Chapter 2 - The Cold Drive to Warm Harbor
The engine turned over with a low, steady rumble, vibrating through the steering wheel into my palms. My hands were shaking so hard I had trouble clicking the seatbelt into its buckle. I looked up at the front window of the Miller house. The warm yellow light spilled through the sheer curtains, framing the silhouette of Brenda pacing near the dining table and Renee holding a wine glass by the sink. Graham was nowhere in sight.
He hadn’t come down the steps. He hadn’t run after me into the brisk November chill to take the heavy foil-wrapped roasting pan from my arms, nor had he stepped between me and his mother’s casual cruelty. He had simply stood by the kitchen island with an uncorked bottle of Pinot Noir, paralyzed by the unspoken law of the family: Brenda was never wrong, and keeping Brenda comfortable was everyone’s primary job.
I backed down the driveway, the tires crunching over dry oak leaves. In the rearview mirror, Walter took a slow drag of his cigarette, his expression entirely blank, watching me leave like a spectator at a parade he hadn’t bought tickets for.
The smell of rosemary, roasted garlic, and savory drippings filled the cab of my Honda Pilot. For forty-eight hours, I had seasoned, basted, and tended that bird, setting alarms every two hours the previous night while simultaneously sponging Theo’s forehead when his fever spiked to a hundred and one. I had been terrified of being late. I had been terrified of bringing something inadequate.
Seven miles down the bypass, the tension began to leak out of my shoulders in ragged, uneven breaths. I took the exit toward Oak Creek, where my mother lived in a modest ranch-style house with peeling green shutters and an open-door policy. As I pulled into her driveway, I saw four cars already parked along the curb. My sister, my aunt, and two neighbors who had nowhere else to spend the holiday were already inside.
I turned off the ignition and sat in the dark for a minute. My phone vibrated against the console.
*Graham: Margo, what are you doing? My mom is crying. Renee is furious. Bring it back before this gets completely out of hand.*
I stared at the screen until the light clicked off. I didn’t type a single word.
Opening the back door, I hauled the heavy ceramic platter into my arms, bracing it against my winter coat. I climbed the porch steps, pushed the unlocked front door open with my hip, and called out, "Mom?"
The noise from the living room died down instantly. My mother, wearing an oversized floral apron with flour smudged across her cheek, appeared from the hallway. Behind her, laughter trailed off as everyone took in the sight of me standing in the doorway, red-eyed, wind-whipped, holding a massive, steaming turkey.
"Margo?" she said, hurrying forward to take half the weight of the pan. "What on earth happened? Where’s Graham?"
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"He’s having Thanksgiving with his family," I said, my voice cracking slightly despite my best efforts to keep it steady. "And I brought dinner."
My mother didn't ask another question. She took one look at my face, slipped her hands under the roasting pan, and nodded toward the dining table. "Well, thank God you're here. We were two drumsticks short, and the ham was looking a little lonely."
