by A J Rivers
Her mother was proud of her. But this was different from all of her other accomplishments. It was different from anything she had ever wanted to try. Letting her go away to college was already a challenge for her mother, but Julia always told her she chose her school specifically and after a lot of thought. It had the program she wanted. A gorgeous campus. The student life was spectacular, and there were a lot of opportunities for her to volunteer.
Her mother almost laughed when she thought about that conversation. Julia almost sounded as if she was rattling off the marketing material from a brochure for the University. But there was so much enthusiasm around her that her parents couldn’t say no. If this was really what she wanted and it would get her to the goals she set for herself, they weren’t going to stand in her way.
Even if that meant being accepted into an exclusive program abroad that would keep her away from home for the better part of a year. Just the thought of her not being nearby was too much for her mother to wrap her head around.
While she was on campus, she was independent. She was at a distance from her parents and the place she had always lived. But at least she was accessible. If her mother missed Julia too much, she could just get in the car and drive, or take a train. Within a few hours, she and her daughter would be together.
It wasn’t going to be that way with her in the exclusive program. She wouldn’t be able to communicate very often, much less actually see her parents while she was serving.
This year, she wouldn’t even be home for Christmas. That was the worst blow of the situation. They didn’t actually think she would sign up for a departure date that came only a few days after Thanksgiving. It meant she wouldn’t be home for the holiday, and they might not even be able to call her.
She didn’t want this to happen, but Julia was an adult. She was talented and brilliant. Her parents wanted to encourage that in her even if that meant her leaving college. That just meant they were going to have to learn to cope without her as well.
Thirteen years ago …
* * *
Fourth Week of November
Monday: Mom asked me today how volunteering at the hospital was going. I started telling her things and I was amazed at how good it actually sounded. Impressive, even. Just the fact that I was as proud as I was in that moment is pretty telling.
Tuesday: I miss them so much. I knew it would be hard. It always is. But it’s so much harder this year. Last night, I couldn’t fall asleep. I just lay there and cried. Maybe I should have just been brave enough to push the issue. It doesn’t matter what my parents think. Not anymore. I don’t want to come back here for Christmas and have it be like this.
Wednesday: Emma called me today to tell me Happy Thanksgiving because she figured I’ll be busy tomorrow. She’s trying to seem like she’s okay, but I know she’s not. I can’t even imagine what she’s going through. I’m so glad she has her boyfriend. I’ve only met him once and it was just in passing, but he seems sweet and she obviously loves him. He’ll get her through this. But hopefully she’ll get her answers soon.
Thursday: I’m thankful today. I really am. Thankful for what I have and for the future I hope to have one day. Being here and celebrating the holiday with my family has made everything a lot clearer. The table was full and there weren’t any empty chairs, but I knew the whole time that there should have been. It made me angry at my parents, even though they have no idea. I’m even more sure now. I’m not coming back for Christmas. Not like this.
Friday: I actually had fun shopping this morning. Mom and I got up early and hit some of the big stores. We weren’t after anything specific, but we got some good deals. There were some things I noticed that I obviously couldn’t buy in front of her, but I made note of them so I can go back or order them online. Emma called again to ask if I heard the rumors about Murillo. She knows the Professor and I don’t get along and thought it might amuse me to hear all the dirt churning around campus about her and a teaching assistant. I didn’t tell her I already knew all about those rumors.
Saturday: I almost told my mother today. I don’t even know what came over me. We were eating Thanksgiving leftover sandwiches and talking about playing board games that night, and suddenly I was just about to say it. I actually started the sentence. But the words just wouldn’t come out of my mouth. No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t actually say them.
Sunday: Marissa sent me a picture of Iris today. She’s holding up a picture of a turkey hand and the caption said she misses me. It’s amazing how much she’s grown. I guess I don’t think about it all that much when I’m there but seeing a picture of her like that really makes me realize it. Time is going by fast. I wasn’t really ready for that.
Chapter Nineteen
Nothing says Thanksgiving week quite like eighty-percent-off jack o’ lanterns staring down Santa from across a crowded aisle in the seasonal section of a sprawling discount department store.
Or, so I’m learning.
It’s the Sunday before Thanksgiving, and since I’ve been ousted from the grocery store in town, my trip for last-minute groceries has become a quest to the next town over. I’ll admit, I was tempted to go to the regular grocery store when I realized I still needed Sam’s can of cranberry sauce and wanted to throw together a couple of extra dinner and snack options for the amount of time everybody would be at my house.
But he wasn’t particularly keen on that idea. He told me it’s the holidays and I’m not allowed to do protest demonstrations that could land me in jail. I have a turkey I need to cook.
I feel as if it’s a bit of an exaggeration that I would get myself tossed into jail. Particularly considering he’s the sheriff, and I think I could convince him to let me out. But he’s probably right. There’s enough chaos going on right now that I don’t need to confront Gretchen over the nasty whispers and rumors surrounding the situation with Gabriel.
