Page 72 of Even After This
“I should have told everyone.” Small, panicked thoughts pelt me like a hard rain. Staring aimlessly at the living room, I whisper to no one, “I should have asked if this was okay. Taylor and Hannah were so close to Steve and the kids—what if this hurts them? What if Mom thinks it’s too soon to bring someone home? What if Dad doesn’t approve?”
Molly takes my hand. “Meredith. It’s okay.” She squeezes.
Tears prick my eyes. “I want everyone to be normal. If they want to talk about Clayton or Chloe, I want them to tell their stories. And if a memory of Steve comes to mind, they should voice it. I know I didn’t tell you anything about Harlan, but he would want us to be normal.” My gaze turns to Molly and I swallow.
Her smiling face surprises me. “You asked a handsome man to Thanksgiving. Other than your not sharing the girly details with me, it’s fine.” She grabs my other hand. “It’s time. We all knew this was coming someday.”
“Yeah?” I release the word on a shaky breath.
“Maybe not the part where you bring home a movie star.” She chuckles, our hands shaking with her laughter. “But we all understood this day would come.”
Something small and far away aches inside of me. I miss this Molly. Before life imploded, she was my person. But our relationship morphed into a codependent puzzle that’s missing pieces, and neither of us can decipher how to put it back together.
Molly lowers her chin and peers into my eyes. “You wouldn’t have asked him here if he wasn’t safe. You and I will lead the discussion at dinner by example. Everyone will follow. It will be okay, Meredith.”
The downpour of my anxiety decreases to a light drizzle.
But even though her words were calming, her current expression is unreadable. “What are you not saying?” I ask.
“Nothing. I’m withholding my opinions until later.”
On a giant exhale, I release some of the tension. “Thank you.”
She drops my hands, ambles to the silverware drawer, and pulls out another spoon. “But don’t think you’re getting away with anything. I want details later. All of them.”
She offers the utensil to me and nods to the unfinished ambrosia salad.
I wave off the spoon. Surveying the remaining jobs to be done in the kitchen, I figure out what will help my current emotional state. “I need the cleaver. And the turkey.”
“Another beautiful bird, Meredith.” My mom walks into the dining room, nodding at our turkey in the middle of the table.
“It’s only still beautiful because I hid the cleaver from her.” At Molly’s statement, everyone groans in agreement.
Everyone except Harlan. He hasn’t been exposed to the abstract art that is my cutting of the turkey.
We create a circle, connecting our hands for the prayer my dad will pray.
Harlan follows suit.
We bow our heads and listen as my father leads our prayer of gratitude. At the end, his voice takes on a gruff tone and he pauses. “Today we are thankful for the old and the new. Amen.”
The echoed “Amen” is tentative at best. There’s always an elephant in the room. I just didn’t realize my dad would invite it to the table.
Darting glances at everyone, I move to my seat. Harlan moves to the one next to me. Steve’s spot.
Everyone stills.
My mom stares at him while he sits. “Perfect.” She clears her throat. “Let’s be seated.”
Following her lead, the others take their chairs.
If Harlan is thrown off, he doesn’t show it. But I don’t think there’s any way he can miss the heaviness in the air.
Sounds of clanking silverware fill the room as we unroll our napkins and release the spoons, knives, and forks.
“Meredith”—Harlan points to the turkey—“since this bird is sitting in front of me, would you like me to do the honors?”
Without my consent, tears sting my nose. That was Steve’s job. It was always Steve’s job. My father filling in the last few years has been a silent reminder of our loss. But Harlan’s request to carve the turkey is a screaming announcement of it.
