Page 73 of Even After This
I shrink into my chair and look down at the table. I am an idiot. I’ve placed Harlan in a field of emotional land mines. It will be a miracle if any of us make it out alive.
Molly, seated next to me, reaches under the table for my leg and offers a squeeze of support. Or maybe it’s that she can’t bear the stress of waiting for Dad to respond. Either way, I’m thankful for the contact.
“Son, since you’re our guest, I’ll take a crack at it.” My dad rescues all of us, stands, and positions himself closer to the turkey. He claps Harlan on the shoulder. “Thank you for the offer, though.”
I catch Harlan’s uncomfortable smile at my dad, and my heart sinks.
In taut silence, we pass the side dishes while Dad works on the turkey, handing out slices as he goes.
“Harlan,” my mom says while scooping green beans out of a casserole dish, “does your family do anything special for Thanksgiving?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Harlan grabs a roll from the basket in front of him. “Once we recover from the big meal, we play a huge game of Monopoly. It goes on for hours. Through the first round of desserts, the leftovers, the evening coffee. Some years we play late into the night.” He hands the basket to Taylor. “I was wondering if Taylor and Hannah wanted to play later.”
With wide eyes, I stare at Taylor. His grinding teeth are his only response.
Michael shoots a compassionate look to me, then quietly says to Taylor, “Can you pass the salt, son?”
Sweet, well-intentioned, clueless Harlan concentrates on spreading butter on his roll. “I’m usually the race car.”
Hannah snaps her napkin down on the table, causing me to jump at the abrupt sound. “Uncle Steve was the—”
“Hannah.” Molly flashes an admonishing glare at her daughter.
“No, Mom.” Her blazing eyes brim with tears. “You guys tell us we should talk about Uncle Steve, Clayton, and Chloe whenever we want to. So I’m going to now.”
Harlan gently sets his roll and knife down and gives my niece his complete focus.
Hannah balls her hand into a fist. “Uncle Steve was the car. Chloe was too little. But Clayton played with the shoe because he liked to say the word. Only he said it wrong and it came out ‘soo.’We all thought it was cute, but you were worried he was going to swallow the piece. Remember, Aunt Meredith?”
“I remember, sweetie.” I offer a watery smile with my whispered words.
Harlan folds his hands in front of him and massages the inside of one with a thumb. “I, uh...” His eyes down, he nods. “I really messed this up, didn’t I?”
I reach over and cover his fidgeting hands with mine.
“I’m sorry, you guys. Sometimes I dive in too fast without thinking.” He shrugs, shaking his head, still looking down. “Maybe I should leave.”
I close my eyes, and a tear escapes.
But a clap from the opposite end of the table jolts all our attention.
“All right,” my mother says in a commanding tone. “Harlan, we’re learning how to navigate this part of life right alongside you. There’s no need to apologize. Sometimes it gets a little messy. But if you can handle a few tears in your mashed potatoes, we’d love for you to stay.”
He fixes his eyes on my niece. “Hannah, would it be better for you if I left and came back another time?”
I suck in a breath.
Something works behind her eyes. After a beat, she sits up straight. “Instead of the race car, I think you should be the top hat. Because you’re in show business.”
Harlan takes a moment to swallow. “I think,” he says, his voice low, “that’s a really great idea.”
The deflating tension is almost tangible, and I release my hold on Harlan. When he shifts his focus to me, I offer him a smile of forced confidence.
We defused that bomb.
But whether it be during this meal or on another day, there will be more explosions of grief. And I wonder if Harlan will want to stick around in the craters left behind.
18
