Page 11 of Christmas Coffee

Nova

THANKSGIVING DAY

Freshly showered and adorned with Tinselly’s least bedazzled outfit, I wander toward the kitchen to help. My hair is slicked back into a damp ponytail.

Tinselly is doing five different things at once. She thrives on stressful situations. She’s cooking gravy and baking biscuits, while putting the potatoes, stuffing, and turkey on serving dishes. She hands them to Lucas, her husband, and he carries them to the table one at a time.

Tinselly glances my way when I stop in the doorway. “Need help?” I ask.

“Nope. Go sit down. It’s going on the table right now.”

I was hoping to avoid this part, but if I want food, I need to sit and play nice. Tinselly’s table setting looks like it fell out of a magazine and onto the table. Tall tapered candles glow dimly under a cornucopia centerpiece that’s filled with flowers, nuts, and fruit. Gold chargers sit under white plates that line the long table and glisten like snowflakes against the plum tablecloth. Matching napkins are folded into pretty shapes, one on each plate.

Tinselly is an overachiever. I love this stuff, but when I try to make it, well—it tends to look like the cornucopia threw up a glue gun.

Tinselly walks in and places a hot dish on a black iron trivet that’s toward the end of the table. It’s a tight fit, so no one has taken a seat yet. Tinselly waves a hand at us. “Sit! The food’s ready.”

My eye twitches as I scoot in, crammed between a set of twin toddlers, Lucas, my mother, and my grandmother.

Gran is mostly deaf and somewhat blind, but the woman has the appetite of a grizzly bear. Her little body is squeezed in next to mine, her aerodynamic shoulders sweeping forward from old age, ready to dig in. She’s wearing a silvery wig today with bright blue eye shadow.

She snaps at Lucas, “Did you cut the turkey yet?”

Lucas came to this country as a foreign exchange student, married my sister, and periodically looks like he wants to return to the wilds of Scandinavia. I’ve never been, so it’s filled with polar bears and penguins in my mind. And lots of ice. I imagine everyone wears thick sweaters from Land’s End and all the men have beards.

Lucas smiles at me and then answers Gran. “Tinselly wants to cut the bird. She always does a fine job.”

Tinselly beams at him, still madly in love. How you can have children and keep the spark in a marriage is beyond me. Between birth and babies, bondage doesn’t seem to fit. At least not in my mind, but then I can’t even manage to keep my fridge full.

Tinselly opens her mouth to reply, but Gran cuts her off. “A man needs to cut the turkey. It’s bad luck otherwise.”

I lean back in my seat and gape at Gran even though she can’t see me. “Really? Since when are you all ‘the man must do it?’ You’ve always said that Tinselly didn’t need a man for anything.”

Her blind gaze cuts to the side as if she can see—sometimes I swear she can—and she grins. “There’s one thing that’s much more satisfying with a man—”

Tinselly mutters something I can’t make out.

My eyes widen at the remark and I gently swat her arm, scolding her. “Gran! There are little ears here.”

Gran shrugs. “What? You asked. I answered.”

Mom is staring at me like she wants to say something but isn’t sure if she should. Mom looks older today, her skin paler like she hasn’t been outside much. Tinselly is a photocopy of Mom. Add a few years, some polyester, and a massive chip on her shoulder and you have my mother.

After Tinselly carves the turkey and everyone is served, Mom forces a smile and stuffs a fork full of peas into her mouth. When she’s finished chewing my skin prickles in anticipation of the question. “So, have you and Ben set a date?”

Tinselly stiffens as she’s cutting up the twins’ turkey into toddler-sized bites. Her eyes cut over to me and she hovers there for a second, laughs nervously, and blurts out, “They already told you, Ma. They’re not ready yet.”

I mouth thank you to my sister and start poking at my mashed potatoes that are forty percent butter and one hundred percent amazing. I shovel some into my mouth and feel my bad mood lighten, well, until Mom starts talking again.

My mother doesn’t like that reason. She continues prying, “Nova, you can’t make him wait forever. Not every marriage turns out like mine. You need to pull your life together. You’ve got a nice apartment and a good job. Fill your fridge with food and keep your good man.”

Gran cackles, holds up her wine glass and blurts out, “It’s time to make the babies.”

I laugh from discomfort and shock, but more from the fact that she said it like the Dunkin’ Donuts guy. “Gran!”

“You have everything.” Gran says.

“No, I don’t.” I gape at her. Is she insane? I’m broke and if things work out well, I’ll turn into the old lady in the cat car.