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Her and Henry? Well, I don’t think they will ever have a calm conversation. Watching them interact is like watching a novice try to hammer a nail into a wall. You keep missing, hitting your thumb, and getting the nail all bent and crooked.
“I made it!” Harper beams, pointing at the pie as if spotlighting it on stage.
We all inspect the pie.
What color is that?Its color is a questionable shade of orange, but it looks a little pale and sickly. And the crust? Well, it’s going to need to be dunked in that cream soup to soften up the burnt bits.
Harper, unfazed or perhaps in denial, proudly proclaims,“Call up Betty Crocker because I schooled that chick. Easy-Bake Oven? Please, I used the real deal.”
My eyebrows arch,“Is it still operational?”
“Yes!” She claps, practically bouncing with glee as she breaks from Kent’s embrace to hug me.“I can bake!”
She crushes me in a bear hug.“I know you're over pumpkin flavors. Let the heavens rejoice,” she teases as she pulls back, her eyes scanning mine for a reaction, her face a mix of hope and mischief.“So I made sweet potato. I wanted to do something totally different, like key lime, but Kent said I should stick with the Thanksgiving theme." She admits, her eyes watching, hoping for a reaction. She looks like a child on stage, searching the crowd to see her parents. Only her parents didn’t show up because my smile didn’t grow out of my darkness.
I’m sorry. I want to smile and laugh—I do—but it’s not always honest.
We all fill our plates and sit down at the table, surrounded by balloons and awkward air, creating so much static energy that I'm worried the balloons might pop.
I’m tucked between Julian and Henry, Harper and Kent across from me. I should feel so at ease. Everyone I love is here. My monster is dead.
The problem is I feel thrilled Andrew is dead. That’s wrong, right? Or is it wrong to think that is wrong?
The shadows in my heart whisper that it’s not, and for once, I might just listen.
I untuck my hair from behind my ears, feeling the slight throbbing of a tension headache.
“We’re going to cremate them,” I deadpan as I plop a bite of semi-warm turkey into my mouth. I look up, and everyone has a 'WTF face.'
Was that wrong to say as we break bread?
“Mom, Dad, and Peter. We’re moving them. Well, cremating them,” I clarify for Harper and Kent.
Harper’s complexion goes a strange shade of pale.“You’re moving, Peter?”
I nod and stab at my turkey with my fork; the plastic tip bends slightly.“We can’t leave them there. Henry said the headstones were clean, but I didn’t believe him. Stone is porous, and Andrew’s blood would have seeped in. Henry and I talked, and I think we should cremate them. We can set them free.” I thrust my fork into the sweet potato mash and then take another bite.
Everyone is silent, and the room is suddenly heavy with the echo of my words.
I’m trying. Hard. They wanted me to talk! This is just what comes out.
I plunge my fork into the gravy-soaked dressing,“I don’t know what else to talk about. It’s not like Betty Sue from down the hall had an exciting week of gossip to fill me in on,” I mutter.
“Can—” Harper begins but pauses, the words catching in her throat. She looks scared, unsure. So unlike herself.“Can I have some of Peter?”
“Sure,” I shrug, trying to sound casual, though a part of me tightens. My voice is too chipper like I’m auditioning for a role in a '50s sitcom. My new name would be 'Poppy-Go-Lucky.'
“Why?” Henry asks, his brows furrowing.
“Because I want some of his ashes,” Harper snaps back, her voice a sharp crack in the strained atmosphere.
Kent scoots his chair back an inch, his eyes narrowing at Henry as if he’s contemplating the space needed to dive across the table and throttle him for upsetting Harper.
Harper’s eyes flick to Julian. He nods subtly at her, a silent gesture of support.
“I’d just like some for myself. To spread somewhere,” Harper whispers, her voice barely carrying across the table.
I feel like there’s an undercurrent here, and I have no idea where it’s flowing. Is Harper lying to me, or am I reading too much into everything?
