* * *
Ello was waiting at the school doors and pushed them open the second Juliana turned into the circular driveway. Once Ello had climbed into the car, she reached out, and for the first time in a long, long time, pulled her mother into a tight embrace.
“What’s wrong, honey?” Juliana whispered, kissing her daughter’s hair.
Ello shook her head. Whatever horrors were served up by eighth grade today, Juliana wouldn’t be hearing about them. Her daughter was choosing to face them alone.
Juliana struggled for something to say. Finally she managed, “I’m feeling a little ill myself.”
I’m praying I’m not pregnant, she didn’t add.
* * *
Today was it, D-Day, Liftoff, Game On, and Hunter had to go, had to get to work, but he couldn’t, not without speaking to Juliana.
Garrett and Ewan were in the kitchen, attempting to yank a cabinet door open past the child lock that was frustrating their attempts to reach the toxic chemicals within.
Hunter frowned at them. “Where’s your mom?”
Garrett said something that sounded sort of like “Pennsylvania.” Hunter began searching the house. He’d been unaware of Juliana leaving bed; he only knew that, when he snapped open his eyes, she was not in her place next to him.
She wasn’t doing laundry, she wasn’t in the bathroom upstairs, and she wasn’t in the garage. This was unusual enough that Hunter felt a tickle of concern. He tapped lightly on his daughter’s door and pushed it open. “Ello, do you have any idea where Mom might be?”
Ello turned her back on him violently. “God, Dad. It’s Thanksgiving. It’s my vacation. I’m trying to sleep in.”
Sighing, Hunter broadened the perimeters of his search. Finally, he descended into the finished part of the basement, where he heard a noise. The bathroom door was open a crack, and when he peeked in he could see his wife kneeling in front of the toilet bowl. “Oh my God, honey, are you okay?”
Juliana gave him a sad, depleted look. Then she retched, nothing coming up, but spat and flushed the toilet anyway.
“What are you doing down here?” he asked. Meaning, Why here in the basement?
“I didn’t want to wake you up,” she explained weakly, her voice echoing oddly out of the ceramic sound chamber of the bowl.
“Wake me up? How long have you been down here?”
“Since, I don’t know, maybe four o’clock.”
Hunter knelt next to his wife, feeling intense shame. Would he have been this considerate at four o’clock in the morning, padding silently down to this small bathroom where he could be sick without disturbing others?
“I’m sorry,” he told her inadequately. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”
Juliana shook her head and gave him an anemic, but brave, grin. “So, today’s the big day, right? You start the installation.”
Hunter nodded. “Right. The workers are at the office right now, dismantling all the old furniture.”
“You’d better go,” she urged softly.
Hunter shook his head, suffused with tender affection. “Let’s get you back up to bed.”
* * *
Winstead followed Daddy down the hall to the kitchen. Hunter was already there, trying to pull Garrett out of his high chair.
Daddy regarded the scene with his arms crossed. “Where’s my breakfast?” he demanded.
Winstead, sniffing at the floor, eased over to where the twins were seated. At mealtime, he could depend on them to rain a steady shower of crumbs his way.
“Dad,” Hunter responded wearily, “Juliana’s sick.”
Winstead located a small piece of cheese and scarfed it up with gusto.
“I’ve got to get to the office. I’m late. I need your help,” Hunter told his father.
Daddy grunted and Winstead eyed him, unsure what the sound meant.
Hunter angled his head toward the ceiling. “Ello? Ello, come down here!” he bellowed. He looked around. “My coffee cup’s here somewhere.”
“What do you expect me to do?” Daddy asked churlishly.
Though something odd seemed to be happening among the humans, Winstead couldn’t comprehend what it might be. With a sigh, he collapsed to the floor, his nose placed squarely between the two high chairs in case of more falling morsels.
“These next three days are the most important in my career,” Hunter informed his father. “Phase one has already commenced. By this time tomorrow, we’ll be installing all-new furniture. It’s a huge project, and I’ve got to be there to make sure it goes okay.”
