“And was it big?” the little girl inquired, mouth full of mashed potato. Her cheeks were round and fat, flushed to the point of redness. Her silverware clanged against the fragile edge of her porcelain plate, to the dismay of her dainty mother.

     “Gloria, dear—” her mother started meekly.

     “Of course it was big! Enormous!” a booming voice rang out. Gloria’s mother shrank back in her flimsy wooden chair.

     Gloria’s uncle was the only person that could speak loud enough to shake the earth and the eardrums, a towering voice to match a towering frame. He was so tall that his black hair grazed the ceiling and so lean that he was often mistaken for a shadow. With a stoic face drawn with harsh lines and painted with a colorless palette, Uncle Kit was understandably intimidating.

     “Uncle Kit, tell us more,” Gloria’s twin brother piped up from behind her.

     Despite his appearance, Uncle Kit was very personable. And entertaining, judging from the looks of rapt interest in the children’s faces.

     “Well, I don’t think Uncle Kit’s stories will fare well with you once bedtime comes,” the mother of the children warned quietly. Her caution was ignored.

     “Where did I leave off?” Uncle Kit paused expertly.

     “Oh, the bears!” Gloria shrieked. “Tell us more about the bears!”

     “Of course, the bears…” Uncle Kit began, in a suspenseful tone. “They were chasing me down, pelting after me as if their lives depended on it.”

     “Why were they chasing you?” Gloria’s brother, Rupert, asked.

     “He already said that,” Gloria snapped haughtily.

     “Children, please,” their mother uttered. Gloria regarded her for a split second, uninterested, before turning her attention back onto Uncle Kit, his eyes screwed shut in what seemed to be fierce concentration. Gloria shoveled a forkful of turkey into her mouth, “Uncle Kit, what are you doing?”

     “Shh,” Uncle Kit whispered, placing his lanky fingers on his temples. Gloria leaned towards him, still chewing obnoxiously on her turkey. She grew impatient, “Then what happened?”

     “I’m imagining it right now, Gloria. It’s almost as if I’m reliving the entire adventure! Over there, I can see the bears,” he spoke in a tone just louder than a whisper. “And behind me,” he paused for dramatic effect, “I hear rustling.”

     “Rustling!” Gloria cried with delight. “Uncle Kit, go on!”

     Uncle Kit hadn’t the chance to go on, or even to remove his fingers from his head before a tremendous crash shook the kitchen. Gloria screamed and clutched onto her dinner plate in terror, tears beginning to well up in her beady eyes. Rupert sat still in the corner, petrified to the point of immobility. Meanwhile, the mother of the children had stayed calmly at her place at the table, seemingly unfazed by the abrupt interruption.

     Uncle Kit yelled, with renewed energy, “What the hell?”

     The mother of the children shot him a warning glance, “Kit, the children.”

     Gloria smiled, her tears still shining on her chubby cheeks, “Ha, he said—”

     “Who cares what I said!” Uncle Kit roared, “I just want to know what just happened!”

     The kitchen seemed back as it had been before. A few pots and pans had noisily clanged to the floor, but it remained, for the most part, unscathed. Gloria had begun to wail again, discouraged by her uncle’s harsh tone and frightened of what may have caused the loud crash. She popped a few roasted potatoes into her mouth and gnawed on them as she clinged onto her mother, wiping her tears on her pink sleeve.

     After a moment, Gloria lifted up her head hopefully. “Uncle Kit,” she began, “Uncle Kit, you can check and see what caused the noise! Uncle Kit, you are the bravest explorer in the entire world.”

     Uncle Kit looked uncomfortable, scratching his face absentmindedly. “Well, I suppose I could,” he stated slowly, “But what if it’s dangerous?”

     “Dangerous!” Gloria exclaimed. “You live for danger, Uncle Kit!”

     “Live for danger?” Uncle Kit inquired, beads of perspiration forming on his broad forehead.

     “Yes! You run from bears while escaping to secret islands! And you steal back lost emeralds from ruthless pirates,” Gloria’s voice was quieter now, “You even captured a wild tiger and taught it to tear your enemies to shreds.”

     Gloria’s face was dry. Kit’s was very red, his usual pale complexion concealed by a layer of pink embarrassment. “Well, of course, but this is different.”

     His argument was weak, and Gloria was determined. “Uncle Kit, how is this different?”

     Gloria’s pudgy face, once harmless, looked cruel. Her shining eyes were shining maliciously and her uneven teeth were bared in an ugly snarl.

     At least that’s how they appeared to Kit.

     Uncle Kit rose, extremely slowly, from his chair. He hunched over slightly, to avoid hitting the ceiling, and then stepped towards the door. With rattling footsteps, he left the room.

     Silence followed his departure, seeping into the very corners of the kitchen, stretching up past the windows to the ceiling. For a half minute, though it felt longer, nobody said a word. Gloria, for all of her complaining and greediness, was not dumb. And neither was Rupert, still stiff in his rickety chair, eyes still wide open.

     “Mom,” Gloria addressed her mother for the first time that evening.

     Her mother looked tired. “Yes, Gloria?” she sighed.

     “Mom, why is Uncle Kit so afraid?” Gloria asked, bushy eyebrows furrowed.

     Gloria’s mother sighed once more. “Your Uncle Kit is a brilliant storyteller.”

     There was a pause as Gloria looked around. “You mean that he hasn’t run away from bears? Or stolen a pirate’s treasure?”

     The look on her mother’s face told her enough. The tears welled up once again as Gloria stomped her fat feet on the ground. “Well, Uncle Kit is a liar!” she shrieked.

     In the corner, Rupert blinked slowly.

"Is that a bit of lipstick on your collar, bro?" I couldn't help but snicker. Obviously he'd made a stop in town before arriving at Mom's for dinner. Someone's pink lips had managed to stain the underside of his chin, as well. My squeaky clean, thirty-four year old jock of a brother made a booty call on Thanksgiving day and the evidence was all over the collar of his baby blue polo. This was wonderful.

"Oh shit." Brian grabbed Mom's folded white cloth napkin that she reserved only for formal dinners and toppled his water glass trying to soak it. He didn't seem to notice cold drenching his khakis; he was too busy scrubbing his neck raw in an attempt to erase the evidence of his sluttiness.

Jess's eyes turned to wide green saucers and her eyebrows molded to her blonde hairline simultaneously. "Get it off before she notices, Brian!" She whispered harshly, shrieking through her teeth into his ear. Why the hell did she care? She should be taunting him with me.

What was I kidding? She was only younger than him by eighteen months, and they'd always been partners in crime.  They may as well have been twins.

Being the youngest of three children by twelve years should have been a religious experience according to textbooks. I should have been spoiled rotten, doted on, and swelled with the vocabulary of a literary genius by the time I was three years old. Not only did that fate escape me, here I was a total fucking mess and disappointment to my entire Stepford family.

The thought of my adult brother trying to hide his pre-dinner romp from our Martha Steward clone of a mother made my toes curl.  

"Don't smudge the napkins, Brian," I was now being sarcastic, "she'll burn you at the stake and eat your liver for dessert."

"Shut up, Dee!"  I'm pretty sure the look on Jess's face as she whipped the smile from mine with her demand was a mixture of hatred and fear.  She knew as well as I did that imperfection didn't sit well on Mother's stomach.  

"Here they come," Brian spoke so quickly I had to double take.  He shoved the dripping wet napkin into the puddle that was now his lap.  

