54

Leah

Thanksgiving Day
Thursday, November 23rd, 1989
Lucy missing 7 weeks, 6 days

Dad hasn’t been home in over ten days, and I’m pretty sure he’s not coming back. Last night, I was in my room reading a book when the phone rang. I scrambled out of bed and headed down the hall to Mom and Dad’s room. The door was open, so I stepped inside. Mom was sitting on the edge of the bed with her back to me. She answered on the second ring.

“Hello?” she said, briskly. I could tell right away that it was Dad. Mom reached for her pack of cigarettes on the night stand and shook one out and lit it. “What the hell have you been doing, Carl?” she said, taking a forceful drag off her cigarette as she let Dad finish whatever it was he had to say. “But Thanksgiving’s tomorrow, for Christ’s sake!”

Her back slumped down in defeat. “Fine. You spend another night there. Spend the rest of the month there. If you can’t pull it together for Leah, for us,” she said, her voice wavering with tears, “then I don’t want you coming home.”

She slammed the phone down. My face flushed and tears pricked my eyes. I wanted to cross the room, to go over to her, to hug her, but I knew this was all my fault, so instead, I crept back down the hall to my dark room and cried until I fell asleep.

Since it’s just Mom and me at home, we decided to eat our Thanksgiving meal at Luby’s Cafeteria. We usually prepare a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, but not this year.

To me, Luby’s is comforting. Lucy and I use to eat there every Sunday after church with Grandma and Grandpa. We’d open the heavy glass doors and be enveloped in the heavenly, starchy aroma of cafeteria food. Lucy always wanted to be first in line and she’d stand on her tiptoes and grab a steaming beige tray—straight from the dishwasher—and slap it down on the metal line and glide through, stopping at each station to ogle at the choices. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’d always feel bad when the servers would ask if I wanted their offerings—a sad little salad, or some wobbly fluorescent Jell-O?—and I’d have to turn them down with a quick shake of my head and an over-polite, “No thank you! None for me today!” with the same dismissiveness as a celebrity turning down an autograph request.

Lucy and I always got the same thing anyway: fried fish with sides of mac and cheese and fried okra, apple pie for dessert and iced tea to drink. When we were seated, Grandma used to say in a rather prim voice, “Well at least, here, you’re getting your vegetables,” as if Mom never fed us any. Lucy and I used to snicker about it later, behind Grandma’s back—the thought that mac and cheese and fried okra were somehow vegetables.

After lunch, glazed over from the food, we’d climb into the backseat of their beer-colored Cadillac. It was always baked from the hot sun and it made us feel drowsy. Lucy would immediately kick off her white patent leather Sunday shoes and peel off her nude panty hose. She’d stretch out and rest with her head in my lap and fall asleep sucking her thumb as we bounced, in the warm safety of their cushy backseat, toward home.

Today the scene at Luby’s was dismal. It was only half full with mostly elderly men—lonely widowers dining alone on Thanksgiving, their clothes rumpled but their hair neatly combed over to one side.

Mom and I chose a table by a large window. In the harsh winter light, I noticed that Mom’s face was spackled with new wrinkles, and a few new silver strands escape her loose bun, her faded blond hair in need of a touch-up.

Between forkfuls of dressing she asked, “Can we talk about your birthday?”

I tore a large chunk off a yeast roll and was rolling the springy dough between my fingers—a habit that used to drive Lucy crazy—before wadding it into smaller balls and shoving them in my mouth.

“Sure.”

“Well, it’s just two weeks away. It’s on a Friday night. Do you want to do something special? Maybe have a sleepover with some friends?” Her strained effort depressed me.

“Not without Lucy,” I said. “No, Mom. It’s just not right.”

“Leah,” she said, shifting cranberry sauce around on her plate. “I hate to say this, but she’s gone.” She put her fork down and looked up at me. “And there’s a possibility she’s not coming back.”

A cry threatened to strangle my throat but I stifled it. “You’re wrong,” I said, softly, into my plate. I wasn’t mad at her anymore, I just wished so badly she knew what I knew, that she could believe what I believed.

A brassy-haired waitress was barreling down on us with the hulking drink cart. Her front wheel was askew and it creaked as she pushed it across the thin brown carpet.

“More tea?” she asked us in a stiff tone. Her hair was combed back in a severe bun, held up by a hairnet. She looked about as pleased as I was to be there.

“I’ll have some more coffee, please,” Mom said, “with cream and sugar. Leah?”

“Yes, more tea. Thank you, ma’am,” I said and fished a quarter out of my purse for the waitress like Grandma used to do. I set it on the corner of her cart and she winked at me and said, “Thanks, hon,” before wheeling the cart away.

“I went to see your father last week,” Mom said, stirring her coffee with quick, nervous movements. “And we both agree that we’re going to go ahead and buy you the car for your birthday. Especially with your father gone so much”—she let out a long, tired sigh and stared blankly at her plate—“you’re gonna need it.”

“That’s great, Mom, thank you. Really,” I said. Giddiness floods my body—I felt light and free and adult, the possibilities already lining up in my head.

“Your father said he would come to the dealership with us, to handle the paperwork. Then, I don’t know, I was thinking the three of us could go to dinner, you know, make a night of it?” Mom asked, folding her hands in her lap. I silently vowed to keep things smooth for a little while, so that maybe Dad will come back home then.

“Of course, Mom. That sounds very nice.” I pushed back my chair and went around the table and gave her a long, hard hug.