The house echoed with what sounded like a horse falling down the stairs. Winstead glanced at the doorway as Ello scuffed into the kitchen. “God, Dad,” she groused.
“Listen to me,” Hunter commanded, finally hoisting Garrett out of his high chair and placing him where Winstead could lick the food from his pants. Hunter reached for Ewan and began tugging him out as well. “Everyone listen to me. I have to go to the office. Okay? Your mom is sick, she’s been throwing up half the night, and she’s sleeping now. Keep checking on her, and, I don’t know, just take care of everything.”
Ello stared in disbelief. “It’s Thanksgiving. What are we supposed to do about it?”
“I don’t know, Ello,” Hunter responded testily. “Maybe cook a turkey? Okay? Dad, can you help?”
There was a long, frozen silence as the question hung in the air.
“I hate this!” Ello cried. “Mom does everything and neither one of you ever help. It’s so unfair.”
Winstead cringed from the harsh voices, though it didn’t stop him from sniffing Ewan’s pants before the boys fled the kitchen.
“Yeah, of course,” Daddy said in flat, uninvolved tones. “I can help Ello.” He turned to her. “Can you fry me some eggs?”
Ello buried her face in her hands.
CHAPTER NINE
“So,” Sander speculated after his son had left. “How hard can it be to cook a turkey?”
He saw the tidal forces of rage fighting for control of Ello’s face. As a little girl, she had been able to charm her grandfather into reading her one book after another after another. Now, though, she’d morphed into this hideously unpleasant creature, spitting acidic venom. He remembered being her age and helping his father in the woodshop. Ello and her whole generation expected everything to be handed to them.
“The turkey. The dressing. The pumpkin pie. The banana bread. The peas and carrots. The mashed potatoes and gravy. The salad,” Ello cataloged scornfully. “How hard can it be?”
“I didn’t say how hard would it be for you to cook a turkey, Ello. We’ll do it together. We’ll open some cans.”
Ello groaned and Sander resisted the urge to throw up his hands and walk out on her. “Okay,” he proclaimed with false enthusiasm, looking around the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time, “let’s consult a cookbook.”
“Grandpa,” Ello chided, “nobody uses a cookbook anymore. You just look it up online.”
“I don’t trust the Internet,” Sander replied loftily. “It’s nothing but lies.”
“That’s just stupid.”
“Watch your tone, young lady.”
A violent noise came from the back of the house. It sounded as if the twins had managed to tip over their bunk beds. Sander winced, and even Winstead reacted, staring in alarm toward where the percussion still echoed through the house.
Ello mockingly raised her eyebrows at her grandfather. “How hard can it be?”
Enough. “I’ve just about had it with your attitude,” he snapped. “You saying you can’t be bothered to help your parents with Thanksgiving? Fine. Go stare at your phone.”
Her eyes widened. “My attitude? What about you? You just sit in your chair all day. You don’t help with anything. You stink.” Ello pinched her nose with her fingers. “I bring you your stupid fried eggs every morning and you’ve never thanked me. When you moved in, Mom said it was temporary, but you just stay and stay and stay!
That was supposed to be my bedroom, I would have my own bathroom, except you live there.” Winstead, sensing trouble, clicked across the hard floor to nose Sander’s hand.
“Do you think I wanted to move here?” he shot back. “I spent all my money on experimental procedures my insurance wouldn’t cover. And then my wife died anyway.”
“Yes! Grandma died! But that’s not my fault!” she shouted.
He regarded her silently, the anger seeping out of him. At that moment, if he could have willed himself a fatal heart attack, he would have done so. He wanted to just crumple to the floor. “No,” he admitted after a long moment. “You’re right. It’s not your fault.”
Hot tears were flowing down Ello’s cheeks. “I do chores. I do the laundry. Your laundry. And school is really hard, and I hate my life. The twins are all anybody cares about.”