Mom was stunning, which was a given due to her zero tolerance for ugliness, and the smell of Tide and Elizabeth Arden burned my nostrils as the wind gingerly floated towards us through her catwalk calves.  Her below-the-knee, pressed pink A-line dress and large brunette coils were her Thanksgiving staple, and somehow she managed to keep four-inch heels from sinking into the grass below her.  It always took me a few moments to adjust to her cleanliness.

My fanatic evangelist Nana and demented Pop-Pop followed slowly behind her, paying no mind to her self-deluded extravagance.

"Oh Brian, honey," Mom's sweet Alabama swag was so thick I almost gagged, "you've spilt your water!  Lemme getcha a disposable napkin, baby."

Brian inconspicuously tucked the "special occasion" napkin further into his crotch. 

"Yeah, uh, thanks, Mom," he was so bad at being nervous, "sorry about that."

"Oh, that's all right, Darlin'," as usual, she couldn't manage to end a sentence without a pet name meant to highlight her Southern charm and stamp her role as head of household, "I'll be right back."

The air loosened with her departure from the back yard through the sliding glass doors of her white kitchen, and Brian let out a deep sigh of relief.  

Nana and Pop-Pop had managed to make it to the table we had set up under the old Magnolia tree.  That was where we always ate our Thanksgiving dinner if the weather would allow.  She pulled a chair for him and set his walker aside.

"Now Melvin, I hope you remembered to empty yourself before we left the house," she was referring to his colostomy bag.  No one ever said "colostomy bag" aloud because this might imply that my grandfather was wearing a plastic sac full of his own shit under his pants, which, of course, was exactly the case.

"Goddammit, Janet, I don't need you remindin' me of everythin' to do, you know.  I'm not a child, for god's sake!"  I loved my crazy Pop-Pop.  He was the best part of Thanksgiving dinner each year and the only person sitting around the table who didn't filter every word that came out of his mouth.

We all drew silence with the sound of the sliding doors opening to let Mom make her second debut into the backyard.  This time, Mom's eighty pound Goldendoodle, Gregory, came bounding through behind her, completely ignoring our party, and straight to back fence to hike his leg. Another very annoying fact about my mother is that she insisted on giving animals human names - and very pretentious ones at that.

Everyone stopped to watch her glide in our direction, not because we enjoyed the view, just because we were accustomed to her silent expectations.

"Here ya go, baby boy," she handed my brother a handful of paper napkins imprinted with little turkeys sporting cartoon human eyes, muskets, and over-sized Pilgrim top hats.  Whoever dreamed up that little gem must have had a few cannibalistic tendencies.

"Okay, everyone," Mother announced in her customary hostess voice, "lets all stand and bow our heads for the family prayer so we can get this show on the road!"  

This was my Nana's invention.  Being the Christian she was, she thought it best we all gave praise individually, working in a circle around the table as we held hands, blessing our food before we were allowed to touch it.  I'm positive no one but her and mother enjoyed this part, but I had a plan today.  This was my chance to drop my bomb as comically as possible.  I'd already been what Southern families refer to as the "black sheep" for the majority of my life, so I felt it was only characteristic and appropriate to disrupt my family's facade and shatter their illusions while saying thanks to our good Lord in heaven.

Nana generally started the prayer, Pop-Pop finished it with an Amen, which made me last in line this year and would work out perfectly.  He was sitting directly to my left, and would remain that way through the show.  He always ignored Nana's request that he stand.  There was a good chance he was either a closet atheist or convinced he was going to hell regardless, so he was not too keen to put forth any extra effort.  

We stood and gathered hands, everyone dutifully sealing their eyelids shut and lowering their chins to their chests.  Nana began.

"Our dear Lord and Savior in Heaven, Jesus Christ, I ask that you gather with us today on this most blessed of occasions.  I ask that you stand before this meal and grace it with your light and everlasting love so that we may dine here with you in your eternal gift of salvation."

Jess's turn went smoothly, "Thank you Lord for bringing us all together today, and thank you for this beautiful meal Mother has prepared for us.  I ask that you bring peace to our family."

Now Brian with his usual idiocy, "God, thanks for the turkey and the stuffing and especially the sweet potato pie.  Thank you for blessing me with such a great family, and I ask that you continue to make our lives so awesome."

I had to grind my teeth through Mom's honey-sweet show, "Dear Lord in Heaven, we are so thankful to your presence here with us on this fine Thanksgiving day.  Thank you, Lord, for blessing us with such a beautiful afternoon to enjoy our dinner together.  Thank you for gracing our family with an abundance of not only material wealth but love and joy, as we are wicked sinners who do not deserve such things.  I ask that you allow my darling Charles, my dear husband and father to our three perfect children, to be with us in spirit today.  Father, I also ask that we feel Charles' love and kindness with us as we celebrate you and our most devoted family and nourish our bodies with the feast before us.   Please, Lord, I ask that you continue to work through me to do your will, and show my child, um, children your way and light."

I had almost decided to back out, but that last little dig seared my intention.  Still, as I gathered my guts, the silence continued on for what felt like a year, and my mother intervened my procrastination.

"Dee," her voice still directed toward the ground, "Delilah, honey, aren't you going to join us?"

I didn't answer her, as I knew this question was more of a demand than a request. I simply just started spilling.

"Dear baby Jesus," my grandfather firmly pinched my knee and let out an amused snort, "thank you so much for Mom making dinner, and, uh, thank you so much for everyone who showed up to eat it. I have a special request today, which I hope you'll grant me since I never ask you for anything. Ever."  I stopped for a millisecond to catch a breath. "Today I ask that you allow my family to accept everything I'm about to tell them, and I hope that you allow them the strength and grace to treat me kindly and help me out a little here."

Everyone was now silent other than my grandfather's heavy breathing beside me and the sound of Gregory under the table licking his testicles.

"So the thing is, Jesus, I'm gay.  Like really gay.  I'm sorry I never told anyone.  But that's not all.  Three days ago my girlfriend kicked me out because I accidentally caught the sofa on fire - again.  I accidentally caught the sofa on fire because I fell asleep with a cigarette in my mouth - again, and I fell asleep like that because I was a little drunk - well, I was really drunk because I have a tiny alcohol dependency problem.  I also lost my job because I was late - again.  Cass burned all of my things except for my vinyl record collection, which was only safe because it was in my car, so I have nothing - no clothes, no birth certificate, no curtains, nothing - and I need to live here with Mom indefinitely until I can get my shit together.  Please let her not kick me out.  I also have a warrant out for my arrest because I have three unpaid traffic tickets, and ask that you allow Mother to be generous enough to help me pay those so I don't go to jail."

The air was palpable. I could feel eyes searing into me although mine were still closed tightly and my face turned to the ground.  My cheeks were undoubtedly now the same color of Mom's crimson front door.

Cue Pop-Pop, "Amen."  

Still no sound.  I decided to open my eyes and face the wrath of the Cleaver family standing before me, their hands still wrapped around one another in a circle of unity.  I had just severed their tie to perfection.  I had just tainted their golden and holy goblet of Christ's water-wine, and they probably all hated my guts.  

My mother seemed unable to blink or shut her mouth.  She was just - staring at me.  My brother and sister's eyes were fixed on her, waiting for the volcanic eruption that was sure to come.

"She burned your birth certificate?"  Mom was shocked, but this was not the response I was expecting.

"What?  I mean, yeah, but," I needed to finish this sentence, but Jess chimed in.

