SURVIVAL KIT

by Donna Freitas

  “Do what?”

  “Turn off your music. Besides, it’s not as bad when I listen with somebody else.”

  “It’s okay. Besides, we’re here anyway,” he said as he pulled up in front of my house and turned off the engine.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I said.

  “No problem. Even though we lost, I’m glad you came to the game.”

  “It was fun. I think I’m officially a hockey fan.”

  He looked at me. “After Thanksgiving the season really picks up.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  I could tell he wanted to say something else and I knew I should open the door and get out. “Then I suppose I have a lot to look forward to.”

  Will bit his lip. He took his hands off the steering wheel and then put them back again, as if he wasn’t quite sure where they were supposed to go. “Maybe I could help you listen to music again sometime, you know, on the way. If you wanted.”

  “On the way?”

  “To my next game. Since you’re officially a fan.” His words hovered in the air, along with the fact that he’d just asked me out, or something like it.

  “Okay,” I told him.

  “It’s the Saturday after Thanksgiving.”

  “I’m free that night.”

  Will’s eyes were fixed on the windshield. “I’ll pick you up at six then.”

  “It’s a plan,” I said, and knew it was time I got out. I was feeling shy and nervous about what might happen if I stayed, so I opened the door and hopped to the ground, ready to leave, when at the last second I turned back. “So, if I don’t run into you at school next week, have a good holiday.”

  “You, too.”

  “Thanks again for the ride.” The groan of the door closing was loud in the quiet of the neighborhood, the trees shadowy in the moonlight. Will started up his truck and I listened to it idling as I walked up the brick path toward the house. He pulled away only after I’d turned the key in the lock and was safe inside. When the latch clicked shut I leaned against the door, closed my eyes, and sighed.

  19

  BOTTLE IT UP

  “Who was that?” demanded a voice in the darkened house, and I almost jumped a mile. My eyes adjusted to the dim light and I could see the thin, straight outline of my grandmother.

  “Grandma Madison,” I exclaimed. “You’re here already.”

  She flipped on a light. “Well, obviously,” she said, annoyed. The edges of her sleeves and pants were perfectly tailored, ending at her wrists and brushing the tops of her shoes. “Are you going to answer my question or keep me in suspense all night?”

  “Sorry, what did you want to know again?”

  She glared. “Who dropped you off?”

  “Oh. Nobody.” I moved toward her. Somebody needed to make a gesture of hello to cut the awkwardness in the room. I tried to kiss her on the cheek but she stepped out of the way.

  “You’re telling me that was an invisible truck with no driver.”

  “Nice to see you, too,” I said, and forced her into a hug before heading off to the kitchen. Her soft footsteps padded against the floor behind me. I opened the fridge to stare at the shelves in case anything tempted me and saw that it was stocked with food and for the first time I hadn’t been the one to do it. Grandma Madison must have brought a carload of groceries. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all. “It was just a friend,” I said, and took out a yogurt, kicking the door shut. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Do you sigh like that when all your friends leave you at the door? And don’t try to tell me it was that football player,” she added before I could respond. “Jim spilled the beans that you broke up.”

  I pulled out a kitchen drawer and grabbed a spoon, plunging it into the yogurt. “So you already know everything, then, Grandma. Stop being so nosy.”

  She harrumphed. “Stop being so obvious then, Rose,” she said, and gave me an accusing look before walking away toward the guest room. She pulled the door shut with a forceful thud behind her, and for once I was thankful to be alone again.

  Maybe Grandma Madison actually was the perfect antidote to the pain of enduring our first big holiday without Mom. She didn’t tolerate sentimentality and provided a constant stream of sarcastic commentary that almost instantaneously dispelled whatever emotion was in the room.

  On Monday after school as I was hovering near the oven, distracted by the delicious smells wafting into the kitchen, I became nostalgic and started to say, “I remember when Mom used to—” when Grandma immediately interrupted.

  “Damnit, Rose!” she barked. “What did I tell you about leaving that meat loaf in the oven longer than fifty minutes? It will dry out!”

  “Sorry, Grandma,” I droned, any trace of wistfulness sucked away by her harsh attitude. I grabbed an oven mitt. “Calm down.”

  Then on Tuesday when I heard Jim’s car pull up in the driveway I was so excited I dropped everything and ran out to hug him and help with his bags. When the two of us came inside dragging laundry and several suitcases, instead of offering to help or even greeting Jim, the only thing Grandma managed to do was yell at me for leaving the soup unattended on the stove.

  And on Wednesday, when I was in the kitchen mashing the potatoes by hand, I started to tear up—Mom and I had always loved pushing the ricer down into the mixture of milk, butter, and potato, watching as lines snaked up through the wafflepatterned holes—and suddenly mashing potatoes became a sad, significant experience rather than just another dish to get through on the Thanksgiving checklist.

  “Don’t go snotting into the food, Rose,” Grandma snapped when she noticed me sniffling over the bowl.

  After that I kept my tears out of the kitchen.

  On the brighter side, Grandma Madison’s blunt, ongoing remarks came in handy where Dad was concerned, specifically with regard to his drinking.

