Fiction: Happy Thanksgiving, from Purgatory

Karen Heise
Graduate Student
University of Northern Colorado, Greeley
E-mail: kheise2000@yahoo.com

I settled back into the seat just as the flight attendant gave the seatbelt spiel, and this time when she got to the part about the seat cushion being useful as a flotation device, my stomach lurched. I'd just gotten over enough of my horror about air travel to take the chance of flying home for the Thanksgiving holiday. I looked around; others were listening, too, a sense of either dread or stone-cold seriousness on their faces. Some had shut their eyes. All this talk about flotation devices assumed two very basic things: that there would be water to hit, and that these tiny cushions would actually help us survive, somehow. Our cross-continental flight precluded landing on much water, so I willed with all my might that the flight would go well. Things had to be okay. They just had to. I had a new life to lead, after all, and I damn well wanted to see what was around the corner.
    Just over the horizon, however, lay another more immediate challenge: my family. I hadn't seen them in nearly ten years, by mutual agreement. My version of why went something like this: if you can't just be my family, no matter how much you disagree with my lifestyle choices (my then-new choice of lover, another woman) then I really don't need to be around you. Their version (and it hurts to think about it) sounded like this: My mother: "You have done nothing but disgrace this family! We raised you better than that." My sisters: "What do we have in common with you? Maybe you'd better stay gone until you get your head screwed on straight." The choice of adjective wasn't lost on me.
    So I did stay gone. I cut my hair really short. I got the tattoo I'd always wanted, a jagged, broken little heart just above the real one. I began to hang out at all the lesbian bars I could find, and after many a false start, I met my most long-term lover, Alice. Gradually, our circle of friends congregated together for the holidays at whoever's turn it was to host, since most of us couldn't go home to our own families for similar reasons. (Those who did often came back in worse shape than when they left.) At our happy gatherings, we ate until we were stupefied, talked and laughed until we were numb, and in the evenings played games, took walks, and agreed we'd all stay together until the end--whatever that meant. I called my mother twice over the long absence. Both times we were polite but distant, each of us guarding our hearts ferociously. Once I almost blurted out that I never wanted to see them again, but my heart, aware of the mysterious ties by blood, stopped me.
    As the plane taxied onto the runway, I considered my heart's wisdom. Maybe the terrorist attacks had something to do with it--I didn't know. The only other time I'd sensed our family drawing together--briefly--was after the death of my father just after I'd met Alice. He worked in Alaska as a bush pilot, and one day in a storm his plane went down. "Dad would want us to stick together right now, so let's forget our differences" was the well-used phrase in our family then. We even hugged each other a little. Alice had wanted to come with me, but I told her no; my family didn't need any extra stress just then. Reluctantly she had agreed, but I was still aggravated that I wasn't allowed her support when most I needed it. Not even my father's death could glue me back into the freshly-torn family portrait, and so I felt more alone than ever.
    I replayed the fateful phone conversation with my mother just two weeks back, the one that gave me the tentative green light to come home.
    "Well, it has been quite a long time, Lori. I'm sure your sisters--we'd all like to see you ... you are coming alone, right?"
    I tasted gall in the back of my throat, but kept quiet. "Yes, I'm alone. Some things have changed for me since we last talked, Mom. Maybe we can talk about that privately sometime."
    "Oh," was her surprised, slightly sunny reply. "Well, okay, dear. I'll be happy to see you."
    No one could possibly know my reasons for wanting to walk back into the fractured gathering of souls I called my family. I wasn't even sure. Maybe I wanted to prove something to them: that a person like me is not so easily figured out. Maybe I wanted to stroke my pride. Maybe I just wanted to connect. It was, after all, Thanksgiving!
    As the multiplied gravity of ascent pushed me into the seat, I found my mind helplessly considering, as usual, all the many unknown and mysterious parts of an airplane: the bolts, rivets, screws, staples; the whole structure, now under the most taxing part of the journey; the super-hot engine parts, wire harnesses; the computer chips that run the instruments; the two pilots on the flight deck.... What if something broke, gave way? What if one of the pilots went crazy?