"What! Why would you give it to her? Why would you do that, Mother! You know how she is!  How the hell are we gonna get another one!"

Jess was being incredibly dramatic considering this was my birth certificate we were discussing, none of which made any sense to me at all. Had they not heard anything else I said?

"Don't you dare start with me, Jessica Lynn," Mom was turning bright red and blotchy with anger now, "this wouldn't be an issue at all if it weren't for you two." 

I leaned toward my mother, not because I couldn't hear from my position, but because I wanted to make sure I was at an optimum distance to witness her reaming my siblings - this was something I'd never, ever been privy to be part of, and I wanted to soak in every second.

I would have preferred to remain sucked into their odd battle of the birth certificate, but what I would soon learn was to my misfortune, Pop-Pop decided that moment would be a good time to introduce some of his unwanted wisdom.

"Oh, Dee, we already all know you're a bean flicker," he actually laughed as he was saying these words to me, "you know, I had my own fair share of homo encounters in the Navy, and I gotta tell ya, Dee, it ain't as unusual as ya think. So get off your damn high horse."

And oh my god, he even continued, "from a man's point of view, the back door is a lot more obligin' to his sensibilities, if ya know what I mean. Once ya go up the rear, you don't never-"

"Melvin Wayne Roberts!" Nana intercepted his lesson with his full name, which was a certain indication of trouble. My mind was beginning to fold into itself with the thought of my grandpa mounting a blue-eyed sailor on the poop deck. But then, she insisted on vomiting more horrendous details of their past.

"You horrible old coot! You promised you'd never tell anyone! I can't believe this - after all these years of covering up for you, and you just blurt it out in front of the children! At Thanksgiving! You gonna tell 'em about your little boy nurse, too? Like you can do a thing anyway with that floppy old pecker. Oh you! Just let it all out, you ignorant, wrinkly old Nancy boy, just tell 'em and get it over with!"

Pop-Pop was howling with laughter at this point, and I'm quite certain the look on my face was egging him on nicely. I'm not sure if it was defined horror or a mixture of intrigue and 'please don't say these things to me,' but he found it hilarious.

The feeling of warm turkey gravy splattering my right temple gave me a legitimate reason to excuse myself from Nana and Pop-Pop's two-man circus, but it only dragged me into the one on the other side of the table. Apparently, I was more of a contributor to this one than I was previously aware.

Jessica and Mom must have wrapped up their initial cat fight by means of gravy boat because the same mess that was filling my ear hole was dripping from Jess's long blonde hair.  She sat slumped and defeated, in tears, watching Mother and Brian go at it nose-to-nose.

I'd never once seen Brian challenge Mom for any reason.  They'd always been like peas and carrots, those two, which was even a bit unnerving at times.  I questioned on many occasions whether or not he had some kind of Oedipus complex or something.

But not on this day, oh no.  I wished I could turn the action down to slow motion and watch the spit fly from face to face.  They were really going at it.

"How can you refuse to take any responsibility, Mother?"  Brian was actually - crying - and this unfortunately pulled the humor down a few notches, but not completely.  "You knew!  You can't say you didn't.  You refused to do anything until it was going to taint your little white picked fence, and you can't deny that, Mother!"

Mom's lips were curled completely back, and I swear she was drooling.

"Brian, how dare you say that!  I got rid of him, didn't I?  You think that was easy?  What did you expect me to do?  Did you want the entire neighborhood to find out?  They would have thought we were - "

At this moment, my attention was diverted by a violent thumping coming from my grandparents' end of the table.  This actually turned out to be a violent humping of my grandmother's left leg by Gregory, which Nana didn't even seem to notice due to the tantrum she was still absorbed in.  

Nana wasn't just sobbing, she was whaling and praying at the same time.  My grandfather, however, did take note of Gregory, which nearly made him slide right out of his chair in a fit of laughter.

"Take a look at him, will ya," his voice had become so high pitched from lack of air, I could barely understand him, "he's really goin' at it!  Ha ha!  He fancies you, Janet, you outta take him home and maybe you can get a little sumthin' sumthin', too!  Maybe that'll loosen ya up a little - take ya back to Jesus!  Hallelujah, hallelujah!  Amen! Ha ha ha!"

"Oh dear Lord," Nana was on the verge of speaking in tongues, "Please, Jesus, release this man of his evil!"  She leaned in an nearly licked his tongue with her venomous request.  "He is possessed by the Devil and it has demented his mind!"

Pop-Pop was now raving mad, and his chair began to buckle under pressure of his belly's momentum.  He started waving his hands in the air, still bellowing in a fit of laughter, "Arrrgh, ooooh, I'm possessed!  Ha ha!"

Red faced and tears streaming down his cheeks, he looked straight at me and stated much more plainly that I'd like to have heard, "You know, she calls me demented?  She must have forgotten the only reason I married her was because she was knocked up with your mother!  Ha ha!  I'd never even touched that nasty ole snatch!  Didn't want her little church friends to find out, now did she? Ha ha ha - "

His maniacal chuckles were abruptly cut off by an ear-cracking slap to his jaw.  Nana screeched at a decibel that must have been high enough to scare Gregory away, because he ceased the raping of her leg, "You son of a bitch!"

It took me a moment, but once I was able to wrap my head around the fact that my purist grandmother just called her husband a son of a bitch, it sunk in.  Oh dear baby Jesus, he wasn't my mother's father!

My jaw dropped open, as to be expected in this type of situation, and my eyes diverted straight to my mother, who luckily was paying no attention to my grandparents and managed to steer clear of having her warped history revealed to her.  

No, she was too busy picking up handfuls of stuffing and throwing them at my brother's face while simultaneously avoiding his cannon fire of cranberry sauce, which had now added a magenta hue to her perfectly pink attire.

"And do you think I didn't notice it," the fear of what was about to come out of her mouth was not enough to cause me to cover my ears, "huh?  You think I didn't see that balm all over your collar?"

I managed a sigh of relief after that one.  Surely this couldn't have been as bad as whatever was so bad before, all of which I was still completely clueless to.

"Stop it, Mom," Jess was trying to calm her down, but Mom's top had already blown "stop, please!"

"Oh no I won't!" Mom's words were electric, and I could feel the current from where I was.  "I told you two to keep your filthy hands away from each other in my house!"

What?  Wait, what was I hearing?  Even Gregory realized that now was the time to pay attention.  He sat at a safe distance and studied Mother, intently waiting for the cue to run for his life, while the rest of us went completely silent.  Or perhaps we were in shock.

"Isn't one incestuous little freak enough for you two, or would you like another?"  

Just then, her left arm shot out as if it had a lever attached to fire it, and a perfectly manicured pointer finger aimed straight for my face.  Her words were still blasting away at my brother and sister, but it was obvious she was referring to me.

"She wouldn't be here if it wasn't for me!"

I shot out of my chair, nearly tipping the table with the weight of my fists pounding into it.  I felt I had the right to speak now.

"Holy fucking what?  What do you mean?  What did you just say!  Somebody tell me what the hell is going on here, or I'm going to shove that turkey up your dysfunctional fucking asses!"

Everyone stopped.  Jess and Brian's heads both sunk into their shoulders as if they were searching for some lost dignity deep inside their souls, and Mother slowly turned her entire body towards me, looking straight into my eyes.  

For the first time in my life, my mother was offering me what appeared to be some amount of remorse.  I could tell she was searching for the appropriate words to say, which must have been difficult for a person who had never had to find these type before, much less express them.

