Just inside their door we were pulled like metal to magnets into the madness. George and Andreas shouted at the television. In the easy chair in the corner, Mr. Nick blew exuberant raspberries on Alex’s tummy. Nick Jr. was polishing the dining room table while Miss Dina poured melted butter into the crossed tops of rolls to put in the oven, and Elliot stood over the sink, peeling potatoes.
I ran to him, reaching to take the peeler out of his hand. “I told your mom I would peel those!”
He blinked at me in surprise, reaching with a potato skin–covered finger to push his glasses up. I knew that helping her with dinner was just a ruse—after all, I’d been smelling the food all day—but for whatever reason, I was unable to give it up.
The thing is, at fourteen I was old enough to understand that many of the people who had lived in Healdsburg for many years would not have been able to afford to live in Berkeley. Although Healdsburg had been taken over by Bay Area money and the wine craze of the nineties, many people who lived here still worked for hourly wages and lived in older, mildly soggy houses.
The wealth here was what was inside: the Petropoulos family and the warmth and the knowledge—passed down through generations—of how to cook a meal like this for a family of this size.
I watched as Miss Dina gave Elliot a different job—washing and chopping lettuce for the salad—which he did without complaint or instruction.
Meanwhile, I hacked at the potatoes until Miss Dina came in and showed me how to peel them more slowly, in long, smooth strips.
“Nice dress,” Elliot said once she’d left, his voice laced with delicate sarcasm.
I looked down at the frumpy denim jumper I wore. “Thanks. It was my mom’s.”
His eyes went wide. “Oh, my God, Macy, I’m sor—”
I threw a piece of potato skin at him. “I’m kidding. Dad got it for me. I felt like I needed to wear it sometime.”
He looked scandalized, then he grinned.
“You’re evil,” he hissed.
“You mess with the bull,” I said, holding up my index and pinkie fingers, “you get the horns.”
I felt him watching me and hoped he saw my smile.
Mom always had a wicked sense of humor.
Dad sat, watching the Niners game with feigned interest with Mr. Nick and the boys until Miss Dina called us in to eat.
There was a ritual once we were at the table, a choreographed scene that Dad and I followed carefully: everyone sat in their chairs and linked hands. Mr. Nick said grace, and then everyone went around in turn and said something they were thankful for this year.
George was thankful for making varsity track.
Miss Dina was thankful for her healthy baby girl (who slept quietly in a vibrating baby chair near the table).
Nick Jr. was thankful that he was nearly done with his first semester of college, because, man, it sucked.
Dad was thankful for a good year in business and a wonderful daughter.
Andreas was thankful for his girlfriend, Amie.
Mr. Nick was thankful for his boys, and his—now two—girls. He winked at his wife.
Elliot was thankful for the Sorensen family, and especially for Macy, who he missed during the week when she was back home.
I sat, staring at him and trying to find something else to say, something as good as that.
I focused on a spot on the table as I spoke, my words wavering. “I’m thankful that high school isn’t terrible so far. I’m thankful I didn’t get Mr. Syne for math.” I looked up at Elliot. “But mostly, I’m thankful we bought this house, and that I was able to make a friend who wouldn’t make me feel weird for being sad about my mom, or wanting to be quiet, and who will always have to explain things to me twice because he’s so much smarter than I am. I’m thankful that his family is so nice, and his mom makes such good dinners, and Dad and I didn’t have to try to make a turkey all by ourselves.”
The table fell quiet, and I heard Miss Dina swallow a few times before she said brightly, “Perfect! Let’s eat!”
And the routine dissolved as frenzy took over, with four teenage boys diving into the food. Rolls were passed, turkey and gravy were slopped onto my plate, and I savored every single bite.
It wasn’t as good as Mom’s everyday cooking, and Mom was missing something she would have absolutely loved—a room full of boisterous family—but it was the best Thanksgiving I’d ever had. I didn’t even feel guilty for feeling that way, because I know Mom would want me to have more, and better, forever.
Back home later, Dad walked me upstairs, standing behind me and brushing my hair like he used to do while I brushed my teeth.
“I’m sorry I was so quiet tonight,” he said, haltingly.
I met his eyes in the mirror. “I like your kind of quiet. Your heart isn’t quiet.”
He bent, pressing his cheek to my temple, and smiled at me in the mirror. “You’re an amazing girl, Macy Lea.”
now
friday, october 13
More miraculous even than a full night’s sleep is the prospect of a full day off on a weekend. Getting a free Saturday feels like being ten years old and holding a twenty-dollar bill in a candy store. I don’t even know where to start.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I know I don’t want to spend a second of the day indoors. The Mission Bay site for UCSF Children’s has windows everywhere, but when you’re a pediatric resident, you don’t notice anything but the child in front of you, or your chief telling you where you need to be next.
Friday afternoon, on a short break after rounds, I remind Sean of our plans to picnic at Golden Gate Park. I call Sabrina, confirming that she, Dave, and Viv can all come. I invite a couple old friends from my Berkeley neighborhood who still live in the area—Nikki and Danny. And then I get back to work with the feeling of buzzing in my ears, static in my thoughts. I can’t leave this unfinished all day.
After delivering an update on some bloodwork to my current favorite parents, whose daughter is an inpatient in oncology, I sprint to the break room, ducking behind the locker to grab my phone and text Elliot.
A few of us are going to Golden Gate Park tomorrow for a picnic.
Think you’d want to come along?
What time were you thinking?
Was going to head up to H-burg for the afternoon but could be persuaded.
We’re meeting at eleven outside the botanical garden.
It’s totally fine if you can’t make it, I know it’s last minute.
Just a few of my friends, and Sean, etc.
I’ll be there. I’d love to meet everyone.
then
wednesday, december 31
fourteen years ago
Boys suck.”
The wind whipped across us where we were hunkered down at Goat Rock Beach again, preparing for a weenie roast with our families, flag football, and New Year’s Eve fireworks over the ocean.
“Do I want to know?” Elliot asked, not even looking up from his book.
“Probably not.”
In all fairness, I didn’t have strong feelings for any boys at my school, but it seemed like—since we began high school four months ago—none of them had any feelings whatsoever for me. Danny, my best guy friend, told me that his friends Gabe and Tyler both thought I was cute but, as he put it, “A little too, like, into books.”