  “We’re having a dry holiday tomorrow, James,” she announced in that commanding I’m-your-mother voice she always used with him.

  The four of us were sitting around the kitchen table, Jim, Dad, and me wolfing down roasted chicken and tiny hills of mashed potatoes—Grandma almost hadn’t let us take any since she claimed they were the “Thanksgiving mashed potatoes” reserved for Thursday.

  Dad paused, his fork midway between his mouth and plate. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me,” Grandma said, slamming her water glass against the table, making everyone jump. “Dry, James. As in no alcohol. No wine. No hard liquor. None.”

  “Ma,” he said, dropping his fork, and it clattered against the dish.

  This wasn’t going to end well. I got up and rushed over to the fridge to refill my glass so I was out of the way in case silverware started flying.

  “James, this is not up for discussion. It just is. You take one sip of anything other than soda or water or whatever nonalcoholic beverage you want to drink this holiday weekend and you are out the door—”

  Now here, Grandma impressed me. I was sure she would say she’d be out the door and not the other way around, that she’d be swayed by my father’s reaction, but she stood her ground.

  “And we’ll just have our Thanksgiving without you,” she finished.

  “Ma—”

  “Don’t Ma me,” she said, standing up and leaning forward over the table. She wasn’t a big woman, but she was still intimidating. “That’s it. End of story.”

  Dad’s mouth closed. He stared at her in something like disbelief. I, on the other hand, took my seat again and studied the chicken on my plate, trying to hide the relieved smile on my face.

  Thanksgiving was awkward and relatively quiet, almost silent, even though Grandma was with us. “Can you pass me the sweet potatoes?” was about the extent of the dinner conversation.

  Mom’s absence loomed over everything. She wasn’t there to carve the turkey, or say which dishes came out the best, or to make a toast or even entertain us with funny stories about her kids. Th
e bottom line: Mom wasn’t there, and we all felt it. Occasionally, Jim tried to fill the hush with gossip from his first year at college, but even when he said, “So I met this girl in sociology class. She’s really cute,” nobody bit. There was only silverware clinking against plates and a single comment from Grandma Madison.

  “You’re not going to major in sociology, are you? You’ll never get a job.”

  There was one bright spot, though, for which I was incredibly grateful. Grandma held Dad to her no-drinking rule. It made me wish that I, too, could have that power over Dad. But for now I’d take the help from wherever it came. While Jim and I cleared the table that night and Dad was in the kitchen with Grandma putting away the leftovers, I gave thanks for this reprieve because sometimes you have to be grateful for the little things when the big things get to be too much.

  The next morning Jim and I went out for breakfast, just the two of us. It was tradition, and this year, more than any other, we needed at least one holiday ritual to stay the same.

  I smirked at my brother from across the table and grabbed his menu so he couldn’t hide behind it. “Tell me about this girl from sociology.”

  Jim yanked the menu back and studied the breakfast selections even though we always ordered the same thing: blueberry pancakes with extra blueberries on top. “There isn’t a girl—I made her up,” he explained. “I was willing to say anything to break that awful silence yesterday.”

  “You mean Grandma’s snide remarks don’t count?”

  “Let’s make this a Grandma-free breakfast. From now on we won’t even say her name.”

  “Okay,” I said, and propped both elbows on the flecked Formica table, wrinkling the place mat without any fear since Grandma wasn’t here to correct me. “I second that.”

  “Rose,” a voice said from behind me, and I watched as my brother’s eyes got big and then dreamy. Kecia waltzed up to our table and pulled me from the booth and into a hug. “It’s so good to see you,” she said.

  I smiled. “It’s good to see you, too. Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?”

  “It was fine. You know, the usual. My family always has to make everything a big production.”

  Jim cleared his throat. “Rosey.”

  “Oh, sorry. Jim, this is Kecia, and Kecia, this is my brother, Jim. He’s home from college.” To Jim I explained, “Kecia and I used to cheer together.”

  “I know, I played football, remember?”

  Kecia extended a slender, perfectly manicured hand to my brother. “But we’ve never officially met until now.”

  I worried Jim might kiss her hand, or not let go. Happily, he took it only briefly.

  “Likewise,” he said, his eyes glued to hers. “So you remember me?”

  “I do,” she admitted.

  Jim smiled upon hearing this and I was sure he was about to embarrass me so I changed the subject. “Are you going to the game tomorrow?” I asked Kecia.

  “Of course. Are you?”

  “I am. Will you save me a seat?”

  “Definitely,” she said, and turned back to my brother, whose face registered joy at the attention. “I’m trying to turn Rose into a hockey fan. It’s working so far.”

  “Rosey at a hockey game?” Jim gave me a quizzical look. “Interesting.”

  “She loves it—ask her,” she told him. “Listen, I should go. I’m picking up takeout and my dad is waiting in the car outside.” Kecia glanced out the window. “But I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  “Bye, Rose. Bye, Jim.” Kecia gave us a wave before heading up to the register.

  Jim’s eyes followed her the entire way.

  “Oh my god,” I said, but this wasn’t enough to get Jim’s attention. I snapped my fingers next to my brother’s cheek. “Jim. Hey, Jimmy!”