"Dee, honey," she spoke softly to me, her eyes beginning to tremble, "I think it's time we tell you the truth about who you are."

I remained still, quiet.  There was nothing for me to say until she was finished.

"Your father - well, Jess and Brian's father - he was a sick man," I knew what she had to say was not going to revolve around health problems, "he had a little hobby.  Please, honey, I didn't know until -"

"Tell her, Mother," Brian spoke softly, not angry any longer, "she deserves to know."

"Well," Mom continued, "I didn't know about it until - until we found out you were coming.  Delilah..."

"What, Mom!  Tell me!"  I don't remember if I whispered or screamed, but what followed was enough to put anyone in a nuthouse.

"Dee, the ashes buried to left of that sycamore tree," she glanced over the spot almost center in the backyard, under the old sycamore tree that had been there for at least one hundred years.  The swing Brian hung from the branch above was creaking with the breeze, "those are the ashes of a child molester, not a saint, and not your father.  When I figured out what was happening, we staged his death.  We had to get rid of him.  The world couldn't know.  We closed the garage door while he was passed out drunk in the front seat of the car, Dee.  It wasn't an accident like I said, like I always told you.  I sent Jess away until you were born.  Delilah, sweetheart, Jess and Brian are your real parents.  Not me and Dad."

The world around me began to spin as the reality of the words she just spoke set in.  I had to force myself to breathe, and dizziness took over.  There is nausea, which we've all experienced, but then there's the kind of vomit-inducing feeling that takes over when you find out your brother and sister are your parents.  

My knees buckled and I hit the ground.  I didn't know what to say or even how to blink.  I was frozen for what seemed to be a year.  The yard was quiet, no one was praying, my grandfather was not laughing.

After a while, my brain began to function again.  I noticed that the wind was blowing just hard enough to move the tulips blooming around the sycamore tree.  I stood up, brushed the dirt from the backside of my trousers, and spoke.

"May I please be excused, Mom - uh."  Right then it hit me.  

I had spent my whole life feeling as if I were the failure in this family.  I was the person they all had to be ashamed of.  I had planned my coming out for weeks, and having the added self-destruction of alcoholism causing the rest of my life to fall apart in the interim didn't make it any easier.

I was so afraid to let them down.  This was eating me from the inside out for years, and I was so afraid to have a heart to heart with them, that I'd chosen to do it in a way that would make me look like an even bigger village idiot.

But now, I stand here, my mother my grandmother, my grandfather not my mother's father, my grandmother covering up a secret conception by marrying a gay man who also needed a cover up, and my brother and sister not only my biological mother and father, but still apparently had the hots for one another and were making out before Thanksgiving dinner.  To top it off, my father - or grandfather, rather - was a freaking pedophile, and my mother murdered him.

I couldn't hold it back.  Laughter erupted from my throat so hard that I'm pretty sure it damaged my vocal chords.  With my diaphragm aching, and what I'm sure was urine leaking into my underwear, I had to say it.

"You know what?  All this time!  All this time I thought I was the freak!  Ha ha ha!  I'm the most normal person standing at this table!  You people are a bunch of whackos!"

I wasn't sure what would happen for the rest of my life, but the only thing I could think to do was grab Pop-Pop.  I gathered his walker, took his hand and pulled him up.  He was not only the only person here apparently not related to me in anyway, but he was the only person I liked, and definitely the only one I had anything in common with.

"Come on Pops,"  I declared loud enough for everyone behind me to hear, "let's get outta here.  We'll come back when they clean themselves up."

I glanced behind me for one last look, only to catch the sight of Gregory taking a steaming dump on the mound of dirt below the swing hanging from the Sycamore tree.  I had to smile.  I liked that dog.

"Well, don't hold your breath, girl," Pop-Pop snorted, "did you catch all that?  Those people are a hot fuckin' mess."

My eyes are so big. That's what Effie says - big and blue and beautiful, like cornflowers. I like Effie. I like her wide-openness. She has lots of little white teeth and they are nice to look at. She also has long soft ginger hair. The trees outside are the same colour at the moment. Ginger trees.

But she is wrong about my eyes. They are not big. If they were big then maybe perhaps I would be able to see more, like what is on the top of the table and who is here. I know Effie is here because I can smell the sea, and because I have five pink flowers in my hair. I know Mummy is here because everything that isn't Effie smells like chutney, and we all feel warm. My new glasses are not even slightly as good as my old ones. They are silver and very round. I'm pretending that my eyes are little moons behind them. Sometimes you can only see half of the moon, and today everyone can only see half of my eyes, so they are lots like little round moons sinking into the hill.

I look underneath the table and count some legs. I think there are sixteen but my numbers after eleven are not very good. There are some hands there too. Mummy's hands are there, and so are daddy's, and I know Granny's hands because they are small and have different coloured pebbles all over the back of them. Then there are four ladies' hands that I don't know, except their nail varnish is very bright. Grandad's hands are shaking again. I know this makes mummy sad so I won't tell her. He is pressing them between his knees now, so they aren't shaking too much.

I look down at my own hands. They are little and pink in real life, but in my moon glasses they are big. Both of them fit into one of daddy's hands. Sometimes he holds all of them - my hands, and all of mummy's hands - between his.

I look towards the distant end of the table. It's dark and hard to see, but if I tip my head right my glasses make it bigger. Down there I can see some long, skinny legs. They are covered in little flower pictures. They disappear into a blue skirt. I like the little flower pictures, so I look at those for a while. Next to the flowery legs is a different pair. Those ones are man's legs. They are wearing brown trousers that come straight down, and black shoes stick out of the bottom. They look like my uncle John's legs, but I don't know because I don't see Uncle John much. He talks to Effie a lot more than he talks to me. I look at the flower pictures again. They are so tiny and so blue and so so pretty. 'Forget-me-nots' I think. Effie and me looked at pictures of those once. I probably won't forget them.

I see a hand come under the table above the man's legs. It's thick, but not nice and big like daddy's hands. This hand is hairy and soft-looking. I look at it through the top half of my silver glasses, and it seems to be touching the flower pictures, but I can't be sure. I look up, back at the table. No-one is looking at me. Everybody is talking a lot, except Granddad, who I think is eating because I can hear him.

I wriggle off my big chair and crawl between the maze of legs and feet and hands. It's dark and hot. I watch the soft, dark hand slide between the flowery knee and the edge of the skirt. I can smell the sea down this end of the table. Effie's pretty ginger hair is hanging onto her lap above the hand, curling there all soft like our cat does. She is moving her pretty, flowery leg away. When she tries to move it, I see the big fingers squeeze hard, and she doesn't move it any more.

I am getting a bit closer. My nose is too little to keep these glasses on, so I have to stop all the time to push them back up onto my face.

I stop before I bump into the man's legs. They look bigger here, long and dark like the door to mummy's bedroom at night.

I want to push his hand away from Effie, but I'm a bit frightened. I look at Effie's legs and I want to sit in between them and cuddle them and smell her seaside smell. I want her to see that I asked mummy to put the flowers she gave me in my hair. I crawl over a bit, and push my way between her legs and look up at her face.

I can see her chin from down here. And I can see the man who is touching her. He looks a lot like Uncle John. She looks very sad. Her nose is quivering. It does that when she feels sad or frightened. The man's hand is going upwards again, under the skirt this time. I tug on her skirt a bit, on the other side, and all at once she does a big scream and pushes the table hard away. Everyone goes quiet. I can't hear granddad eating now. I hide my face for a little while. Next I look up at her eyes. They look afraid and then they look calm. She smiles at me all shaky and pulls me up above the table, where I can see everyone. Everything on the table is spilled. I look at one of the ladies with the bright nail varnish. I think she saw Uncle John's hand on Effie's tights. She looks...I think the word mummy uses is '/appalled/'. When people look shocked and angry.

