Mimi and Bumpa arrived last night while I was at the hospital with Nico, so by the time Mrs. Noble dropped me off at home, they were already heading to bed, exhausted from their drive down from Sacramento.
I’m happy to see them now, bringing their good vibes to our house.
On Thanksgiving mornings, we usually pile into the car together to serve food at a local soup kitchen, but my mom is hesitant today, worrying nobody will want us serving food to anyone anywhere. I don’t disagree. But my dad insists.
“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” he says through gritted teeth. “I refuse to be a prisoner in my own town.”
His conviction doesn’t exactly make me feel better.
“But it’s Thanksgiving,” my mom says. “It’s an especially bad day to make a scene.”
My dad stands firm. “That’s everyone else’s problem, not mine.”
“What’s going on?” Mimi asks as she fastens her watch around her wrist. “Why is this even a big deal? We do this every year no matter where we are.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mom,” my dad says.
“I have a right to know if you’re about to feed me to the wolves,” she says, clipping on her earrings.
“There are no wolves,” my dad says. “Just a bunch of people who can’t keep their noses out of everybody else’s business.”
Bumpa laughs. “Sounds like all your friends,” he says to Mimi.
She gives him a playful swat. “Oh, you.”
Mimi and Bumpa don’t know the half of it. They’ve always been only mildly supportive of my dad’s beliefs and the way he’s chosen to live. As far as they know, my sister, brother, and I got sick with the measles a few months ago and got well. They don’t know about the scarlet A or the angry mobs or the online videos. I wonder what they’d say if they knew. Maybe I should tell Mimi the whole story. I just don’t think Thanksgiving Day is the right time to do it.
It’s ultimately decided that my mom will stay home with Poppy and Sequoia and I’ll go to the community center with my dad, Mimi, and Bumpa.
Things are already a rush of activity when we arrive. There are cooking stations and checklists and tables being set. I barely get my latex serving gloves on when one of the women running the meal prep sends me out back to help carry in supplies that have arrived with drivers. My stomach clenches when I see that one of the drivers is Mary, donating vegetables from her farm. Will more food come from farmers market booths? And if so, will everyone be cool with my family being here?
“Juniper!” Mary takes a cautious step away from me. “Hello.”
“I’m here to help you unload.” I’m matter of fact. No niceties. Mary doesn’t want them and I don’t want to give them.
“No need,” she says. “I’ve got it.”
“There’s a lot to carry in and we’re in a time crunch. Just let me help.”
She rakes her eyes across my latex gloves. “You’re not contagious with anything?”
“I’m good.”
“You thought you were good before you realized you had the measles, too. Who’s to say you’re not harboring some new illness today? Maybe having you serve food isn’t the best idea. Perhaps we should talk to someone.” She looks toward the back door to the kitchen for help. “I’m sure we can put you somewhere that you aren’t handling food.”
“No,” I say firmly. “I’m fine. It’s an important event and I want to help.”
“I guess carrying my boxes in can’t hurt.” She wrestles with the door handle. Looks over her shoulder at me. “This stubborn old van.”
The door finally creaks open.
Mary’s van doesn’t have any seats aside from the two in front, so it’s practically packed to the ceiling with cardboard boxes full of regular potatoes and sweet potatoes and romaine lettuce and tomatoes. It’s a generous donation, and I tell her so.
“Just grab whatever?” I ask, and she nods warily.
We go back and forth from the van to the kitchen, where Mimi and others are waiting to peel and dice what we bring in. It takes us a few trips since there’s only two of us. When I try to grab the last box, it’s stuck in the back. I jiggle it, trying to slide it out. I give it a hard pull to loosen it. Whatever was keeping it in place comes tumbling out of the door and lands by my foot. I bend over. Pick it up. Turn it over in my hand. It’s a can of red spray paint. Scarlet. Like the A on our front door.
I want to believe Mary used it for something else. A DIY project or the homemade banner of her farmers market booth. But that would make me a fool.
