maren’s a traitor.
“And you love cherry vanilla ice cream.” I didn’t expect it from Emery.
I narrow my eyes. “It’s a new thing. I burned out on them.”
“Great. Then can I have yours?” Eddy’s an idiot. I’m marrying an idiot.
“Hey,” Mandy says. “Let’s eat.”
A knock at the door has me smiling. I wondered whether he would actually show.
“Isn’t everyone here?” Abby’s eyes cut my direction. “Please tell me you didn’t invite my parents again.”
With my mom here? I think that if our crappy but opposite parents met, they might explode. “No.” But I do rush to the door and swing it open. “It’s—”
“David almighty Park,” Helen says, her face flushing bright red.
And I finally have something to be thankful for on this fine day of gratitude. I hit paydirt.
She looks absolutely horrified.
She deserves it.
“Cherries.” I can’t help muttering to myself as I practically dance into the kitchen. “Who brings gifts to Thanksgiving?”
My mom turns toward me. “What, dear?”
“Nothing.”
“Your friends are all so nice! That’s about the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do. Did you know that chocolate covered cherries are my favorite food in the world?”
My mom even sucks at hating the people I hate.
“Alright.” I gesture to get all the tiny conversations all over the house to hush. “I’m just delighted to be hosting Thanksgiving this year.”
“Along with me.” Mandy has reached my side, and she’s beaming. Difference being, I think she’s actually delighted.
“Steve, set the turkey on the edge of the counter there, right next to the plates. And then if you could start slicing that, we can start loading up plates.”
Abby clears her throat. “Steve?”
He’s looking at her.
“What?” I have no idea why she’s—oh. It finally hits me. “Would you like to say grace, Abby?”
“If you’d like me to.”
After my nod, she does, and a more beautiful prayer I’m not sure I’ve ever heard. I actually feel a little bad forgetting about it. Once it’s over, everyone starts to load up their plates, kids first, followed by adults. Although a lot of things were brought by others, like the turkey, a spinach and bacon salad, a fluffy pink cranberry salad, the pies, and the stuffed mushrooms, I’m still proud of the things we provided.
I grab one of Emery’s rolls, and then I scoop up a spoonful of her sweet potato casserole. The pecans are chopped a little inconsistently, and it’s a little wet, but it looks great otherwise. Abby’s right next to me, and I can feel her eyes watching me.