'John?' She says. Nobody speaks. I think Granny saw it too, because she is looking at Effie as if her wrinkly old heart might be breaking a bit, and at Uncle John like she wants to hurt him.

I look at him. His eyes are all hard and horrible-looking. His thick hands are resting on the table top.

I look at Effie's face. She is trying not to cry. I know that because her nose is quivering a lot. I push my face into her hair. I don't think anybody knows what to say.

Another year.  Another Thanksgiving.  Another day where everyone disagreed with everyone wholeheartedly, yet managed to maintain an overall atmosphere of love.

I stood at my bedroom window, forlornly watching for the first cars to arrive.  My great-aunt was bringing her small dog named Van, my aunt and uncle were bringing their new baby, my cousin was bringing her boyfriend, and my grandfather - well, he was bringing himself.  Grandma had passed away earlier this year.  This Thanksgiving would be different, and we all knew it.  I was twelve years old, homely and awkward, and I missed Grandma more than anything in the world.  Every Thanksgiving she had braided my hair, smiled at me, and said, "Now, that's what every little girl ought to look like at Thanksgiving!"  Then she would let me help her carry the dishes into the dining room where everyone sat waiting.  Of the nine dishes she always made, everyone agreed that her dressing was the best.  Every Thanksgiving, Uncle Phil who forgot things would turn to her and say, "What is your secret ingredient?"  And every Thanksgiving, Grandma would smile her mischievous smile and reply, "When I'm dead, you'll know."

Well here we were now, and none of us knew.  I hated cooking, so I stayed as far away from the kitchen as I possibly could.  Besides, a kitchen at Thanksgiving without Grandma seemed so unappealing and insipid.  I decided to let my parents handle the cooking without my twelve-year-old supervision.  "Let them cook," I thought bitterly.  "They're the ones carrying on without Grandma."  

At last, everyone had arrived.  Aunt Boo, with her infamous blue scarf, was making outrageous statements about the recent presidential election as she stuffed crackers into Van's mouth.  My aunt and uncle kept quietly to themselves, pampering their infant with kisses and bottles.  My cousin and her boyfriend helped themselves to spinach dip from the tray on the living room coffee table.  I watched Grandpa.  He sat, observing the conversations, enjoying everyone's zest for life, and I loved him so much.  I curled up next to him on the couch, and he put his arm around me as he said, "I miss her too.  But guess what?  I have a surprise for all of us later on at the table."

My curiosity piqued.

Two hours later, we sat our big dining room table.  Eight dishes of steaming food waited to be served as we joined hands, thanked God for His blessings, and smiled at random memories of Grandma.  I, however, was not all too impressed.  "Where is the dressing?" I demanded.  My mom shook her head.  

"Grandma never gave me the recipe for that dish.  I'm sorry honey.  It was top-secret, whatever it was."

"Yeah, she always had a knack for making that stuff magically appear every year," Aunt Boo laughed.  She took a big bite of mashed potatoes and stared into space dreamily.  Grandpa grinned.

"Well folks," he said with his lovely raspy voice, "boy-a-howdy if this don't beat all.  I do have something to show y'all."  He stood up, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a slip of paper.  "Everybody close your eyes, and I'm gonna read this to you.  This is from Grandma - she wrote this for me several years ago."  We shut our eyes, and slowly, Grandpa began to read.

"I wish to goodness I could give y'all a recipe worth having.  Lord knows, y'all deserve it.  But I can't bring myself to tell y'all that the dish y'all love the most is none other than a store-bought mix brought to life.  Joke's on y'all though.  I hope y'all are having a wonderful Thanksgiving.  Love, Grandma.  P.S. This all started when I burned Grandpa's Thanksgiving dinner when we were first married.  Blame him for getting me into this scrape."

"Uh, y'all can open your eyes now," Grandpa said.  We all looked up helplessly and burst into laughter.  Grandma had been a rascal, after all.

That night, Grandpa died from a heart attack.

Sara clung to my arm as we walked through the door. The same photos were on the wall, but Mom didn’t usher us in, pulling off our coats and pinching cheeks. It hit me, all those ways she was gone.

We were late, so I shoveled turkey and stuffing onto my plate, while giving out one-handed hugs. I squished in next to Dad, on his second overflowing plate already. Sara sat in the only other open seat next to Aunt Mona, who would be after those gums with a toothpick mid-meal flicking bits of food onto everyone in the vicinity. When I introduced Sara, her smile too bright, her auburn hair shining in the mid-afternoon light, Dad dropped his fork, splashing gravy on his sweater and gaped.

We were used to some level of eccentricity out of him, especially since mom passed, but his slack jaw was weird enough that all conversation died and my cousin Tara giggled in the silence. I elbowed him under the table and he mumbled a nicety. Sara blushed and took tiny bites of sweet potatoes while feigning interest at Aunt Mona’s hatred of the Yankees lineup. Her large eyes darted sideways, finding mine. It killed me that he hadn’t saved us seats together. Mom would’ve remembered.

“Dad,” I whispered. “What’s with you?”

He didn’t answer. Just continued to squirrel mountains of mashed potatoes into his cheeks. Every few seconds his eyes would find Sara and stare for a moment, before pretending to look out the window behind her and then down at his food. It was nuts.

“Dad! You’re making her uncomfortable!”

“She looks…” he started to explain, then stopped. The words spun out over our plates for a minute.

“Dad?”

“Peggy, she…” he started again.

“Sara looks nothing like Mom, Dad.” I said, annoyed. Where was he going with this?

“No, no, not her...” He answered, then stopped again. I thought for a second that he was going to push back from the table, unzip his khakis and retire to the living room, but instead he blurted this out.

I started recording after the first few minutes when I realized he was unburdening himself of some old cancerous memory. I decided to post it because, well, I feel like other people should know what happened, but I’m not ready to talk to the family. I just can’t face it. Not yet anyway.

---------------------------------------------------------

… too fast, I slid my new ride off the cobblestone drive, mowing over a row of tulips, almost clipping Maggie’s hip. I gave Maggie’s older sister Tempe a quick kiss as Phoebe, my best friend, moved silently into the back. Window down in the cool autumn air, I slapped the door with my palm, too cool by half.

“We gotta run by Buck’s right quick.” I said, catching Phoebe’s emerald eyes in the rearview. Phoebe froze. She was anorexically thin now. Her thick red waves were matted too. Her skin was normally milky, but in that moment translucent. Blue veins shown at either temple. I felt her shrinking, melting into the leather. I had a sense of impermanence, of foreboding. That was my first missed opportunity to save her.

Buck lived by himself in a patchwork one-story behind the school. He wouldn’t talk about it, but everyone on the team had seen the scars. I figured whatever had happened was likely why he was so damn good on the field. He feared no-one and hit like a guy three times his size. I wasn’t friends with him exactly, but I tried. Because of Phoebe.

He was sitting on his broken porch swing in a T-shirt as if it wasn’t thirty degrees out, shading his eyes against the glare. He was searching for Phoebe so I purposely stood in his line of sight to box him out. Still, I took the bag when he asked and gave him the Ram handshake on my way out.

