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Lying there, under their worried gazes, I couldn’t help but think about the irony of it all. There I was, trying to wash away the day’s problems, only to slip into a flashback that no amount of soap could cleanse.
“It smells good,” Henry says to Julian.
Oh yeah, back to Thanksgiving and not my nightmares. I reach for the stack of paper plates and begin to count out how many we need.
Henry and Julian are trying to connect, but it’s like mixing oil and vinegar.
"It's from the place you suggested," Julian tells Henry. "So if it's terrible, we can all blame you." His eyes soften slightly, like a cracked door letting some light seep in, a gentle warmth breaking through his usual judgment of Henry.
Well, maybe if you shake it hard enough, like salad dressing, you can get them to vibe. You just have to keep forcing it.
I set down the last paper plate and then reached for the plastic utensils.“Why not metal?” I blurt out, my finger pausing on a fork. Slowly, I trace my index finger up to its pathetic prongs. If we got unlucky and ended up with dry turkey again this year, I seriously doubted this flimsy plastic fork would be up to the task. It’d probably snap under the pressure, a perfect metaphor for how I'd been feeling lately: trying to hold together under the weight of everything, only to break at the dinner table. Maybe I could use it as an excuse to skip the turkey and dive straight into the pie—now, that’s a utensil malfunction I could get behind.
I feel Henry and Julian still, as if when I speak, I’m the word of God—something foreign and shocking.
“Why can’t we have metal utensils?” I question them. I drum my fingers on the tabletop, waiting for a reply.
They both glance at each other.
Are you going to lie to me? Tell me it's not because I'm in some insane person's rehab learning how to function.
Leaning forward, I place the utensils next to the place setting. "I’m not going to off myself," I mutter, straightening the fork so it's perfectly aligned with the napkin. The words feel as sharp as the knife I’m not allowed to use. "I’m not Andrew." I let out a half-laugh, the sound darker than intended. It’s morbid, this humor of mine, but it’s either laugh or cry, and I’m tired of crying.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“We don’t think that.”
They both reply at once.
You know what’s strange? Seeing two hardened men, strong both physically and mentally, worry over little old me? It’s like I’m a bomb they are trying to defuse.
I roll my lips and look at the table. I tug down on the plastic tablecloth, trying to smooth out the creases,“I’m not going to hurt myself,” I stress.
They're both silent.
Does that mean they think I will, or are they shocked I have to say I won’t?
“Dr. Peterson said I should think about what I’m grateful for.” I keep my eyes down as I begin to voice what I’ve practiced saying. My eyes zone out on the shiny plastic fabric, and then my mind ventures to the moment Andrew shot himself. If we had covered the headstones in these plastic tablecloths, it would have kept them safe. Unstained.
“Did you clean Peter’s grave? How about Mom and Dad? I’m not worried about their headstones as much since the blast covered Peter’s. Did you get it all off? Clean it thoroughly?”
Oh, fiddle sticks! I just asked that.
See why I shouldn’t talk. I meant to tell them what I’m thankful for, and then Andrew popped up like Beetlejuice.
“I um,” Henry clears his throat. I can see Julian’s feet step an inch wider.
“I didn’t mean to ask that,” I deadpan. I look down at my clothes. They're not even mine. Harper bought them for me. Cozy Lululemon sweatpants and a matching highlighter yellow sweatshirt.
Why did she get yellow? Was it to make me happy and cheery, or was it to highlight to the world I’m a danger?
“You should ask what you’re thinking; we won’t judge,” Julian offers. Ever my savior. Seriously, I think he might be Christ reincarnated. No judgment, only forgiveness and hope for a future.
“It’s all cleaned,” Henry mutters in haste.“I wanted to talk to you about that.”
“Not now,” Julian hisses under his breath.
“Just ask,” I sigh.“Practice what you preach,” I grumble.