    I grabbed the in-flight magazine in front of me and flapped through it looking for something to deaden my engineering trap door of a mind; the fact that I couldn't stop working confirmed that I needed this vacation desperately. An article caught my eye, "Notes from the Wilderness: One Man's Account of the New World" I began to read, comparing that account to what I'd always been taught in grade school about the colonizing of our country. It had seemed pretty good--a little difficulty with the "savages" and the weather, and lots of good food piled high on a long, rough-hewn wooden table with pilgrims and friendly Indians laughing and eating heartily--but that innocent knowledge became tainted with the facts. There was in fact much starvation, and although eventually there was a spate of available food, it could hardly be said to equal the lurid bounty my childhood schoolbooks pandered, or what we know in this country. I read on and felt more and more betrayed--much, I suspected, as the brave souls from England felt as they struggled in the harsh reality of a new world, the romance and fire forgotten. Real life had eclipsed their hopes and dreams, demanding allegiance to itself instead. I couldn't fault life, really. In the end we must choose survival over dreams.
    I laid the magazine on my lap and looked out the window at the brown and frosted patchwork quilt below me. I felt myself beginning to think about the distance from the ground to the plane, so I pulled down the window shade, crammed the magazine in the seat pouch in front of me, and willed myself to sleep. I dreamed of Alice. Of empty grasslands. Of a full moon swimming in a tangle of tree branches and night sky amid the sounds of whispering.
    Later, I started awake to the sensation of falling. We were descending.

    My mother meets me at the door with a gushing hello. I step inside and she gives me a "tee-pee hug"--our bodies touch only at the shoulders. She pulls me back to examine. "Well, you look good! Is your hair a little longer, maybe?"
    She doesn't wait for my answer, but turns in to the room. "Girls! Your sister's here from New York!"
All of my younger sisters file in. Their chatter ceases.
"Hi," I venture.
    There's Tamara, sixteen, blonde and curly headed, still very quiet and submissive; she's in front with her hands in her pockets. Next is Jennifer, twenty, who is a blonde bombshell of a model; she eyes me with some interest--at my clothes, I'm supposing. Next is Heidi, twenty-four, whose complexion and shoulder-length hair are darker, like our dad's; in the very back, eyeing me coolly is Brooke, thirty, whose long dark hair flows around her like a black waterfall. Her eyes are black, too, and hard beyond her years.
    "Hello," they all murmur. The silence is so thick I want to walk back out the door. I wonder if mother told them I was coming!
    "Oh, for goodness' sake, girls! Tamara, take her coat. Let's all go in and sit down and have a drink, shall we?"
    I hand my coat to Tamara absently; I'm too shocked at what my mother just said--have a drink?--to function well. My mother never drank when dad was alive. I cannot help the sinking sensation I feel inside as we all go into the kitchen. Jennifer becomes a whir of motion as she serves everyone. I am stunned by her long blonde-haired beauty. When, and how, did that happen? Her clothes have to be tailor-made.
    I ask her some silly question about her modeling career, and then all of us get lost in a safe conversation about our jobs and lives. I ask Heidi about her basketball scholarship, and she asks me about my career. I am proud of my engineering job, and I enjoy talking to her about it. After a drink I begin to relax. The smell of roasting turkey makes us all swoon a little. It's now two o'clock and we're all starving. The heat from the oven eventually makes us meander out of the kitchen and back into the living room. Our aimless chatter continues except for one person: Brooke. For the most part, she sits quietly either petting the cat or sipping her drink. When spoken to, her answers are a few precisely-chosen words. I suddenly realize she didn't know I was coming.
    The oven beeper finally summons Mother into the kitchen. The conversation lags, but not for long.
    "So," Brooke asks, twirling the ice in her glass. "What's it like to be successful in a man's career?"
    I stare at her, trying to remember not to be combative. "It's just like any other career, really. There are more women in it than you'd think."
    "Really? Well, do you get the real jobs, the hard ones? Do they treat you like a woman, or a man?"
    "Like a ... co-worker, Brooke. They treat me just like any other co-worker."