We pulled up to the field as the treasure hunt was kicking off. The first clue was written in sloping letters on a sandwich board hanging from the mascot’s horns. He looks warm at least, I thought.

It read, “Pipes through which no water flows.” I pulled the girls into a huddle. “Alright, Red team,” I began. Maggie was picking at her fingernails, slumped onto her back foot. 

“This one’s obvious, but I don’t want to lead the other teams in. Tempe and I will cut through the woods.” Tempe flicked her eyelashes at me, sexy smile peeking from one corner of her mouth. “You two loop around the front and meet us at Jason Park.”

We chased each other across the field. She was damn fast. Two juniors stood just inside the treeline rolling a joint. Once we were safely past, I stopped and took out the hunting knife Buck had given me, turning it over and over in my hands, making a spark dance on Tempe’s chin from the autumn sunlight that filtered through the maples. She gave me doe eyes and kissed me hard, grinding on my jeans and giggling self-consciously. Then, with her warm breath still caught in my ear, she took off, swerving between the trees and faux screaming. I followed at a jog, adjusting my jeans and cursing her under my breath.

Maggie and Phoebe were cresting the top of the half pipe as we arrived. Orange team came in at a jog from the bottom of the pipe. Both teams leaned in, our shadows darkening the curve, making the chalk inscription easier to read.

“An unwritten message of great importance,” it said. Maggie sighed and walked in a little circle, shoving the white rubber tip of her sneaker against the rising concrete.

“This blows,” she said, shivering.

Tempe shot back quickly, “God, Maggie! You’re always so bitchy! Your bullshit is pissing me off lately.” Phoebe frowned at Tempe and gently rubbed Maggie’s back.

Maggie wrinkled her forehead, but held her tongue. “Fine,” she whispered, “It’s the highway sign at the onramp to fift...” Before she could finish, Tempe shoved Maggie’s chest, too hard to be playful. Maggie stumbled back a step and looked down at her sneakers, pissed.

“Of course!” Tempe exclaimed. “The chick with her baby in one hand and the chemistry book in the other right? Don’t have sex, sex equals babies, duh!” Tempe smiled up at me and learned in for a kiss. I bent down to catch it, but she bit my bottom lip instead and laughed. Man, I wanted to hit her sometimes.

The onramp was empty when we got there. Phoebe picked up a rock that had been painted Ram orange, wiping dirt from the folded paper that had been hidden underneath. I snatched it away from her.

“Hey, what the hell C!” she complained.

“I read faster,” I said and laughed, holding the slip above her head. When she jumped for it, I saw the bruising under her chin. Her scarf had rubbed away the makeup she’d so carefully applied that morning. Blue fingerprints were visible on both sides of her thin throat. I wanted to say something, wanted to touch her face, make her look at me. But Tempe was hugging me from the side, her arms wrapped protectively around my waist. That was my second missed chance.

“What’s found but not lost.” I read.

Phoebe frowned a minute, tapping the top of her thigh lightly with her long white fingers and then answered. “It’s the lost and found at school I bet,” she said softly. It says FOUND on the outside of the bin, but that’s it.” She smiled crookedly. It made her look younger than seventeen. Her freckles burst across both cheeks and her green eyes sparkled in the sun. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. But the aura, that swirl of dark was still there just under the surface. I felt sick with it. I held her gaze for as long as I dared.

“I’m out,” Maggie said, ruining the moment. She looked tired and nervous. Phoebe slung her arm across Maggie’s shoulders.

“I’ll walk you,” she said softly. That’s when everything went wrong. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming because I was closest to Tempe.

In an instant, Tempe’s hand snaked into my backpack and she came up with the knife, thrusting the air in front of her. “You’re not going fucking anywhere!” she yelled, only half kidding.

“Woah,” I yelled, trying to grab Tempe’s arm. She whirled away from me and closed in on them. Phoebe froze, but Maggie had the sense to pick up the orange rock and chuck it at Tempe. She ducked in time and rushed Maggie, grabbing her ponytail and holding the knife point up to her cheek just under her eye. I still don’t know why she choose Maggie. Maybe because she was a little afraid of Phoebe, just like I was a little afraid of Buck.

“Listen kiddos,” she said, her voice chipped and cracking. Her blue eyes were glassy as if tears were starting, but she was laughing.  “I just want to get this done and win the prize!” Her eyes cut to the still deserted onramp. “No other team is even close! Just SHUT UP and LET’S DO THIS!” she screamed and pumped the air with her free hand as if leading a cheer. Tears were rolling down Maggie’s face and Phoebe’s lips were squeezed in a bloodless line.

“Alright, alright Tempe,” I said, keeping my voice low and soft. “Gimmie the knife and we are all…” I looked quickly to Maggie and Phoebs for support and they nodded slowly “we’re ALL gonna get this done.” She sighed dramatically and then tossed the knife in the dirt in front of my feet. When I stooped down to pick it up, Maggie turned into Phoebe’s arms for a hug, sobbing. Tempe swatted my ass and giggled. I picked her up and threw her over one shoulder, smacking her ass hard enough to leave a bruise. She gasped and then giggled again. I wanted to hit her harder. Hit her hard enough to get through to her. But I didn’t.

When we crossed back over Old T Bridge, Buck was sitting on the top trestle facing the river. Tempe saw him first and rolled her eyes at me. “Wackadoo is after Phoebes again, C.” she said. “Maybe you should talk to him?” It chafed that Tempe used Phoebe’s nickname for me. And she was trying so hard to be sweet that it was cloying, false as if she hadn’t been holding a knife on her little sister twenty minutes ago.

I sighed. “Yeah, I guess. Go back and apologize to Maggie and Phoebes too. I’ll try to do this quick so we don’t blow our lead.”

Tempe grinned her perfect teeth smile and kissed me on the cheek before trotting back to the girls. I watched her go, thinking suddenly that I hated her. She was really an empty wasteland.

I hopped the fence, swinging both legs over to straddle the trestle next to Buck. I saw the half-empty bottle of J.D. in his right hand. He held it low and swung it back and forth, matching the rhythm of his legs.

“Little early for the sauce yeah?” I said to the side of Buck’s face. He still hadn’t acknowledged I was there. When he finally turned, it was crazy what I saw. I’d seen Buck an hour earlier, but this Buck wore a totally different face. This Buck had two black eyes, a shattered nose (it lay against his left cheek) and his bottom lip was ripped open and hanging in two pieces. It must have hurt like hell to swig from the bottle.

“Who?” I asked. Buck didn’t answer, but of course I knew. I reached into my backpack and returned the knife. I wasn’t sure how Buck knew that his dad was coming for a visit, but he had. It wasn’t the first time he’d asked me to take the knife and each time he looked tuned up when I gave it back to him. I wondered whether he didn’t trust himself or was it that he thought his dad might kill him with it? I glanced over my shoulder and saw the girls were close.

Phoebe separated from the other girls once she got a good look at Buck. She took a couple of steps, hesitant at first and then ran hard for him, scrambling up over the fence and grabbing Buck from behind. I got one good look at her before she and he traded places on the trestle. That was my third chance to save her. I didn’t.

The last thing I saw before I turned back to Tempe was Phoebe place her hands gently on either side of Buck’s face, slowly letting her head fall forward until their foreheads were touching. I saw her lips moving as she whispered something lovely to Buck. It was an intimate moment, so I turned away, gritting my teeth.

