“It’s only the four of us, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then it won’t matter, Mother. The table looks picture-perfect. It could be in a magazine, especially with all the holiday decorations.”
“Could it? It’s so important that everything goes well, Kaylee.”
“It will. Let’s have some breakfast. Daddy’s picking her up in an hour.”
“I hope he doesn’t start lecturing her and getting her in a terrible mood before she arrives,” she said, looking like she was going to growl.
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sp; “It will all be fine, Mother. Don’t worry. Let’s join Irene.”
“Yes. I’m so happy you feel that way,” she said.
I turned and walked away. Seeing her smile, hearing her words and the way she wanted to sugarcoat everything that had happened, churned my stomach. I had all I could do just to eat a bit of cereal and a slice of toast and jelly. Mother was so energetic this morning that she insisted on doing everything, clearing the table and rinsing off the dishes and silverware before putting them in the dishwasher, something she always had insisted Haylee and I do. She returned to wipe down the kitchenette table. Irene and I looked at each other, neither wanting to say anything that might put a hole in Mother’s balloon of happiness. Irene winked at me, and I retreated.
A little more than two hours later, I was in the living room reading one of our assigned novels for literature class when I heard the front door open and knew she was here. Was that the sound of my heart pounding or their footsteps?
I heard my father talking to my mother about the weather. I expected that he was waiting for me to appear before he would leave, waiting to see my reaction to Haylee and her reaction to me. I hated that I might appear nervous or afraid. With my head high and my shoulders back, I took a deep breath and stepped into the foyer.
Anyone, even the best detective, would have had to employ a microscope to see any evidence of Haylee being nervous. She burst into a smile of glee the moment she set her eyes on me.
“Oh, I love the way your hair has come back! Mine, too, don’t you think?” She turned around, like someone modeling a new style. She had made it sound as if both of us had gone through chemotherapy or something. Of course, it was on the tip of my tongue to say, I didn’t want mine to be cut, but I swallowed back the words. I would gobble down my feelings and thoughts all day and night, for sure.
“Very pretty,” Mother said. “Both of you.”
Haylee glanced at her, flashed a smile, and then picked up her overnight bag and hurried over to me. “Let’s go upstairs. I have a lot to tell you,” she said, seizing my left hand.
“Wait. I didn’t introduce you properly to Irene,” Mother moaned.
Haylee looked back at her, then at my father, and began to apologize vociferously. “Oh, I’m just so excited to be here. I’m sorry. I didn’t even notice you. Your name is . . .”
“Irene Granford, dear,” Irene said. I could see from the look of amusement on her face that she immediately recognized Haylee’s insincerity but at the same time was amused at her performance. She was also seeing us together for the first time, and like everyone else who did, she was quite astonished by the mirrored faces. It was as if the turmoil, tension, and agony we both had endured were equally damaging.
“I want to know all about you,” Haylee said.
I fought back a laugh. Since when did she ever care more about listening to someone else’s story than she did about reciting her own? But it was the perfect thing to say. Mother’s smile brightened. My father looked sufficiently skeptical and cautious. He glanced at me, and I gave him a small nod so he would understand I was fine.
“We’ll have much to talk about at our Thanksgiving dinner,” Irene said. “We’ve planned it for three o’clock. Is that all right?”
“Absolutely,” Haylee said. “I’m going bonkers. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal for ages. Did you make your famous pumpkin pie, Mother?”
“Of course,” Mother said.
“With gobs and gobs of whipped cream on top,” Haylee reminded me. “I’ve been dreaming about it.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s practically all I’ve been dreaming about.”
I said it as dryly as I could without sounding sarcastic. Mother clapped her hands and brought them to her chin as if she were about to give a Hindu greeting. To Hindus, it meant, “I bow to the divine in you,” and I had no doubt she meant that, too, when it came to us.
She turned to my father with that See? They are still so alike look.
A wave of pessimism swept across his worried expression.
“We have to think about what to wear to dinner,” Irene told me. She looked back at Mother, expecting to hear her dictate our clothing down to the very socks.