as I stare blankly back at him.
“Abbey,” Dad says gently,
and mops the table with his napkin.
“Abbey,” he says again,
and suddenly I’m filled
with fear—
but for whom or what
I don’t know.
And that’s when I see Jiman
and the little boy,
who has to be her brother,
smiling from a picture
behind the cash register.
I chose the right restaurant!
Beneath their picture,
a plaque reads
FOOD, FAMILY, AND FRIENDS.
And I repeat those words to myself
again and again until
I am calm.
89.
The details are vague,
so Dad packs his gear
and polishes various pieces
of equipment each night.
His rucksack stays bloated
by the door, as we
await his orders.
Each morning, he reports
to the base earlier than usual,
trains all day, then returns to our house
in the dark. The specifics
of his deployment are one
BIG secret, so we act
like nothing is different.
Sometimes it feels
like we’re pretending,
like we’re dolls in a dollhouse,
just waiting, in whatever position
we’ve been placed.
Here’s what we look like:
Mom sits at the kitchen table,
arms bent, math papers
in front of her. I sit at my desk,
head forward, notebook
open like I’m studying,
and Dad sits in the reclining chair,
holding a paper,
dozing.
But I want to shout at them, startle them from their positions:
Wake up, Woods!
What if something happens?
What then?
90.
But we go on
with our family routines.
For a few days now after school,
Mom’s been changing from her teaching clothes
to cook a vegetable or a dessert.
It keeps her mind off Aunt Rose
and Dad’s deployment.
“There will be eight of us,” she says, trying to smile.
“A full house for Thanksgiving!”
But Dad reminds her
he may be “in and out.”
She’s making a turkey and a ham.
“Rose always has—
had both at her house,” she explains.
I peel the sweet potatoes,
studying Jackson and Kate
in their school pictures on the fridge.
Aunt Rose’s MISSING flyer
has gone missing, and I look at Mom
stirring gravy on the stove.
What’s it like for my cousins?
I haven’t seen them
since the memorial.
This will be their first Thanksgiving
at our house. Their first Thanksgiving
without their mom.
What will they give thanks for?
They have given so much.
91.
I search my room
for things I’ve outgrown—
clothes, chapter books, small toys—
to hand
down to Kate.
Mom said she’d help me,
but she must be preoccupied
with food prep.
Each year,
we pass along
things I no longer need.
This year,
nothing I own
seems good
enough.
Kate and Aunt Rose always go through it all
like it’s Christmas,
with Aunt Rose saying things like,
“Katie, you’ll look so pretty in this,”
and, “We love your hand-me-downs, Abbey.
Every piece has a story!”
One time, Kate tried on a yellow coat,
too big still, but in the pocket
she found a tiny stuffed kitten.
“Can I keep him? Please!
I’ll name him Larry,”
she’d squealed, and we’d laughed
and laughed and rolled on the floor.
Since then, Kate always checks
the pockets of my clothes first.
And sometimes I leave surprises
in them for her to find.
Before she was born,
when it was just Jackson and me,
I remember us once being propped
on either side of a seesaw, Mom behind Jackson
for some reason, and Aunt Rose behind me.
We balanced perfectly,
and when Mom and Aunt Rose
stepped away from us
we just hung there
suspended in the air,
our chubby legs kicking,
and all of us giggling
at our miraculous
feat.
92.
I give extra THANKS
for a few days out of school.
But even away from it all,
I hear the boys on the bus,
their insults flying,
visualize The Trio
eyeballing.
It’s just a little name-calling,
Dad would coach me.
Toughen Up!
It could be worse.
No one’s throwing rocks at me.
I think of Jiman.
And her little brother.