Turning back, I missed what Tempe said, but I knew by the self-satisfied look on her face that it had been shitty. Maggie’s face cracked wide open. As I watched, her gloom dissolved and fury bloomed in its place. Maggie whipped her hair back as if summoning courage from the autumn wind and shoved Tempe hard. Tempe stumbled, falling to the pavement and Maggie climbed on top of her. She got one slap in, but Tempe was stronger. She rolled Maggie over one hip and pinned her underneath expertly, grinding her skull into the pavement and throwing handfuls of pebbles into her face and open mouth, drawing outraged tears and painful coughing from Maggie.

I was bending down to pull them apart when I heard Phoebe scream. I froze. Later I thought I had been absorbed in the spectacle in front of me. But that wasn’t true. Really, I had been waiting for this to happen. That’s why I didn’t move. I had known. Had in fact handed Buck the knife.

When I finally turned around, it was too late. The ruined face that stared out at me was void, dead already. He forced Phoebe to stand on the trestle, leaning into the vertical strut. Tears ran down her face and she was whimpering. Her large eyes were locked on mine. There was the girl I’d seen in the rearview. She’d been begging me silently all day, this Phoebe, to save her. And I’d done nothing. Nothing but hand him the knife.

It was only five steps from the Maggie-Tempe tangle to the railing where Buck and Phoebe stood. As I watched, he held her face out, making sure I had a good clear view. Then he brought out the still glinting knife and stabbed her in wide sweeping arcs once, twice, three times. Blood poured from her stomach, her chest, her neck. I was two steps out, my hands just touching the rail when Buck pushed off. She howled as she fell, screaming my name. The echoing cry found me, ringing up from under the bridge, hitting me over and over again.

I was still looking over the side, still scanning the water for any sign of her when I felt Tempe behind me. She ran her arms through mine, coiling into me like a snake.

“Oh, I’m so sorry…” she whispered, cooing into my ear. Then she giggled. It was the giggle that killed her. Not me.

Maggie was there for me after. She helped me tell my story, our story, to the police. She saved me, she loved me. She had always hated the nickname Tempe gave her. So she used Peggy instead.

---------------------------------------------------------

We are the typical white/Native American family at thanksgiving. We all get together and tell racist jokes about the white people, then we tell racist jokes about our native relatives. So no one is left out. One thing I've always said to my children is they never forget where they come from.

As our family gathers for the thanksgiving feast, we all give thanks and each one of us says what we are thankful for. As we all give our own thanks,

it's now grandmas turn, she's 89 now and we are so glad she's still here.

Grandma begins to tell a tale, "Once a very long time ago there was a very handsome young man. He fell in love with a very pretty young black woman. She was so light skinned she could pass for white. They were so in love and got married, but in order to do so she had to say she was white because it was against the laws back then.

Your Grandpa was the handsome young man and I was the young black woman."

Now everything made sense.

“Are you in rehab again?” my Aunt Mary asked disparagingly as I placed my hand over my champagne glass and she nearly poured the liquid directly onto me. She put the bottle back in its icy bucket alongside the table, picked up and swilled her own glass of champagne. As usual the lush is the only one commenting on anyone else’s drinking.

My parents at either end of the table ignored the comment, but my youngest cousin Blair pulled her fork out of her mouth, looked up to my face then across me to her mother, and asked, “What’s rehab?”

“No,” I said to my aunt. When was I in rehab the first time? Seriously, where did she get these ideas? From my mother most likely, who knows what she was trying to avoid discussing when she told her sister I was in rehab. If that even happened. I swear the both of them are pathological liars.

I looked down at my overfilled plate and swirled the stuffing and mashed potatoes together into a delicious mush, while I contemplated the utter ridiculousness of this entire fucking day. The Daleys pretending to be happy, loving, compassionate or normal in any way possible, all sitting around the table talking about bullshit.

Ignoring her daughter’s question, Aunt Mary continued to pry and asked, “Well why is it then? You’re usually deep into a bottle of wine by now.” She’d been offering me booze all day but it wasn’t until this moment that it came to a head.

“Kara, please pass the gravy,” my father asked my perfect younger sister, still paying no mind to his sister-in-law’s questioning. She obliged, looking down the table at our father with her big blue eyes, sparkling like her spotless soul. I resented her but it wasn’t her fault. Kara was the only good thing at this table and I felt guilty for misplacing my anger on her.

The gravy boat passed to my Uncle Cliff’s hands, then to my father. He said, “Thank you.”

“Allison? Why aren’t you answering your Aunt Mary?” My mom asked with a hint of a whine, which happened to her voice after too much to drink. I guess she was paying attention, and as usual upholding respect of elders and politeness above all else.

“What’s the big deal? I just don’t feel like drinking today.” I answered with a shrug and took a sip of water. I started bouncing my leg anxiously.

Little Blair complained, “Stop it, that’s sooo annoying.”

You’re sooo annoying I thought to myself, glaring straight ahead at the bland wall above my sister’s head. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, leering past the silver platters of holiday fare and the elegant colored, flower centerpiece. As usual the black sheep of the family had become the centerpiece of the conversation.

I caught a glimpse of Kara looking at me across the table with mild suspicion. Crap, I must have been looking more nervous than I thought.

“What’s going on Allison, are you sick?” My mother asked as she helped herself to another spoonful of green beans.

“Oh, pass those to me will you, Nora?” Aunt Mary asked when her sister’s actions reminded her of their presence on the table. “On antibiotics are you?” She added back to our primary conversation.

My mother handed me the autumn-leaf shaped bowl of green beans and I placed it on the table between my aunt and myself.

“It’s not like she’s pregnant,” Uncle Cliff said stupidly to my father mostly and chuckled.

I couldn’t restrain myself, I looked over at him, my eyes searing with disdain. Fuck you, Cliff. You really just had to say that?

Watching my reaction, my sister’s eyes got wider; she was the only one who knew about my mysterious morning sickness and my subtle weight gain. Not to mention that I was complaining to her about my period being late before I found out. She knew.

Looking at Cliff, my dad chortled and said, “Not our little Ally.” He continued eating his feast, none the wiser. Cliff smiled and glanced across the table to his wife who said nothing for once. My mother was taking bites of food and looking around the table contentedly, Blair was playing with her food, and her older brother Ben was preoccupied by his phone.

Besides Kara, no one seemed to take Uncle Cliff’s statement seriously, so I could have just let it fly by. Deep down I knew that I needed to tell my parents one way or another. Even though I never planned on it coming out on Thanksgiving, now that it was happening it felt like the right time, for better or for worse.

“Yes,” I said firmly and looked to my mother on my left, then a quick glance to my father on my right, and then back to my mother.

“Yes, what?” My mother asked, after chewing a mouthful of turkey and cranberry sauce.

My eyes closed, I put down my fork and I said, “I’m pregnant.”

Right on cue, there was a sharp intake of breath from my Aunt Mary and she gaged on her sip of champagne. “Oh dear,” she said disapprovingly, “Allison, how did this happen?”

The typical inane question but at least she said something. As soon as the words left my mouth, my father stared down at his plate, fork and knife clutched in hands absorbing the information and waxing in anger. My mother’s mouth was slightly open in silent shock for a few moments then she seemed to regain consciousness.

“Well we must,” she said, “We must discuss this. You know you have options.”

“I’m keeping and raising the baby.”

“You’re only twenty-six!” My mother exclaimed, she straightened up in her chair and took the napkin she’d been fusing with in her lap and tossed it on the table, tears already welling in her eyes. She looked as if she might storm off but she remained seated.