With any luck, the truth will be revealed soon enough, and they’ll know it wasn’t me who led him astray.
It’s a bit of a battle getting through everybody who left their shopping to the ninety-six hours before Thanksgiving, and even though I hear my phone ringing a couple of times, I don’t risk trying to answer it. I am not going to be that person. The one cluelessly wandering around in public babbling on my phone and not paying attention to what’s actually going on.
When I finally manage to get the last things on my list, zip through one of the self-checkout lanes and get out to my car, I take a second to check my phone. All the missed calls have come from the same number that called me before, the one with the area code I recognize, but that’s it.
They certainly seem persistent at getting to me, which tells me it may not be a wrong number after all. And this time, they left a message. Turning on the heat to keep away the cold temperatures that have crept in to emphasize the holiday season, I access my voicemail box to hear the message.
“Hello, Ms. Griffin. This is Nancy Fulbright from the University. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you, but we seem to be missing each other. Your other number isn’t working, so I tried this one. I just wanted to let you know I pulled all of that information that you requested and can send it along to you. If you would give me a call and confirm your email address, I would appreciate it. I am in the office today to finish up work before the holiday week. I will be in for a half-day tomorrow, then I’m off for the Thanksgiving holiday and won’t be back in the office until the next Tuesday. Thank you and have a great day!”
I sit and stare at my phone when I finish listening to the message. Not sure I heard it right, I play it again. I definitely heard it right. That was the administrative office from my college calling to let me know they had gathered up all the information I requested from them but couldn’t reach me on my other number.
Except I didn’t request any information from them, and I don’t have another number.
Setting my phone in the holder attached to my dash, I call the number back and put it on speakerph
one so I can talk while making the drive back home.
“This is Nancy,” the same voice from the message says after three rings.
“Hi, Nancy, this is Emma Griffin. I just got a voicemail from you,” I say.
“Oh, yes,” she says, sounding excited and almost relieved to have heard from me. “Thank you for calling me back. I’ve called a few times but haven’t gotten an answer.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize the number and there was no message,” I tell her.
“Well, I’m glad to have caught up now. The office received your message a couple of weeks ago. You must have called from your car because the reception wasn’t very good, but I think we caught everything. I’ll send you what I found and if anything is missing, you just call me back and I’ll find it for you, alright?” she asks.
I feel almost bombarded with her cheerfulness, and I have to take a second to let everything she said sink in.
“What information is this?” I ask. “I’m sorry for the confusion, I just have a lot going on, as you can imagine.”
I hope the throwaway excuse is enough to stop her from thinking too far into the question.
“Oh, I’m sure,” she says. “I can’t even tell you how proud we all are around here every time another of your cases ends up on the news. One of our own, a famous FBI agent.”
It’s not the first time someone described me as “famous,” but I don’t like it any more now than I have the other times. That was never my intention. I didn’t become an FBI agent so I could gain notoriety for myself. I won’t pretend that sometimes it doesn’t come in handy. But most of the time I would rather just be another face in the crowd.
“There’s certainly been a lot going on in my career the last couple of years,” I say with as much of a laugh as I can muster.
“I understand that,” she says. “The message you left asked for copies of your class schedules and all of the alumni bios you’ve submitted for the University publication since graduation. Are you making some sort of scrapbook?”
“Something like that,” I say. “You said you wanted to confirm my email address. Which one do you have? I want to make sure it is my personal one and not my professional one.”
She rattles off an address and I pull up the notes feature on my phone to jot it down.
“Is that the correct one?” she asks.
“Actually, let me give you a different one,” I say.
The conversation over, I end the call and continue toward home, tumbling the strange situation around in my head. This isn’t just a misunderstanding. It’s not a wrong number or someone mistyping an email address. Someone called my school and specifically asked for information while posing as me.
Sam isn’t at the house when I get there, and he doesn’t answer his phone when I call. It means he’s still working, trying to finish everything he can before everybody gets here tomorrow. I’m hoping for a quiet few days without him getting too many calls. Fortunately, the worst that has happened in Sherwood on Thanksgiving in the last few years was when Mrs. Bethel two streets down tried to fry her turkey and ended up lighting the yard on fire.
I can only send out good thoughts into the universe that she has learned her lesson and will stick to the oven from now on.
The conversation with Nancy Fulbright is still itching the back of my mind as I unpack the groceries and pull out the notebook I’ve been using to keep Thanksgiving prep under control. I have the menu written out and a timeline of how to do it all. It starts today, with making the pie crusts and putting them in the refrigerator so I can make the fillings Wednesday.
But no matter how much I try to focus on pumpkin puree and pecans floating in glorious buttery goo, my mind goes back to the phone call and the uncomfortable feelings it brings up.
They aren’t just about the discomfort of knowing somebody called the University impersonating me. It’s the memories that are filtering up through the years, thoughts I tucked away over time because I had to.
Chapter Twenty
“I don’t smell food,” Sam says when he comes into the house later that afternoon.
“Is that just general commentary, or are you talking about Thanksgiving?” I asked.
