The others are already here at Geronima’s. Haley, Sara and her kids, Geronima, Oscar, and Tiffany. I walk in and smell delicious aromas that don’t necessarily smell like turkey and all the trimmings. I see that Geronima still has all her pumpkin decorations out, the same ones she had for Halloween. But she’s taken down the ghosts and more obvious jack-o’-lanterns. Oscar’s on the couch, watching the parade on TV. Tiffany and Sara’s kids chase each other in a quick circle around him. He says, “Hey, you kids,” and they stream into Tiffany’s bedroom and slam the door behind them. He waves me into the kitchen, where I find Haley doing a cooking presentation for Geronima and Sara.
“Don’t you remember?” Haley’s saying. “You’d say, ‘Let’s have party food tonight.’ And you’d make those tiny cocktail sausages wrapped in batter.”
“Pigs in blankets,” Geronima says.
“Right. And you’d cut cheese into cubes and let me eat them with toothpicks. And then, when Mother got home, you’d tell her we had chicken and rice.” I’m guessing she’s talking about her childhood, back when Geronima was her nanny.
Sara’s standing against the wall, out of the way, drinking one of Gero’s Bud Lights. I say hi to everyone and set my casserole full of dressing on the counter. I see that Haley’s already halfway into a bottle of sparkling white wine. That’s probably what’s brought on the wave of nostalgia. Meanwhile she’s commandeered Geronima’s microwave and half the butcher block with an assortment of bags, boxes, and bottles. We watch her pull a wheel of Brie from the microwave and decorate it with amaretto jam and pecan halves. Then she takes a tiny spreader and a box of expensive-looking crackers from her Earth Foods bag and uses them to complete the tableau she’s created on the butcher block. “Here,” she says, offering the spreader to Sara. “Try it.”
“No thanks,” says Sara immediately. “What is that, cream cheese?”
I accept a cracker topped with Brie and jam, and it tastes heavenly. “Good. This is really good, Haley.” She beams at me like a child. “What are you drinking? Prosecco?” I say.
She says, “No, it’s a cava. Try it.” And she turns to the cabinet to get me a wineglass.
Geronima peers into the oven and says, “The brisket’s almost ready.”
“We’re not having turkey?” I say.
Sara catches my eye, smiles, and shakes her head.
“I have turkey if you want it,” says Geronima. “They had turkey breasts for a dollar ninety-nine a pound, so I got two. They’re in the refrigerator. I can heat one up if you want.”
I say, “No, brisket’s fine. It smells great.” Why not? If I can have Thanksgiving without my kids, without my mother…why not have it without turkey, too?
Haley hands me the glass of wine. She, Sara, and I clink glasses. “In thanks for this bounty,” Haley says.
“To Turkey Day with brisket,” Sara says.
“To eating and drinking,” I say. “With friends.”
Geronima clears the ever-present pots full of food from her stove, moving them to rooster-shaped trivets on the counter. Then she doubles up on pot holders—two in each hand—and opens the oven door all the way.
“Gero, let me do that,” Sara says. She sets down her beer and takes the pot holders, bends down, and hauls up a giant roasting pan that must contain ten pounds of brisket and five pounds of golden, greasy brisket juice.
“Thank you, m’ija. Just leave it on the stove for a while, to rest.” Geronima’s perspiring, as if from Sara’s effort. She’s the one who needs to rest. I wonder how long she’s been working in this kitchen, preparing for our visit, without a break.
“Let’s go sit down for a little while,” I say. “I’m tired from…driving over here.” If I don’t make an excuse to sit, Geronima won’t.
We single-file it to the living room and arrange ourselves around Oscar and the TV. He gives us all affable glances but doesn’t say anything. Oscar’s a man long used to the company of women. He sits through our chatter, silent as a ninja but somehow never in the way. Is that why he and Geronima have stayed married for so long? Probably.
“So it’s a long drive to your mama’s house from here?” Geronima says to me as she blots her forehead with the skirt of her apron.
“What’s that?”
“You said you were tired from driving. Your mother must live far away.”
Oh, damn. This is why I should never lie. I’m not good at it. “I…um, I didn’t go to my mother’s.”
“You didn’t? Where were you, then?” Geronima’s question is completely innocent. How can she know that the answer isn’t something I’m ready to make public?
“I had to go get something. To finish the dressing,” I say. “The grocery stores around here weren’t open, so I had to drive far away.”
Geronima looks perturbed. “So you’re not going to see your mama for Thanksgiving? Isn’t she going to miss you?”
I don’t know what to say to that. Will she miss me? I don’t know. The only thing I’m certain about is that I don’t miss her. So far this is turning out to be the best Thanksgiving I’ve had in a while.
Sara’s raising an eyebrow at me. I know she isn’t visiting her mother for Thanksgiving either, and I wonder if she’s already explained herself to Geronima on that point. Haley, meanwhile, looks lost in her own world. She’s staring at the TV but not registering the Snoopy-shaped float.
Oscar chooses that moment to join the conversation. “Gero, isn’t it time for you to take your medicine, vieja?” I can’t tell if he’s trying to change the subject or if he really did feel the need to remind her. Either way, it makes her pop up and hurry to the bathroom. Baby Junior runs out of Tiffany’s bedroom and nearly collides with Geronima’s legs, causing Sara to call out, “Angelica, come get your brother!”
Once Geronima’s behind the closed door, Oscar turns to me and says, “Never mind her. She’s been sad that Tiffany’s mama hasn’t called her for the holidays.”
That catches Haley’s attention. She, Sara, and I exchange looks. We know that Geronima’s only daughter, Cristina, lives elsewhere. It’s been clear that they aren’t close, but I wouldn’t have guessed there was any strife between them. I venture a question, since Oscar’s in the mood to talk. “Did Cristina spend Thanksgiving here last year?”