“Yeah, I’m twenty-six years old! I can make this decision for myself.” But with parents you might as well cut that in half; I was still thirteen in their eyes. I stared at her displeased face, thinking of things I could possibly say to make this end amiably.

My rude cousin, Ben, chimed in, “Congratulations, Al, I thought you were a twenty-six year old virgin,” he laughed. No one else did. I looked over at him indignantly and stifled my urge to say ‘shut up.’

I looked at my mother long enough to see her begin to cry, I guess she didn’t have anything else to say. My little sister took her napkin off her lap and got up swiftly, going to my mother’s side to comfort her. I didn’t blame her but I personally did not give a fuck that my mother was crying.

At the other end of the table, my Aunt was switching between exchanging shocked glances with her husband and looking at my father turning red, all the while still sipping her champagne diligently.

My father came back to the conversation eventually, getting straight to the ‘who’ not the ‘how’.

“The father better not be that tattooed boy you brought around last weekend, now is it?” He said angrily, he had put down his utensils and his hands were now balled into fists pressing into the table on either side of his plate. He glared at me waiting for an answer.

It was more difficult to maintain eye contact with my father, so I looked down at my plate, sinking into my guilt and uncertainty. Maybe he would break something and I could sneak out in the resulting fretting and cleaning up. Maybe I could just run away and never come back; a thought that had been pushing at my mind for three weeks now.

I didn’t say anything, just kept staring down at my plate.

“Answer me! Tell me the truth, Allison,” I looked up at him, now standing, towering over the table.

“The truth?” I said trying to regain my resolve, “Ok, the truth is I don’t know who the father is! Does that make you feel better?” I scooted my chair back from the table and got up quickly, grabbing my plate. I declared, “I’m done eating now. If you don’t mind I think I’ll just leave.”

“Absolutely not!” My father roared but I was already half way to the kitchen. I put my plate down next to the sink at the same time a crash from the dinning room. Excellent, he broke a dish.

“Oh, Richard!” I heard my mother say dramatically, he ignored her.

“Allison, don’t you dare leave!” I heard my dad’s chair scrape on the hardwood floor as he pushed it further from the table and him take a few steps toward the kitchen.

“Richard just let her go, she’s made her decision,” my mother said through sobs. At that moment I didn’t care what she meant. It didn’t cross my mind that I might never see my parents again. I’m not sure if that certainty would have stopped me from leaving or not.

As my mother continued to weep, no doubt being futilely comforted by Kara, I could hear my dad and uncle begin to clean up the porcelain. It was time to leave. I sped out of the kitchen and up the stairs into my room. I pulled a dusty duffle bag out from under my bed and started grabbing things out of my closet. After cramming as much as I could fit, I went to the bathroom and got my toothbrush. Concluding that was all that I needed, I closed my bedroom door and went back downstairs.

My only plan was to go to my best friend Sara’s apartment for a few days, but I felt confident that I would figure it out. Because I had to figure it out. Luckily I’d saved enough money since college to feel secure; that was the point of living at my parent’s house and not paying rent after all.

From the foyer the sounds of the aftermath of my news could be heard, but I didn’t let myself feel bad. Just as I stepped up to the front door and touched the handle, I heard my sister say meekly from the archway to the kitchen, “Bye.”

I stopped and walked back to give her a hug. After a few seconds I let go and said, “I’m just going to Sara’s, I’ll text you when I get there.” There were tears welling up in her eyes as well, “Stop, there’s no reason to cry. I’ll see you soon.”

“I know. I love you.”

“Love you, too.” They really must have been resolute in letting me leave because when I turned and walked back to the front door, I made the briefest eye contact with my mother, who was still sitting at her dinning room chair, wiping her eyes with her napkin. She followed me to the door with her eyes but didn’t say a peep.

A momentary pause, a deep breath, and a quick turn of the handle later, I left the house with my first twinge of happiness that I was starting a family of my own. We would be fine.

This year was the first time I didn't have Thanksgiving with my family. This year I had it with my boyfriend Noah's family. Well, ex-boyfriend. Let me explain. His family is extremely religious. I was petrified to attend because Noah and I recently found out that I'm pregnant. We hadn't decided if we wanted it or not yet. Somehow, I thought, his family will be able to just look at me and know. 

As I mingled before dinner, my fears increased. While my boyfriend's parents were acting normally, both his sister Mary and brother Joseph were behaving strangely. I was convinced they knew our secret and just weren't sure what to say. We all sat down to eat and his father said grace. Before eating, we had to complete their family tradition of everybody going about the table and saying something they were grateful for. That's when everything took an unexpected turn. It went something like this.

Noah's mother: I'm very grateful that Noah's girlfriend Elizabeth was able to join us this year. It's great to see him with such a kind, intelligent woman. What are you grateful for this year, Elizabeth?

Me: I'm pregnant! I mean, that's not what I'm grateful for, I'm actually terrified about that. But, um, yeah.

Noah's father: Then I guess we're grateful for the new life that will be coming into our world soon?

Noah: We're so sorry.

Joseph: At least you can give them grandchildren.

Noah: What?

Joseph: I'm gay. There I said it.

Me: I don't think I want to keep it.

Noah: What?

Me: Don't hate me!

Joseph: Nobody's going to hate you. They're all going to hate me!

Mary: I don't hate any of you.

Joseph & Me: Really?

Mary: Well, I'm an Atheist, so being gay or deciding what to do with your own body doesn't break any religious rules for me.

Noah's father: You're Atheist?

Mary: Yeah. Don't hate me.

Noah's mother: We don't hate you, Sweetie. We love all of our children no matter what.

Noah's father: I can't guarantee that the government agrees with us right now, but we support you.

Me: You mean you guys didn't vote for Trump and Pence?

Noah's mother: Well, goodness no. Did you?

Me: Well, yeah. 

Noah's father: Get out of our house.

Me: What?

Noah's father: GET OUT OF OUR HOUSE!

I looked over at my boyfriend who had his head hung.

Noah: Just go.

So now I'm pretty sure that I don't have a boyfriend. I guess I'm thankful that re-election is only four years away?

My whole family sits around my cheap table

Turning their noses up the best that they are able

Naturally I should have more than this...right?

If I weren't in debt, than I "naturally" might

But times are tough, food's expensive too

"I'm doing my best! Look what I've made for you!"

I want to scream at the top of my lungs

But they already know that I'm precariously high strung

However, with this opportunity, I will speak my mind

They have no choice but to listen, they're too damn kind

"Attention, please!" I say, quite loud

Heads turn in my direction, I continue, voice proud

"I know that these accommodations aren't quite up to par;

I also know that most of you have traveled utterly far.

But trust me, dear family, your experience will be fine!"

And then we say grace, and commence to dine.

My smile grows as the meat disappears

The multiplying compliments quell my previous fears

"Your attention once more." I command, standing tall

My hands shake as my family's faces start to fall

They can tell that something isn't right

Maybe it's my smile, maybe it's the light

That gleams in my eyes. "That wasn't turkey or ham.

That wasn't even pork, or beef, or lamb.

Do you remember my fiance? How you said she was sweet?

Well, she left me for someone else-no please, stay in your seat-

I was so hungry, and she had come here

To get her things, I suppose, and let me say, it's queer

How easy it is to break somebody's neck."

They're all quite pale now, my family is a wreck

Laughter mixes with my voice, my mouth begins to secrete

"You were absolutely right, family! She WAS very sweet!"