“At my age? You’re only two years younger than me.”
“Yes, but I’m married. With a family.”
Twice. My sister had been married twice. And before her twenty-fourth birthday, no less. And her family often looked more like a leaky rowboat than the fancy cruise liner she pretended they were on social media. But those contrary details were never mentioned during these get-married-or-rot-to-death lectures of hers. Most of the time I wondered if the only reason Lisa was so desperate to see me married was to prove the old adage that misery really does love company.
“I want different things for my life, Lisa.” Things I’d hoped to share with the family before my sister had invited Old MacDonald to dinner. “Please stop with the matchmaking stuff already. If it ever does happen for me, it won’t happen like this.”
I blinked away a sudden image of Joshua’s smiling eyes as Lisa’s expression pinched into suspicion. “What’s going on with you?”
I exhaled a courageous breath, ready to launch the proclamation like the firing of a cannon. “Well, a lot actually. I’ve decided to—”
“Girls! Stop gabbing over there and come to the table already! Thanksgiving only lasts for a day. I can’t reheat the turkey a second time.”
Lisa huffed and rolled her eyes at our mother’s beckoning. “Come on. But this isn’t over.”
No, it isn’t. Far from it, actually.
Together we moved toward the insanity of Thanksgiving with the Baileys.
Austin and Andrew shoved their way in through the back door, selecting the seats farthest away from their father, Trent, who was heavily engaged in some kind of war game on his iPhone. Marcus sat beside him, his ice water halfway guzzled—likely an attempt to stop from overheating under the polar-bear pelt he wore as a sweater.
Lisa called for her daughter, Iris, who, like usual, was in the living room trying to coax the geriatric cat from under the sofa. So far, she was zero for a thousand.
“Iris, I said right now,” Lisa repeated sternly.
My sister’s cherub-faced preschooler, with strawberry blond pigtails braided on either side of her head, begrudgingly obeyed. She was promptly positioned in the chair between her father and mother, her bottom lip pushed out in a weighty pout.
“Art,” my mother hissed through clamped teeth. “Did you not hear me? I said dinner was ready.”
“I think I’ll take it out here tonight.”
No matter what the occasion, major holiday or a random Wednesday night, this conversation never failed to be the opener of every Bailey mealtime.
“No, you’ll take your seat in here. At the table. With your family. On Thanksgiving.” My mother clunked down a bowl of soggy-looking green beans with a crusty top layer. “Lauren has something she wants to say to us.”
Every noise in the house seemed to fizzle out at once.
Trent cut his gaze away from his iPhone, both boys stopped adding rolls to their plates, and Lisa paused filling Iris’s glass with milk mid-pour to stare at me.
Every part of my body blushed with the kind of prickling heat that could set a person aflame.
The only sound in the room was the hollow drag of my father’s cane working its way to the table. The tap-slide-tap sounded ten times louder than usual. My mother reached over my place setting and planted a steaming pan of freezer-aisle cheesy potatoes in front of her granddaughter.
Iris crinkled her nose. “But I don’t like yellow cheese, Mommy.”
Lisa pinched her daughter’s upper arm and leaned in close, though her voice could have been heard outside. “Hush, your aunt is talking.”
Confused, Iris looked up from her oozing plate and met my gaze. “No, she’s not. She’s just standing there. Her mouth isn’t even moving. See?”
My niece, the only sane member of my entire family.
“Well, she’s about to talk. Go ahead, Lauren. What is it? What do you want to say to us? Now that you have everybody’s undivided attention.” Lisa had been fluent in snarky remarks since the age of eight.
My father continued his slow shuffle to the opposite end of the table.
Sweat prickled the length of my spine. Why was it ten thousand degrees in this dining room? And why did it feel like my throat was closing in on itself? “Actually, um . . . well, I wanted to . . . um . . .”
And then, as if he could sense my silent mortification, Alpaca Man, who up to this point had done nothing more than observe my circus of a family, stood and pulled out a chair for me. One point to the farmer. Could farmers sense fear in people the same way animals could?
“Do you need to sit down? You look pale. Here.” He gestured to the empty seat, and I didn’t hesitate to sit in it. For his kindness, I’d willingly purchase a lifetime supply of whatever alpaca goods he sold on his farm.
Ironic that my only allies at this dinner table were a stranger and a five-year-old.
The wrinkle between my mother’s eyebrows pulsed with impatience as she took her seat at the head of the table and placed a paper towel over her lap. “Well? What is it, Lauren? We’d all like to eat before Christmas.”
“Right, exactly . . .” I said with a forced chuckle as sweat adhered my shirt to my back like glue. “I realize we’re all super hungry, but I just thought it was important, on this day of gratitude, to thank Mom for taking time to put together this delicious Thanksgiving meal for us. Way to go, Mom.” And then I gave my mother a thumbs-up. My mother. A woman who frowned at every cheer routine my sister had ever performed in high school. “Anybody else have anything they’d like to add?”
It looked like the tell-them-sometime-before-my-kid-graduated-from-college plan was what I was going with now.
A mumbling of awkward thank-yous ensued around the table as I scooped a big helping of greasy potatoes onto my plate and passed the tray to my left. The orange and yellow oils pooled around the white rim, nearly splashing onto my mother’s white tablecloth. Lisa’s suspicious gaze was still trained on my face.
I ignored her and smiled at Marcus instead. “Marcus, maybe you can tell us a few facts about alpacas? I bet Iris has some questions she’d love to ask you.”
New plan: Keep the farmer talking until my dad asked for his second beer and my mom started throwing dishes into the sink like Frisbees.
My niece chewed thoughtfully, careful to keep her lips closed before swallowing. “What is an alpaca? Are they the same as llamas? Like in your funny book, Aunt Lauren?”
“No,” Marcus said dryly. “Alpacas are superior to llamas in nearly every way.” He reached for a few leaves of lettuce and a scoop of my fruit salad, avoiding the turkey altogether. “Although the majority of the world thinks they are synonymous with each other, they most definitely are not.”
Strike one: weird sweater. Strike two: not good with kids. Strike three: vegetarian.
Sometimes I wondered if my sister’s only criteria for matchmaking was male and breathing.
“I’ll admit, I’ve wondered the same thing.” As in ten minutes ago. “Would you mind enlightening us on their differences?”
“Llamas are isolated creatures,” he said with the same disdain I’d use to describe a bloated dead rat. “But alpacas have been known to die of loneliness. They need friends and social communities. Similar to humans.”