“Good Lord, Edward. Pay attention. You’re worse than Elaine. And don’t think I don’t see the glare from the screen of your phone under the tablecloth. There will be plenty of time for football after dinner.” She shoots him a stern look, and he sheepishly returns both hands to the table, slicing his turkey and eating silently.
“Flowers won’t be necessary. They make me sneeze.”
“Yes, of course. Well, some jewelry or something. Marilyn will pick out a lovely gift, I’m sure.” She dismisses me and turns her attention to Everett. “Are you still traveling for the holidays, dear, or will you be a lonely bachelor this year?.”
“Traveling, mother. I’m heading to Japan for a few weeks to oversee the newest acquisition.” He kicks my shin under the table to get me to look at him. Ugh. Who invented brothers? “But I’m not leaving until the 23rd, so birthday drinks are on me. I thought maybe I’d crash at your place before I head to the airport?”
Well, that’s new. But it’s also nice. And it’s a hell of a lot more than my parents are offering, so I’ll take it. “Yea, sure, that sounds great.”
Conversation swirls around me. I listen halfheartedly as Ev tells our parents about an oceanfront property he’s thinking of buying; our mother laments the fact that her favorite masseuse left the spa and the new girl has hands like a boxer and a touch that isn’t nearly as gentle. Even dad chimes in with details about a sailboat he’s been eyeing. Meanwhile, I sit and half-listen to their idle chatter. I stir my smashed cauliflower—you’re not fooling anyone, Mrs. Carlisle—with my fork and pick at my turkey, now cold and a little dry.
It’s always been like this, and yet, I feel for the first time as though I’m slowly waking up. My mother forgot my birthday. Sure, it was a momentary lapse, and yes, I’m well past the age of needing fanfare or a celebration, but still. I’m an afterthought. An accessory. Sometimes, a disappointment. I stand up from the table and excuse myself. My mother looks up briefly. “Skipping dessert? That’s fine, dear. Probably best, considering all those cookies. Oh, that reminds me. There’s a new supplement I think you should try. It helps speed up metabolism. I heard at card club that Logan’s wife used it, and she’s already lost all the baby weight. And their youngest isn’t even a month old.”
I refuse to let that last barb push me over the edge and into tears. I straighten my posture and walk purposefully out onto the patio off the living room. It’s brisk out here, but not nearly as frosty as the dining room was. I left my phone upstairs, but that’s likely for the best. I’d just use Molly as a crutch or reach out in desperation to Simon, a move I’d surely regret when this wave of self-pity abates.
Except self-pity doesn’t accurately describe what is going on in my head. Instead, it’s like I’m seeing things objectively for the first time ever. And yes, I’m sad, but I’m pissed, too—pissed that I haven’t seen it before. Pissed that Molly has been right all along, and I rolled my eyes and thought my best friend was being overprotective. Pissed that I let two people who are entirely disinterested in my life or happiness dictate my major decisions and behaviors. Because I blame my dad, too. Sure, he’s not vocal. And no, he’s never insulted me the way my mother does, but he sits there and lets it happen, and that’s nearly as bad.
For more years than I care to count, I’ve let my mom’s cruel words worm their way inside my head and fester there, effectively killing any good thoughts I dared to have about myself. Those words—and make no mistake, I let them in—those words built a wall that I wouldn’t let Simon scale, that I never even gave him the chance to try.
The wind starts to howl, and I know I should soon head inside, but I’m not ready just yet. And it’s not really a confrontation that I’m avoiding. Heavens, no. Madigans aren’t a confrontational sort. Passive-aggressive is far more our style. I know that I’ll head in eventually, ascend the stairs, and pack my bags. And when I do, I’ll make a lame excuse about having work to catch up on; my mother will subsequently make a dig about my traveling clothes (“No one over the age of six should wear leggings, dear”), my father will wave from his spot on the couch, and Ev might give me a hug or walk me out to the car. He’s human, at least. No one will talk about the Thanksgiving dinner that I walked out on. We’ll all just continue on as though nothing happened, because, really, nothing has. I’d bet my newest Kate Spade bag that they’re carrying on as though I’m still sitting at the table.
As this scenario plays out in my head, I hear my brother clear his throat as a warm blanket envelopes my shoulders.
See? I told you he’s a decent sort.
“I’m freezing my balls off out here, E.” He smiles and offers his mug of coffee, which I gratefully accept and then promptly hand back.
“Your coffee’s wrong.”
He raises an eyebrow, but offers me a cookie, so I take it and explain.
“You forgot the sugar. And the cream. And the flavor.”
“You are misinformed, E. This is what real coffee tastes like. I hate to break it to you.”
“Yea. It tastes like ass. Which is why you’re supposed to add whipped cream and cinnamon and stuff.”
Everett just shakes his head. “Sorry my coffee doesn’t taste like a milkshake. I do get points for the blanket and the cookies, yea?”
I grab an apricot roll and smile. “You pass. In fact, compared to our parents, you’re a white knight.”
“That’s hardly a compliment. You know they’re assholes, Elaine. They’ve never been anything but assholes. Why do you keep letting it upset you? You just have to ignore, smile, eat, and leave.”
“You’re right. I know, and I try, but God, they’re seriously assholes. Well, mom, especially. Dad has completely tuned out. But that sucks, too.”
“She’s much harder on you. She always has been. And that stuff about dieting? That’s complete bullshit. Tell me you know this. Tell me you haven’t been absorbing her shit all these years?”
“If I have, it’s not on you. I’m fully an adult. Damned near middle-age, as Patrice likes to remind me. I should know better than to listen to her.”
“Probably. But that’s easier said than done, kid. And you’ve always been too tolerant for your own good. And Patrice has always been too bitchy for everyone’s own good.” He looks in my direction, likely hoping to catch me cracking a smile, but instead, my face is splotchy, and the tears that have been threatening since my mother’s grand entrance today give way and race down my cheeks.
Predictably, my brother mutters, “Shit,” but he hugs me anyway and offers the corner of our shared blanket as a makeshift Kleenex, which I gratefully accept.
“Did I miss something? Don’t get me wrong. I’m not negating her hagfulness, just saying it’s always been this way, and, oh, Jesus, you’re like a damn faucet. Is it Logan? I can’t believe she brought that jackass into the conversation. Who gives a shit about them, E? He was a colossal douchebag, and you are so much better off without him. You know that, right?”
You know that, right?His question echoes Simon’s words from weeks ago. It’s a valid question and clearly the answer is no. But the better question is why? Why? If the people closest to me, like Molly and Simon, can see my worth so clearly, why can’t I? I stumble through my thoughts to find a response. “No, it’s not him. Or mom. I mean, it is mom, but it’s me, too. It’s that I let her in, and I doubt myself, and I drove Simon away, and…” I wipe my face with the other corner of the blanket.
“Simon? Who the fuck is Simon?”
