Remember This Part

30. The Turkey Is Actually Okay, It's Just Everything Else That Isn't

Alex.

Growing up, I watched my mom go through plenty of shit. I watched my dad leave her, watched her get two jobs and then three. I was there with her when she took my grandmother and my brothers to Florida—then to Colorado—and left everything else behind. She went to our elementary school concerts, picked up shifts to make up for the time spent away. She came home tired almost every day of the week.

But she always came in to say goodnight to us. She'd read us stories in English to help Antonio and I get caught up with the other kids in our grades. She'd play with us, cook for us, help my grandmother with her hospital visits, help my brothers with their homework. I tried to do all the things she did. Cook, clean, occasionally forge a signature so Antonio and Manuel could go on field trips. But no one could do anything the way my mom could do everything. I was convinced that no one in the world could be so selfless. And even when she couldn't be around much because she had to work, I never doubted for a moment that she loved us more than anything, more than her own self.

She never dated anyone while we were growing up, even though I assured her she could if she wanted to. She said she didn't need another guy in her life. She was happy just living with us, for us. But I know that secretly, she was scared of bringing a man in who would walk out on us like our dad did, or hurt us while he was here. She'd never put us at risk, even if that meant sacrificing her love life. 

So, naturally, my standard for what makes a good mother is high. And I know I shouldn't compare her to anyone else. Who else could compare?

And yet, I catch myself doing that a couple times tonight as I sit with Thea and her mom. Perhaps unfairly—definitely unwisely—I'll remember my own mom, her indomitable spirit, her determination to keep us safe. And then I'll look at my girl, putting on a smile as she tries to keep the conversation going at the dinner table. Somehow, I know she's faking it, even though I don't know why. And that gets me thinking about her as a kid. Putting on a smile and faking it for her teachers and grandparents.

I can't get the anger out of my system. Someone needed to protect her, like my mother protected us.

"Alex, do you like strawberry rhubarb pie?"

I close out of my other thoughts, the dangerous ones that have been knocking on my skull all night. I know I haven't been as attentive as I should be. My responses have mostly been limited to a couple syllables, even when I try to come up with something better to say. Thea will try to prod me into talking more, but she's been distracted, too, ever since we started eating. So our topics have been pretty dry, orbiting food and classes and nothing more.

"Yeah," I reply to Rachel after a moment too long. Thea glances between her mother and me, beckoning me to add, "I love it, actually." I don't, but what else can I say?

"Well, don't worry, it's store-bought, so I can't ruin it for you," Rachel continues with a grin, and I offer her a polite smile.

"Everything's been good, Mom," Thea says, without even a hint of sarcasm. Her jesting mood disappeared over an hour ago, which is almost as worrisome as the fact that she's hardly eaten. I know she's not exactly a fan of of green beans and cranberry sauce, but she didn't even finish her mashed potatoes.

"Thank you, Thea-D," Rachel responds, clearly pleased with herself. She begins to stand up, but Thea interrupts her motion.

"Let me get it," she says. "You've been getting up all night."

"I'll help," I add, rising from my seat. I know I should probably stay and try to talk more to my girlfriend's mom, but I don't want Thea straying from me, not when she's in this strange headspace.