My head is filled with questions again. This is the one that matters most: What’s going to happen to them when the buyout money is gone?
Thursday, November 22
Aunt Helen and Uncle Jerry host Thanksgiving every year. Their house is a lot bigger than my parents’, with a dining room table that can easily seat the ten of us. My mother always makes green bean casserole with fried onions around the edges, and Becky and I prepare the stuffing. Before we leave, Becky asks me to do her makeup.
“I’d love to,” I tell her. She was the one I first practiced on, back when we were kids.
I don’t have my case with me, but Becky’s coloring is so much like my own—fair skin with a scattering of freckles, light hazel eyes, straight brows—that I dig into my personal makeup bag and set to work.
“What kind of look are we going for?” I ask.
“Selena Gomez,” Becky says. She’s been a fan since Selena was on the Disney Channel.
“You love to challenge me, don’t you?” I say, and she giggles.
I smooth a tinted moisturizer onto Becky’s skin, thinking of what my mother had said at dinner. I stopped going to Florida with them once I moved to New York, but my mother always sends me photos of Becky collecting seashells in a bucket, or laughing as the spray hits her stomach. Becky loves the nonalcoholic Pink Panther drinks with a little umbrella and extra maraschino cherries that the server brings her at my parent’s favorite seafood place. My dad takes Becky to play miniature golf while my mother walks on the beach, and they all go crabbing at the end of the pier. They rarely catch any crabs and when they do, they always throw them back.
It’s the one time of year when they seem to truly relax.
“Why don’t you come visit me in New York after Christmas?” I suggest. “I could take you to see the giant tree. We could watch the Rockettes kick and sing, and get hot chocolate at Serendipity.”
“Sounds good,” Becky says, but I can tell she’s a little nervous about the idea. She has come to see me in the city before, but the noises and crowds unsettle her.
I add some blush to try to bring out her cheekbones, then dab a soft pink gloss on her lips. I tell her to look up as I gently apply a coat of mascara.
“Close your eyes,” I say, and Becky smiles. She likes this part best.
I reach out and take her hand, then guide her to the bathroom mirror.
“I look pretty!” Becky says.
I give her a big hug so she doesn’t see my eyes fill. “You are,” I whisper.
After my aunt Helen has served the pumpkin and pecan pies, the guys head to the living room to watch the game, and the women decamp to the kitchen for cleanup. It’s another ritual.
“Ugh, I’m so full I’m going to barf,” my cousin Shelly moans as she untucks her blouse.
“Shelly!” Aunt Helen admonishes.
“It’s your fault, Mom. The food was great.” Shelly winks at me.
I reach for a dish towel as Becky brings in the plates, carefully setting them down in a row on the counter. Aunt Helen redid her kitchen a few years ago, replacing the Formica with granite.
My mom starts to scrub the platters that Aunt Helen carries in from the dining room. My cousin Gail, Shelly’s sister, is eight months pregnant. She plops down on a chair at the kitchen table with a theatrical sigh, then drags over another chair so she can put her feet up. Somehow Gail always manages to avoid cleanup, but for once she has a reasonable excuse.
“Sooo . . . tomorrow night everyone’s getting together at the Brewster,” Shelly says as she scoops leftover stuffing into a Tupperware container. By everyone, she means our high school classmates who are having an informal reunion.
“Guess who’s going to be there?” She pauses.
Does she really want me to start guessing?
“Who?” I finally ask.
“Keith. He’s separated.”
I can barely remember which football player he was.
Shelly isn’t interested in him for herself; she got married a year and a half ago. I’d bet twenty bucks that by next year, she’ll be the one with her feet up.
Shelly and Gail look at me expectantly. Gail is rubbing slow circles on her stomach.
My phone vibrates in the pocket of my skirt.
“Sounds fun,” I say. “You’re going to be our designated driver, right, Gail?”
“Like hell,” Gail says. “I’m going to be in a tub reading Us Weekly.”
“Are you dating anyone in New York?” Shelly asks.
My phone vibrates a second time, which it always does when I don’t immediately open a text.
“No one serious,” I say.
Her tone is sugary: “It must be tough to compete with all those beautiful models.”
Gail inherited her blond hair and passive-aggressiveness from Aunt Helen, who chimes in quickly.
“Don’t put off having kids for too long,” she says. “I bet someone is eager for grandchildren!”
Usually my mother lets Aunt Helen’s digs slide, but now I can almost feel her bristle. Maybe it’s because she was drinking again at dinner.
“Jess is so busy with all those Broadway shows,” my mom says. “She’s enjoying having a career before she settles down.”
Whether my mom is defending me or herself with the exaggeration i sn’t clear.
Our conversation is interrupted when Gail’s husband, Phil, wanders in. “Just going to grab a few beers,” he says, opening the refrigerator.
“Nice,” Shelly says. “Aren’t you lucky, getting to sit around and watch the game and drink while we women clean up.”
“You really want to be watching the football game, Shel?” he says.
She bats her hand at him. “Get out of here, you.”
I’m trying to feign interest in the discussion of whether yellow is the right color palette for Gail’s nursery when I give up and excuse myself. I go to the bathroom and slip my phone out of my pocket.
The overly sweet aroma of the gingerbread-scented candle burning on the sink counter almost makes me gag.
Across the screen is a new text from an unfamiliar number:
Excuse me if I am intruding on your holiday. This is Dr. Shields. Are you in town this weekend? If so, I would like to schedule another session with you. Let me know your availability
I read the text twice.
I can’t believe Dr. Shields has reached out to me directly.
I thought the study was only a two-part thing, but maybe I misunderstood. If Dr. Shields wants me for more sessions, it could mean a lot more money.
I wonder if Dr. Shields texted because Ben has the day off. It is Thanksgiving after all. Maybe Dr. Shields is in his home office, getting in a bit of work while his wife bastes the turkey and his grandkids set the table. He could be so committed to his job that he finds it hard to turn off, kind of like the way I’m beginning to find it difficult to stop thinking about moral issues.
A lot of the young women doing this survey would probably love the chance to go back for more sessions. I wonder why Dr. Shields chose me.
My bus ticket back to the city is for Sunday morning. My parents would be disappointed if I left early, even if I told them it was for a big job.
I don’t reply yet. Instead, I tuck the phone back in my pocket and open the bathroom door.