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I point towards the far-left window of the room, where a large Christmas tree now sits, and chuckle slightly at the memory.
“I don’t blame him,” Georgia murmurs, nudging me playfully as a soft smile brightens her cheeks.
The room around us falls quiet as Georgia takes in her surroundings and I, though I do my best to quell it, practically keel over from anxiety.
How am I supposed to get angry with my mom in front of Georgia, who has never met her? I need her here for support, but I don’t want her thinking less of me–
“Don’t be anxious,” Georgia whispers, immediately lowering my heart rate as her soft voice travels through the room. “I’m here for you, Henry.”
56 | Georgia
HENRY’S LIVING ROOM looks like it’s straight out of a Christmas card. Amber lighting fills the space as the soft crackling of the fireplace overtakes my senses. The smell of the Christmas trees takes me back to my childhood, when every public space would be filled with the scent of evergreens from Thanksgiving onward. The couches are huge and pillowy soft. I mean, they’d need to be to accommodate Henry and his sister, Sarah.
She’s like a model; I look like I’m 2 inches tall next to her. And she’s still in high school!
I look over at Henry, whose leg is bobbing up and down feverishly in a fit of anxiety. I realize how difficult this must be for him, with this being his first time back since his father died.
I can’t even imagine what he’s feeling right now.
“Henry? I’m so happy to see you, pookie! What are you doing here so late?”
A strikingly beautiful older woman enters the room from the hallway that Henry's sister had disappeared down. Her golden blonde hair is styled neatly in voluminous, hair-sprayed curls – even now, at nearly three in the morning. Her face is bright and free of makeup, with soft lines curving around the edges of her warm, blue eyes. She is tall, though not as tall as her daughter, and I can’t help but think about how stunning she must have been when she was younger, long before she had two kids, a beautiful house, and a husband taken too soon.
Behind her follows a large and burly figure with a warmth in his eyes that contrasts his imposing frame. A graying beard shrouds his softened facial features, and he smiles at the two of us from behind Henry’s mother. Henry doesn’t smile back, or even acknowledge his presence.
“Hello, Mom. This is Georgia.”
Henry’s voice is stern and low, as if he’s speaking to a stranger instead of his own mother. I wave shyly at both her and Donald, suddenly aware that I’ve practically intruded into a stranger’s home after midnight. Even if she is Henry’s mom, I’ve still never met her or her husband.
“Oh, hello.” She smiles warmly in my direction, though I can sense the tension in her words.
“Well, where are my manners?” she asks aloud, almost in a whisper. “I’m Lisa, Lisa Anderson. And this is my husband, Donald Perkins.”
She reaches out a gentle hand towards mine, and I shake it without much confidence.
“Can we get you both some water, or food? I made the most wonderful pasta last night–”
“No, Mom. I’m here to talk to you about the note you left. That’s it, and then we’ll be gone.”
“Go easy on her, Henry.” Sarah’s voice echoes through the room as she leans against the living room wall, listening intently.
I’m an intruder in an extremely personal moment. Is it bad if I run outside, maybe hide in the car? God, I should’ve thought this through.
A tight smile is plastered across my lips in an attempt to suggest that I’m merely an innocent bystander. It doesn’t matter if it’s working – no one’s looking in my direction.
“Well, if that’s what you want, pookie, we can talk about the note. Did you get my flowers, too?”
“How could I not?” Henry retorts, his tone sarcastic and grating.
I’ve never seen him this agitated.
Donald chimes in, his voice soft and raspy, and accentuated by a deep drawl that curls along each vowel.
“We thought you’d like them, sport. Your mother knows you’ve been upset with her, but she wanted to celebrate your win–”
“She said my dad would be proud of me.”
The room is quiet after he speaks, with only the snapping of the fire breaking the silence.