And I’m not a fool.
Mary yanks the can from my hand and throws it into the back of the van, where it bounces loudly against the metal floor. “Too much stuff in there.” She pats her hands around her apron, flustered.
“It was you,” I say.
She looks down at the ground. Some strands of gray hair fall loose from her ponytail. “What was me?”
“You know.” I can never tell my mom. She thought Mary was her friend. It would crush my mom to know Mary vandalized our house. Like a high school bully all over again. “Why?”
Mary shifts from one foot to the other, looking desperately at the others arriving at the community center. More cars delivering food. Nuns carrying in pies. A family dropping off bottles of water.
“You met the baby at my booth.”
Realization dawns. “You feel responsible.”
Mary nods. “She was exposed to the measles on my watch. I told her mom to nurse her in my chair under my canopy shade.”
“But you couldn’t have stopped that baby from getting sick. You didn’t know I had the measles any more than I did.”
“And I’ll have to live with that forever.”
“You will? How do you think I feel?”
“I hope you feel terrible.” She narrows her eyes until it feels like they’re cutting right into me, leaving a scar. “I did this town a service by painting that A on your front door. I did it to tell everyone who you were so that maybe I could stop what happened to that baby from happening to someone else.” She lifts her chin in defiance. “I did what I had to do. On your door and on Facebook. So don’t you forget it.”
“I can’t forget!” I lower my voice when my shout stops people in their tracks. “I think about Katherine St. Pierre every day. I don’t agree with my parents’ anti-vax stance.”
“You don’t?”
“I want to be vaccinated, Mary.”
“Oh.”
I look at her hard. “But guess what? Sixteen-year-old girls don’t get a whole lot of say about things in this world.”
She shakes her head. “Juniper.” Her voice is softer.
I put my hand up. “Don’t.”
She nods. “Understood.”
“It’s Thanksgiving.” I pick up the one remaining box. “And it looks like this is the last of it.”
She shuts the door behind me. Locks it.
“I’m sorry,” Mary says. “I hope you get what you want.”
I don’t turn around. An apology can’t wash away the fact that she vandalized my house and made my family feel unsafe. I’ll always know what she did.
And so will she.
Lunch goes by in a rush, as a long line of people pass through the community center for a hot meal and a slice of pie. Mimi and I are on mashed potato duty, putting two round scoops on each plate. My dad washes dishes in the back. And Bumpa greets people at the door because he’s friendly like that.
There are families and veterans. Single moms and teenagers. A girl who reminds me of Poppy because she has a box of colored pencils shoved into her pocket. And a little boy who reminds me of my brother with his curly hair and long eyelashes. I wonder if he likes dragons as much as Sequoia. When our food shift is over, my grandparents and I walk around, stopping at tables to say hello and passing out bottled waters. Some want to chat, while others want to be left alone. I listen to those who want to share stories.
In the evening, after we’ve cleaned up and locked the doors behind us, we drive back to join my mom, Poppy, and Sequoia for Thanksgiving dinner at home.
The house smells delicious when we walk in, like pungent garlic and the sharp bite of onion. Like spicy cinnamon and nutmeg. Like real butter and cream. The kitchen is warm from the oven, and I’m so glad to be back.
Because I have here.
I have home.
For now.
My whole family sits at the table, passing dishes, sharing what makes them thankful.
My dad is thankful for family.
My mom is thankful for love.
Poppy is thankful for books.
Sequoia is thankful for nature.
Mimi is thankful to be here.
Bumpa is thankful there wasn’t too much traffic on the drive down.
I’m thankful Nico is okay after his beesting.
I tell my family about him asking me to the Snow Ball. Mimi claps excitedly and bounces in her chair.
“Oh, please let me take you shopping for your dress.” She turns to my mom. “May I, Melinda? My treat.”
“That would be lovely and generous. Thank you, Mimi.”
“Tomorrow,” Mimi says. “This is going to be so much fun!”