Oscar shakes his head. “She never does. Christmas either. We haven’t seen her in five years, since Tiffany was born. But Gero’s always hoping she’ll change her mind and come back.”
Geronima emerges from the bathroom at that moment, holding a bandage to her arm and keeping me from asking Oscar any more questions. It occurs to me for the first time that Geronima’s diabetes must be pretty serious. She’s talked about taking insulin before, but I always assumed she meant pills. Now I see the way she’s holding her arm, and it reminds me of my father’s mother and all the times I watched her, as a child, giving herself injections—before she died.
“Do you feel okay?” I ask. Now I feel guilty for coming over here, for practically forcing Geronima to cook us an elaborate dinner.
“I’m fine, m’ija. Good as new.” She smiles at all of us and, magically, looks like her regular, energetic self again. “What are we doing sitting here talking? Let’s eat!”
The parade’s long over, the brisket’s two-thirds demolished, and Oscar’s gone to his bedroom for a late nap or a very early bedtime. Likewise Baby Junior’s crashed out on Tiffany’s bed, and the girls are sitting on the floor around him, playing with dolls in a food-induced zombie state. The rest of us are sitting in the living room picking at desserts and finishing the wine. Geronima’s the only one still moving around the apartment. Every few minutes she pops up for one reason or other. Right now she’s in the kitchen putting pots and pans full of soapy water on the stove, to soak away the now-hardened rice, dressing, sweet potatoes, and pie. She refuses to let us help her, and we’re too drowsy to argue much.
It’s strange to be sitting here drinking at what feels like a family party but without my kids. Bittersweet. Apparently Haley feels the same way, because she’s getting pretty emotional, now that we’ve made it through two or three bottles. She keeps looking down at her plate of Brie and tearing up.
“Are you thinking about the parties you used to have with Geronima?” I say.
She shakes her head. “No. I’m just…” And then a tear breaks free and rolls down her face.
I see Sara giving her a cynical look. “Girl, please don’t tell me you’re crying over a man.” A man? Is Sara joking? Or does she know something that I don’t?
Haley sniffs and wipes away the tear. “It’s not about him.”
“Him who?” I say. There’s something Sara knows that I don’t, and I’m annoyed. Or slightly hurt—both emotions feel the same.
Haley won’t say anything, so Sara explains. “She’s into some guy who works at Earth Foods. His name’s J.D.” Then she asks Haley, “What happened? Is he being a dick to you?”
Haley sniffles again. “No. It’s not about him.”
I think back to the morning Haley was hungover and told me she’d gone to a rockabilly party the night before. She must have gone with this J.D. person. I can’t believe she’s been dating and didn’t tell us. Didn’t tell me.
She says, “Nothing’s happening between us. We’re just friends. I’m just…I miss Jared.”
Now I feel guilty for being suspicious or jealous or whatever it was, and I reach over the corner of the coffee table and put my hand on her arm. Of course she misses Jared. This is her first Thanksgiving without him, and he’s her only child.
She’s actually crying now. She says, “And Dave wants me to come back home.”
“What’s going on?” Geronima’s back from the kitchen. “Haley, what’s wrong?” She rushes over and sits next to Haley, to comfort her, probably the same way she did years ago.
Sara gives Geronima a quick recap. “Haley’s ex wants her to go back home.”
Geronima sighs. “Well, that’s good. Isn’t it?” She peers at Haley, who doesn’t seem to agree. “Don’t you want to go back? To work things out?” Haley can’t answer. She’s completely distraught.
Sara pipes up again. “She never told him she wanted a divorce.”
“What?” Everyone looks at me. “I thought you were legally separated.”
Haley coughs and sputters. “I’m sorry, Natasha. I wanted to tell you, but…” And she dissolves into tears again.
Sara leans over and explains it to me. “He thinks she’s just visiting Geronima for a while. She doesn’t have the guts to tell him she wants to leave.”
I think back to everything Haley’s ever said to me about her divorce, or her separation. And realize that she never said anything about either. She simply let me believe that Dave was her ex. A lie by omission.
And now I feel like an idiot.
Geronima’s trying to give advice. “Why don’t you just go back, m’ija? Tell him how you’re feeling. He’d do anything for you. You know that.”
“I know,” sobs Haley. “But I don’t want to him to do anything for me. I just want it to be over.”
Sara visibly loses patience with her then. “You can’t just wait for something to go away, Haley. You need to man up and tell him right now.”
That’s exactly what I’d say to her, albeit less harshly. But how is it that Sara knows all this—all Haley’s backstory—and I don’t? I didn’t even think they liked each other that much.
The paranoia’s coming back. This just feels too strange. What else is going on that I don’t know about?
I stand, feeling a little wobbly. “I need to take off now. I have to…call my mother.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Hell, maybe I will call her.
“Natasha.” Haley breaks away from Geronima and stands, too. “I’m sorry. I know what you’re thinking—that I lied to you. But I didn’t mean to. I just didn’t want you to think…Well, I wanted you to think I was someone like you. You know…someone moving on with her life.”
“It’s okay,” I say. Is it? I don’t know, but she looks so miserable. And she’s saying she lied in order to—what? Impress me? What can I say to that? “It’s all right. Don’t worry about me. Just worry about your situation. Get it taken care of. I hope it works out.”
“I will,” she says. “I’m going to call him tonight and explain everything.”
I have to get out of here, right now. I don’t feel so well all of a sudden. But I don’t want to leave it with any of them thinking I’m upset. So I reach out and hug Haley. “Good luck, okay? Call me later and let me know how it goes.” Then I hug Geronima and Sara good-bye. And then I hightail it out of there, so I can be by myself in my apartment for a little while.