    "Oh, well, that's good." The cat jumps off her leg, tired of being petted to death. "It's nice that you've made such a good career for yourself. I guess your brain is just wired like a guy's after all, huh?" With that, she gets up and leaves the room to make another drink. She and mother cross in the dining room and I hear my sister chuckle to herself.
    "What's so funny?" mom asks as she takes her place on the couch.
    "Oh, nothing," Heidi says, a little too brightly. "You know how Brooke is."
    Just then I am thankful Heidi tends to be a peacemaker. I figure before the day is out I will need it again.
    Jennifer peppers me with questions about New York, the fashions, the nightlife, and I am grateful to hold something like a normal, unthreatening conversation. Heidi and I talk more about sports and the strain it puts on her studies, and Tamara just sits quietly drinking a glass of water. She seems afraid of me; when I get too close I'm sure I can see her shrink back. I wonder again if coming was a mistake.
    Soon enough, we all busy ourselves with putting the final touches on the table and bringing out the family staples--aside from mom's perfect turkey, there's her incredible corn-bread dressing, Heidi's sweet-potato bake, Brooke's gelatin-fruit salad, and Tamara's specialty, apple pie. My mother shocks me by handing me the huge knife.
    "Here. You do the honors."
    "Me?" This was traditionally my dad's job. What did they do before I got here?
    "Yes. You're our guest of honor," mother insists.
    I sheepishly approach the turkey. My carving is clumsy, due in part to a huge irrational nervousness and a little too much to drink. I methodically reduce the beautiful turkey to a mangled mess, which sprawls all over the platter. I am ashamed for reasons I can't begin to grasp and angry at my shame. The room grows quieter until it is shrouded with a long, unbearable silence, which my mom breaks by ordering all the girls to take up plates and begin feasting. After way too many minutes of frantic sawing, I head to the kitchen to drop the knife into the waiting sink of soapy water. Out of the corner of my ear, I hear Brooke whisper, "Well, there's a half-assed cutting job from a half-assed man!"
    Frantic shushing sounds attempt to cover this thorny remark, but it is too late. I freeze at the sink. Should I stay or go? I ask myself. My face flushes scarlet. To buy myself some time, I turn on the water in the empty half of the sink and pretend to wash my hands.
    At length, my mother asks if I'm coming.
    "Yes. In a minute." I flick away a tear with the dishrag and take a deep breath. I hate my body for betraying my heart to these strangers.
    More chitchat fills the air like too much food in a gorged stomach. I load my plate but have lost all my appetite. I rearrange the piles with my fork, then shovel food into my mouth, being careful to eat equal amounts of everything so that no one's feelings are hurt. Finally, my mother ventures to ask about her.
    "Your ... friend, Alice. How is she?"
    I catch my breath, but have made up my mind to get through this meal no matter what. My family will not humiliate me. "Well, to tell you the truth, I'm not sure. We don't see each other any more."
    "You don't?"
    "No. We had a ... disagreement about a year ago and I'm ... well, I'm trying something new."
    "Something, or someone?" The voice is Brooke's, slick and deadly as a sheet of black ice at midnight. All conversation at the table stops. My mother clears her throat and wipes her mouth. I look up from the tan, shredded turkey, the red, gelatinous salad, the brown dressing, and the orange potato glob on my plate.
    "Something, Brooke." I hate myself for rising to her bait, but can't help it. "I am living alone, if you care." I wanted to say so much more but couldn't. The lump rising in my throat wouldn't allow it.
    "That's great, dear," my mother chirps. "I'm sure it's doing you a world of good."
    Just then the phone rings. Tamara answers it, and I can tell by the questioning tone in her voice that it's for me. "It's a guy," she mouths, extending the phone toward me. Everyone sees her unspoken word. I leave the table wondering what I'm going to do now; the phone cord is way too short for me to duck around the corner. I am naked.
    "Hello?"
    "Hi, Lori. It's me. I just wanted to wish you a Happy Thanksgiving and let you know how much I miss you, sweetheart."
    Though my back is to the table I know exactly what is going on. Amid the murmurings and clinking of silverware, everyone is waiting to hear my every word. I imagine they have heard everything on the other end of the line, too. Any other time this would have been a welcome call, but not here, and not now. I have barely begun to assimilate the new knowledge of myself in a "het" dating relationship. How on earth could I explain it to my family?