  “What,” he said, picking up his mug of coffee, his eyes watching me from above it.

  “She’s not an object to ogle at,” I pointed out.

  He grinned. “Oh, no, she’s clearly much more. I absolutely remember her, too, but I don’t quite remember her looking like that.”

  “Please spare me the details running through your brain. She’s my friend.”

  “Well, lucky you,” he said, and turned away again to take in Kecia one last time as she headed toward the exit, takeout bag in hand. The chime attached to the top of the door jingled as it opened and shut and she disappeared from view. The waitress came over to take our order, then hurried away, shoving the pad and pen into the pocket of her apron. “So tell me more about hockey.”

  “It’s nothing. Just something to do.”

  “But it’s a new thing, right? I mean, I’m glad you’re going out and doing stuff, especially if it involves her.” Jim wiggled his eyebrows and I rolled my eyes.

  “Stop being creepy,” I said.

  I waited for him to go on, but instead he said, “I guess everyone wants pancakes this morning,” and got up from our booth. “Chris, great to see you.”

  My pulse quickened, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Chris Williams and my brother shake hands.

  “Hey, Jim,” he said. “We’ve missed you this year out on the field.”

  “Yeah, well, my body doesn’t miss it.”

  “I bet.”

  I felt Chris’s gaze.

  “Hi, Rose,” he said.

  I looked up, expecting to feel the usual mixture of pain, regret, and hope that came with seeing Chris since our breakup, but what I felt instead was nothing much at all. Maybe I was getting over him. “Hi, Chris,” I said, and managed a smile. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “I thought about you guys a lot yesterday. You know, first big holiday without your mom.” Chris’s eyes never left my face.

  “Thanks,” Jim said. “That means a lot.”

  “It does,” I said, and tried to read the expression in Chris’s eyes. It looked as though he wanted to say something else, but our waitress arrived at the table with a series of plates balanced up her arm. She placed a stack of pancakes in front of me and another in front of my brother.

  “Well, I guess I’ll see you later,” he said with some hesitation, and strolled off toward the booth in back that the diner kept reserved for Lewis football players.

  Jim stared at me through the steam rising between us from the pancakes. “I still can’t believe you guys broke up.”

  I began cutting a section of my pancakes into bite-size pieces. “Well, we did.”

  “But he’s obviously still into you.”

  I stabbed my fork onto my plate and raised a wedge to my mouth. “If he was, don’t you think he’d tell me?”

  “Would you get back together if he wanted to?”

  At first I responded without thinking and said, “Yes,” but a second later, I changed my mind. “Actually, no, I don’t think I would,” I said, and took a bite full of blueberries.

  “I liked your first answer better.”

  “Well, the second one stands.”

  Jim poured syrup into a pool at the side of his plate. “Rosey, come on, let me talk to him. Maybe I could help.”

  His concern was so genuine and the gesture meant so much that I almost wanted to tell him yes, just to have the experience of my big brother stepping in on my behalf to try to fix my life. But I didn’t need it fixed, at least not in this particular way—not anymore.

  I pointed my fork at his dish. “Eat your pancakes. They’re getting cold,” I said, and I turned the conversation to other things.

  20

  PRIVATE CONVERSATION

  On Saturday evening at precisely 5:55, Grandma Madison poked her head out the front door. “Are you waiting for the invisible truck with no driver?” she wanted to know.

  I looked up from the chair on the porch, where I was shivering and trying to read, huddled inside my thick winter coat. “Grandma,” I whined, and shooed her away. Enduring the cold for a few minutes while I waited for Will to pick me up was preferable to him ringing the bell and suf
fering through comments from Grandma and Jim. I’d debated for half an hour about what to wear, and I just wanted Will to arrive so we could get on with whatever lay ahead.

  Grandma tapped her foot impatiently. “Get back inside or you’ll get sick.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “But it’s freezing.”

  “Really, I’m fine.”

  “Oh, suit yourself. It’s not like I’m going to bite any of your boyfriends.”

  “Right,” I said under my breath.

  “I heard that.”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend,” I added defensively.

  “Mm-hm. Just like you weren’t having sex with that football player.”

  “Grandma,” I hissed, but she had already shut the door with a loud bang.

  The headlights of a truck flashed around the corner and Will pulled up in front of the house. I stuffed my book in my bag and raced down the front walk, opening the passenger door before he could turn the key and get out.

  “Hey,” I said, out of breath.

  “Hey,” he said. His hand rested on the gearshift, but he made no move to put the truck into first. He wore jeans and a thick, coal gray sweater, the edge of a black T-shirt just visible around his neck, and I could see his hockey gear in the back of the truck through the narrow window behind us. Hot air blasted from the dashboard and occasionally the gusts lifted his long bangs off to the side of his face. He shook his head and they fell into place again.

  “Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?” I asked.

  “As good as it could be,” he said with a shrug. “My sisters liven things up.”

  “Ours was just okay, too.” I thought back to Thursday and reconsidered. “Actually, it pretty much sucked. You know?”

  He nodded. “I do.”