“That’s not true.”
“Nobody knows what I’m going through! You all just act like I should be happy. But I’m not happy!” she screamed. Her face had turned red, her chest heaving from the effort of carrying so much anger.
“I’m not particularly happy at this juncture, either,” Sander observed wryly. “Thank you for bringing my fried eggs every morning, Ello.”
His granddaughter went to the counter and pulled out a tissue, blowing her nose.
“You think I’m a worthless old man,” Sander murmured.
She didn’t look at him.
“And you know what? Maybe you’re right. No, not maybe. I am worthless. I have no function whatsoever. If I don’t get out of bed in the morning, it matters to nobody.”
Winstead sat, watching Sander alertly, and made an almost inaudible whine.
“You’re right, Ello. I’m wrong. And I’m sorry. And I do care about you. Before she died, all Barbara wanted to do was have you come visit. And you brought such joy, we never wanted to give you back to your parents.”
“Well, I wish you hadn’t,” Ello declared forcefully.
“It took some sand to speak to me like that just now.”
“Sand?” Ello looked puzzled.
“Courage. I’m a lot bigger than you are.”
“Yeah, well, I could still take you.” A shadow of a grin touched her lips.
Sander mentally hugged his granddaughter. He figured that was all she’d allow … an imaginary embrace. He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m about to make the worst Thanksgiving dinner in history. Wanna join me?”
* * *
Hunter watched morosely as his crew members worked on dismantling the aging cubicle furniture on the engineering floor. By his calculation, they were falling three minutes behind for every one minute they worked. Though they were earning double time, none of the workers seemed to believe that that meant they should do anything but work at a pace appropriate for a holiday. More than once, he’d been forced to chase them out of the break room, where they were sitting, drinking soda from the refrigerator, and relating tales of furniture-assembly past. A year from now, they would probably tell each other, “Remember that time when we were paid all that money and didn’t do any work?”
His cell phone rang—it was his daughter.
“Hey, Dad,” Ello greeted him breezily. “How’s it going?”
Hunter had decided many years ago not to burden his children with work issues. “Okay,” he lied.
“So, Ewan sort of flushed Garrett’s pillow down the toilet.”
“Sort of?”
“Grandpa can see it, but he can’t get it out. He wants to cut it up and pull it out in chunks, but we’re afraid of Garrett’s reaction. It’s his favorite pillow, the one he calls ‘Cuh-ha.’ I think it means cupcake.”
“Maybe turn off the water, remove the toilet, and pull it out from below?” Hunter suggested.
“Like Grandpa could do something like that. You should see the gravy he made. It has all these lumps in it.”
“Your grandfather used to build houses, honey.”
“Not anymore.”
“Sweetie,” Hunter nearly pleaded, “I really have to go.”
“We had the most major fight, like, ever in history.”
Hunter gripped the phone. “Oh?” he replied warily.
“Yeah. He said he’s sorry about how everyone treats me like I’m the maid.”
“I’m sure that’s exactly what he said.”
“Anyway,” Ello continued lightly, “the turkey’s going to be ready pretty early, like, by maybe three o’clock? It looks done now, actually.”
“Oh, honey,” Hunter replied.
“Come on, Dad, it’s Thanksgiving. You have to come home.”
Hunter sighed. Maybe the workers would do a better job if he were not hovering over them in obvious panic. “How’s Mom?”
“I went in to check on her a few minutes ago. She was sound asleep. I think she’s okay. I don’t think she’s going to want dinner, though. Which might be true of all of us. The turkey’s … well, the skin is really, really brown, but the meat is still running red juices. So it will be crispy on the outside and fatal on the inside.”
Hunter laughed.
“You know, Dad, if anything ever happens to Mom, you and Grandpa should probably just join the Navy or something. Someplace where they have to cook for you. I could move to California and we could put the twins in an orphanage.”