    "Ummm, thanks for calling. I ... can we talk later?"
By the tone in my voice, he knows there is something wrong--how wrong, he can't even guess, and though he sounds concerned and hurt, I manage to end the conversation. Behind me, I hear someone rise from the table. It's Brooke.
    "Sit down, dear, and finish your meal," my mother implores me.
    I look at her and my remaining sisters. Tamara is looking at me, then looks away and begins industriously eating; Jennifer is transfixed, mouth half open; Heidi is surgically cutting a piece of pie, her cheeks flushed red. From the kitchen, Brooke is rattling ice in a glass for yet another drink. I am frozen. The holiday is over, cut short. All I want to do is crawl off behind a bush and die with some dignity.
    "I'm not hungry, mom." I look for an escape route that doesn't intersect with Brooke's, but there is none. She knows this and has stationed herself between the kitchen and the dining room like a sentinel.
    "Well, okay. How about some coffee, then?" Before I can protest, my dutiful mother pushes past Brooke and begins filling the coffee pot at the sink. Soon the pot is gurgling with a vengeance. Brooke closes the gap.
    "It's not that I care about your living arrangements, Lori," my sister says. "I just find them ... curious. So, what happened? Did you and Alice break up, or what? I've heard you lesbians don't ever really do that--you all just sort of trade off. Isn't that the truth?"
    "Brooke, that's really none of your business." I am about ready to leave, but don't want to hurt my mother's feelings. I silently decide to drink one hurried cup of coffee. But I wonder if I can manage even that. I am in no mood to be ridiculed by someone ten years my junior.
    Tamara, Jennifer, and Heidi begin to clear the table, and after a few fierce glances from them, Brooke sets her drink down and picks up a few dishes. I pick up my own plate, full of food, and scrape it into the garbage disposal, but not fast enough: my mother frowns at me, then hands me a cup of coffee and motions me back into the dining room. We sit at the table and she says to me quietly, "Don't pay any attention to your sister. Brooke is having a hard time right now. I think her law firm is not doing so well. I think she's had a little too much to drink, too, but you know she's always been blunt."
    That's a nice way of putting it, I think. "Yes, she's getting smashed," I whisper fiercely. "What's up with the drinks, anyway? You and dad never drank."
    "I know," she sighs, "but it was Brooke's suggestion, and I didn't think any harm would come of it."
"Maybe if Brooke weren't drinking no harm would come of it," I snap. The apparent rudderless-ness of my family bothers me.
    My mother looks down and stirs her coffee absently. "Well ... so, how are you liking living alone?"
    I hesitate. "It's fine for the most part." I know she is searching for more.
    She takes a breath. "When did you decide to move? Are you still ... do you get lonely?"
    "At first I did, but ... well, mom, to tell you the truth, I've started dating--"
    Her eyes widen. She is about to protest.
    "--a man. That was the phone call."
    Her cup stops in midair. Her mouth is open. "Well! What a surprise, Lori! Is he a nice person? How did you meet? Tell me all about him. How exciting!" Her voice grows louder with each second. She leans forward with the first traces of genuine interest, as though I had some girlie secret to tell her. My four sisters file back into the room. They have heard every word.
    I don't want to answer, but have to since my mom is looking at me so intensely. "He's very 'nice,' mom. We're getting along fine."
    One by one my sisters walk to the kitchen, single file, Indian fashion, the last of the dishes in their hands. The door closes, and behind it I hear low, excited murmurs, the language of foreigners plotting against me. By now my guts are in agony. "That's what I had hoped to talk to you about, but not quite this soon. I wanted ... well, I'm not sure what I wanted to accomplish, but anyway"--I wave my hand hopelessly toward the kitchen--"it's common knowledge now."
    "Well, I'm sure your sisters are as happy for you as I am. I'm so glad you've come to your ... I mean, that you're doing the right thing, Lori."
