To be clear, my nausea does not prohibit my very vivid visions of reenacting very explicit scenes I have studied.
She glances up at me. Her expression is neutral. “Ollie, you should sit, too. These are your family recipes.”
Any invitation to be close to her, I willingly accept. I pull out the chair next to hers. I hold her hand in mine. It has nothing to do with the fact my mother is watching us very closely.
“All right.” Mom spreads out a fan of papers with her very neat handwriting. “This is everything we serve at Cucinelli Thanksgiving dinners. I’ve already made up a grocery list of all the items you’ll need. You can keep all these for your new home.”
“We may not take them now to prepare for the dinner in forty-four days? You are making us wait until we buy a new house?”
Liv squeezes my hand. “I think she means we can keep them for the new home—the new family—we’re building together. It has nothing to do with the living environment.”
Mom’s smile is very wide. “That is correct. You may take them home with you this evening. I just wanted to go through a full practice run with you before the big day.”
Oh. That is very kind and wise of her. I have never attempted to cook a large meal before. I highly doubt Liv has either. I have no knowledge of her family traditions because they do not seem to have any. Every year that I was invited to a holiday meal with her family, they offered different foods. Most of which I did not like. In the interests of manners, I pretended. I am a very good actor since Liv has taught me how to be. Only she does not know that since I have studied her in secret for years.
“Now, let’s go over everything before we look at the grocery list,” Mom says.
I tune out most of the conversation. I am very familiar with my family’s Thanksgiving meals, and I know what to expect—homemade bread, a large salad, antipasto platters, ziti with meatballs, mushroom risotto, a roast turkey with gravy, and a beautiful and delicious dessert selection.
Liv’s unhappy voice causes me to pay attention to the discussion again. “You don’t serve mashed potatoes? A bread-based stuffing? No cranberry sauce?”
Mom attempts to mask a disgusted expression, much like I tried to when Live and I were on our first date at a seafood restaurant. “No, dear. Those are American traditions. We're Italian."
“I didn’t realize you were born in Italy,” Liv mutters.
“Oh, I wasn’t,” Mom admits. “My mother and father were from the Lombardy region, and we carry on their traditions. God rest their souls.”
“What about Mr. Cucinelli? Was he born in Italy?” Liv asks. Her tone sounds genuinely curious. Liv is always curious and full of questions. It is one of the characteristics that makes her such a good librarian. It is one of the characteristics that changed my feelings about her from friendship to love. I love Liv’s questions.
“No, he was also born in the United States. His parents are from Sicily. God rest their souls.”
“Sicily and Lombardy have vastly different cultures even though they’re both Italian,” Liv says. “How have you merged them?”
“That’s easy!” Mom laughs. It is a big sound that echoes off the kitchen cabinets and hurts my ears a bit. “I do the cooking, and he does whatever I ask!” She turns toward me. “Oliver, you’ll go to the grocery store, and Liv will do all the cooking.”
Though I am one-hundred percent willing to do anything Liv asks, that arrangement does not sound fair at all. A trip to the grocery store to fulfill this list will take me approximately an hour, depending upon traffic congestion and available stock at the store. The time investment for Liv to cook all these dishes will be most of the day, judging from what I have experienced during previous Thanksgivings at home.
“I will help you prepare the meal,” I promise her.
She faces me directly. “You love mashed potatoes. We can have mashed potatoes. I think you’ll like cornbread stuffing, too. Do you want me to make that?”
I recognize this line of questioning for what it is—a negotiation of terms.
“Your family seems to have no traditions. What would you like to make that reminds you of your childhood that you would want to pass on to our child?”
Liv appears to think carefully before answering. “We always had pumpkin pie even though my mom never made it from scratch.”
“Then we will have pumpkin pie,” I tell her. I will not eat any of it because the filling has a consistency which makes me gag. Liv does not need to know that.
Her smile is beautiful and genuine. “I have time. I can learn how to make pumpkin pie from scratch before Thanksgiving!”
I do not agree with her assessment. She will be very busy trying to conceive with what she calls my super sperm while also working full time. I do not say this out loud.
“You’re learning!” Mom winks at us. Jealousy heats my chest. She makes the gesture look so natural. I have yet to master this. “Ziti is Sicilian; risotto is from Lombardy. That’s how we merged family meals.”
Liv looks happy, so I am happy.
“I guess it is time for me to go to the grocery store, so we can begin cooking.” I rise from my chair, but Liv grabs onto my arm. I like it when Liv touches me.
“I’ll go with you.”
“Nonsense.” My mom waves her hand through the air. “Stay here with me and relax. You won’t have any time for that sort of thing after the baby’s born.”
Multiple, horrible things happen all at once.
My Aunt Vicky appears in the room and shrieks at a decibel that causes me great agony.
My mother shrieks also because she has obviously accidentally spoiled the secret that is a complete fabrication of my own making.
The loudest, most horrible sound of all is Liv’s heavy sigh. She has never gotten along well with Aunt Vicky.
“Please, let me come with you to the store,” she begs quietly.
“You can’t leave now!” Aunt Vicky insists. “I just got here!”
It is very, very, very wrong of me, but I kiss Liv on the cheek then snatch the list from the table top. She can punish me later if she so desires. I would much rather deal with the number of people at the store and all their noise than with my mother and Aunt Vicky in the same room.
It is exactly one hour, twenty-two minutes and fifty-seven seconds before I push open the door to the mudroom between the garage and my mother’s kitchen. My arms are weighed down with multiple grocery bags. Perhaps I took a little longer than necessary in order to avoid the noise that will surely assault my ears any second.
I hold my breath, squeeze my grip around the bite of the plastic bags in my skin, and give myself a few moments to adjust to the sounds.
Instead of the expected, all I hear are whispers.
“Have you thought this through?” My Aunt Vicky asks. “Aren’t you even a little concerned your baby will be…well, handicapped like he is?”
My heart ceases necessary function.
“What did you just say to me?” Liv hisses. Her voice is very low, but very angry.
Mom’s voice sounds sad. “Vicky, how many times do we have to go over this? He’s not handicapped. He’s…special.”
“He’s fucking brilliant is what he is!” Liv shouts.