Hunter laughed again, then realized he’d been missing something—Ello was in an upbeat mood. How in the world had that happened?
“Nothing’s going to happen to your mom,” Hunter assured her. Because, of course, he assumed it was true.
* * *
Amazingly, Ello and Sander had actually managed to pull things together pretty well. It was true that the oleaginous gravy was goopy and full of little pockets of white powder. The dressing was soup; the turkey, sawed into uneven shingles on the oval platter, was overcooked; the pumpkin pie hot and wet. The twins had placed toy cars around the turkey centerpiece. Despite it all, Sander and Ello were smiling proudly at each other when they served Hunter his plate.
Ewan picked up a pea, lifting it toward his nostril with obvious intent.
“Ewan!” Hunter commanded sharply. “Do not put peas up your nose.”
Ewan stared in astonishment. “Ewa?”
Hunter turned to Ello.
“You said not to put peas up his nose, and he said, ‘Ever?’” Ello translated.
Garrett’s eyes were bright with the possibilities afforded him by all the artillery on his plate: peas, carrots, turkey. Winstead wagged encouragement from below.
“No!” Hunter warned sternly. “Behave.”
For the moment, both boys seemed startled into compliance.
“We did pretty well, if I do say so myself,” Sander remarked. He and Ello exchanged proud grins.
Hunter blinked. What in the world had happened to forge an alliance between those two?
Over turkey, he contemplated the family ritual of asking every person to say what they were thankful for this Thanksgiving holiday. Then he decided against it. What would Ello say? I’m thankful hormones have hijacked my personality? And what about Sander? I’m glad I’m still drawing breath? Even though Hunter was pretty sure Dad felt exactly the opposite. And Hunter himself—I’m thankful my whole career is going to sink or swim based on a few million dollars’ worth of furniture?
When his phone rang, Ello dashed into the living room to fetch it without being asked. Hunter had meant to bring it to the table with him. He blanched when he saw the caller: Mrs. O’Brien.
“I’m surprised you are not here supervising,” Mrs. O’Brien said by way of holiday greeting. “Nothing seems to be getting accomplished, despite the fact that we’re paying these workers double time, something I will remind you was your idea.”
“Yes, but it’s still cheaper per hour than paying engineers to stand around if they can’t work starting Monday morning. This really is the most cost-effective way,” he assured her. The mathematical case for this had been laid out in the moving plan, b
ut he didn’t remind her.
“I assume you’ll be returning shortly?” Mrs. O’Brien asked in a not-a-question tone.
“Of course—I was just having a quick Thanksgiving dinner with my family.” The words hung in the air, heavy with implications. Thanksgiving. Family.
“Good,” Mrs. O’Brien said dismissively.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Hunter couldn’t stop himself from saying.
Mrs. O’Brien hung up without replying.
* * *
Juliana opened her eyes when she sensed Hunter leaning over her.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
She shook her head. Depleted, mostly.
Hunter pressed a palm against her forehead. She knew it was not hot.
“Do you want to go to the emergency room? Should I at least call the doctor?” he asked anxiously.
Juliana licked her lips. “No,” she whispered in a weak voice. “I’ll be fine.”
“Okay.…”
“Hunter?”
“Yes?”
“What would happen if I’m…” Pregnant. Grávida.
“If you’re…?”
She shook her head. “Never mind.”
CHAPTER TEN
Juliana felt better on Saturday—well enough, she told Hunter, to take Ello to ice dancing.
For Hunter, it was the most critical day in the entire installation process. The furniture was almost all moved out—only the executive offices remained.
The work crew reported to a man named Monty. Hunter had met a dog named Monty once, but this was his first human.
Monty sported a thick mustache and a bald head. He liked to call Hunter “Bossman.” Hunter had been called worse.
“Okay, Bossman,” Monty said, “we’re unloading the new work spaces onto the engineering floor for assembly now. And the other crew’s getting started on the executive offices.”
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