    Come to my senses. Doing the right thing. Why must my personal decisions be weighed on the family scales of righteousness? How could I ever atone for the sin of loving women? With a sharp pain in my chest, I realize that coming home is like being caught between two worlds. I am forever on trial. I have been waylaid by the savagery of my family, subtle or not.
    I tell my mother I do not feel well and take my leave upstairs to my old bedroom. The air inside is stale and cool, the room dark. I lock the door behind me and sit down on the side of the bed. The November four-o'clock light, filtered through the skeleton of an oak tree, turns a lonely pale blue. Off in the distance, I can see the smudgy edge of a thousand-acre cornfield ready to be plowed under. I think about Indian maize, that similar grain that saved the lives of the settlers who first dared to take up residence in the unknown and yet already-peopled landscape. I think about the "New World" and all its disappointments--bitter cold, starvation, sickness, and hostilities. I think about fear, and greed, and a lack of desire to bridge the gaps between cultures, and of hardships unknown and impossible to foresee. I feel a kinship with those hopeful people whose hopes faded under the crush of reality. And yet, somehow, they kept going.
    I am startled by a tap at the door. Against my better judgment, I leave the edge of the bed and crack the door open. It's Heidi.
    "Come on," she says, holding a basketball. I know what this is all about. In two minutes we are working up a sweat in front of the garage at the same hoop we played under as young kids. I do not say a word to her, nor she to me. She fires the ball at me relentlessly, over and over, then fights to get it from my hands before I can put it in the basket. I am amazed at her speed, determination, and sheer skill. The harder I try, the harder she tries. All the anger seeps into my hands. Soon, I am not dribbling the ball but pounding it into the pavement; I don't sink a basket, I slam the ball hard enough to make the rim ring like an old bell. My freedom begins to fall on me one shot at a time. Finally, drenched in sweat and dizzy with fatigue and low blood sugar, I finally miss one of the balls she catapults toward me in the dim light. It careens into the bushes beside the garage. We both know the game is over. I want to hug her for the insight, thank her for the chance to wrestle away my demons, but instead we just stare at each other, hung on a moment of surprised recognition. As if on cue, I turn to go into the house, and she to retrieve the lost ball. We have both won.
    As I make my way back upstairs, heading for the shower, I can hear my mom, Jennifer, and Tamara playing a game of cards. I feel certain that I would smash Brooke against the wall, but luckily for her, we do not connect. I turn on the water in the shower as hard as it will go.
    Later, I turn down the quilt, strip, and crawl into the cool bed, which quickly warms to my body. The firmness of the mattress is reassuring; the slight hollow that is uniquely mine cradles me off to sleep. I dream of a feast spread on a long table, of a large quill pen dipped in golden ink handed to me, and my scrawling signature at the bottom of a parchment document. I can't read the title of it, but somehow I know signing my name to this Magna Charta is the right thing to do.
    My hunger wakes me in the middle of the night. The moon is pouring its silver light down on the cornfield. I open the window and listen. There is no sound except the growling of my stomach. I sneak downstairs and gorge myself in the blinding light of the fridge, but it isn't enough. I cannot shake the sense of my starvation for a morsel of approval. On the way back to my room, I hear muffled retching sounds. Brooke's tolerance for alcohol is apparently no better than her tolerance for me. I cannot stifle an illuminating grin.
    Late the next day, it is time to leave, and I exit at the first opportunity. Three of my sisters offer cordial-enough goodbyes. Jennifer and Tamara survey me with a new intensity, Heidi with a subdued affinity; even at this late an hour, family protocol rules. Curiously, Brooke is nowhere around, still sleeping off her hangover; I do not try to hide my sense of relief.

    As the plane pushed into the sky, I felt the sadness grow more and more distant like the buildings, cars, highways, and houses below me. Gradually, the landscape again took on the reassuring appearance of a quilt. I remembered my room, my bed, and suddenly felt a wave of hope. My New World awaited me. Like those brave souls before me, I had to press on. From my broken heart, I wished myself and my fellow travelers a Happy Thanksgiving. As soon as the plane leveled off and the seatbelt sign went out, I picked up the satellite phone on the seat in front of me. Though it would cost me a fortune, I punched in the numbers I knew by heart.

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