“Thanksgiving,” he says, coming into the kitchen and dropping a kiss to the top of my head.
“Ah, well that’s because I have been given strict instructions that nothing savory can be prepared fully until Thursday. The desserts can be made ahead of time, but all appetizers, bread, side dishes, and especially the turkey must be completed on Thanksgiving itself,” I say.
“Who decided that?” He asks as he reaches into the refrigerator to take out a bottle of beer. He cracks the top off then shakes his head. “Never mind. I already know the answer to that. So, what does Xavier have against prepping food ahead of time?” he asks.
“Oh, I can prep it,” I tell him. “I just can’t cook it all the way to the point where it is survivable. If I do, that makes it leftovers.”
“Leftovers?” he asks. “Even if they aren’t eaten at all before Thanksgiving?”
“Apparently. In order for it to be truly a Thanksgiving meal and not a Thanksgiving leftovers meal, it has to be cooked fully on Thanksgiving itself,” I say.
He nods again and takes a long sip of the beer, looking into the middle distance like he’s thinking this through. “You know, actually I think I agree with him on that.” He starts toward the back of the house to take a shower but pauses before he gets all the way to the hallway. He turns back to me. “You don’t have to like grind the wheat and bake the bread on the hearth in order to make the dressing, or harvest the potatoes, or fill the turkey with eel and venison, or anything, right?”
“No. Store-bought bread is already dried up, all thirty pounds of potatoes are in the pantry, and nothing is going in the turkey but an onion and an orange.”
“Okay. And I still get summer sausage and cheese on crackers before dinner even though it says ‘summer’?”
“Yes. Apparently, it’s called summer sausage because that’s when it’s made,” I tell him.
“Okay. Then, yeah, I’m with Xavier on this one.”
He sips his beer as he walks away, and I get back to the fiddly dough leaves I’ve been cutting out to decorate the pies.
By the time Sam gets out of the shower and comes back into the room smelling warm and fresh, I have two trays full of the little decorations ready to put into the refrigerator, but I’m just sitting at the table. My hand is wrapped around the cup of cider beside me, but I haven’t even taken a sip.
“What’s this?” Sam asks, gesturing toward the cup.
“Hot cider,” I tell him.
“Ooooh.” He takes the cup from my hand and takes a swig, then grimaces. “That would be cold cider.”
“Huh?” I ask, looking up at him.
“Your cider. It got cold. I’ll put it in the microwave for you.”
“Oh. Yeah. Thanks,” I say.
He puts the mug into the microwave and sets it for thirty seconds. “What’s going on? You seem out of it. Is Thanksgiving really getting to you this much? I know it’s important to you to make it perfect, but we wouldn’t care if you ordered a bucket of chicken and a frozen pie. Well, Xavier probably would. Actually, I don’t know if he would. He might just consider that about as accurate as what we really eat and be all in.”
“It’s not Thanksgiving,” I say.
He looks concerned as he takes the mug out of the microwave and brings it back to me. Steam rising from the top of the newly heated cider feels good on my face as I lean over it. Breathing the cinnamon and cloves into my lungs reminds me of my grandmother. It’s good to know the house will finally have another holiday like she used to have.
“Then what’s wrong?” he asks.
He sits down beside me and reaches over to squeeze my knee. It’s one of those things he does that seems so small but can make such an impact. It’s not the gesture itself, but the unspoken meaning behind it. I’m here.
You’re not alone. I am focused on you.
“I got a really weird call while I was at the grocery store,” I say.
“The same wrong number?” he frowns.
“Yeah,” I say. “But this time, they left a message. And it turns out, it wasn’t a wrong number. Just the wrong recipient.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
I look over at him and see the deep concern in his eyes. This brings me to my feet. I hate when he worries about me. Not because I don’t want him to care about me, or I think I’m invincible. I don’t want to be the reason he worries. But I also don’t want to overreact. I don’t want to see fear and menace everywhere.
I walk over to the cabinet and pull out my large stock pot. I don’t even know what I’m going to cook, but I want to keep my hands busy.
“It’s just a really weird situation,” I tell him. “It probably doesn’t mean anything. The message was from my college, asking me to call back because they have all the information I have requested. So, I called them back and the woman in the office said they got a message from me a couple of weeks ago requesting my class schedules, and the information I had given them for my alumna bio for the newsletter. She had gotten it all together and tried to call a few times, but I hadn’t answered, so she left me a message to confirm my info.”
“Okay,” Sam says. “It’s good that she was so persistent to make sure you got the information you wanted. But why did you ask your class schedule and stuff?”
“That’s the thing. I didn’t.” I shove the pot under the faucet and start to fill it with hot water, apparently committing myself to pasta. “I didn’t even call the school. And when she asked to confirm my email address, she gave me one I’ve never even heard of.”
“What was it?” he asks.
I pick up my phone where I left it on the corner of the counter and pull up the notepad where I wrote down the email address. I hold it out to him and shake my head, shrugging.
