Intoxicated

Chapter One

Thanksgiving, 2011, was different, all right. Mom cried in the cranberry sauce, and Mom is not an easy crier.

She seemed fine before. She yelled at the turkey until Dad finally whisked it away and started smoking it on the grill out back. She baked rolls and pies and prepared stuffing, and grudgingly turned loose the salad so I could chop and toss. 

Somehow she got the table set, the pots and pans scrubbed, and the centerpiece arranged all in one peace. 

Thinking back on it now, I wonder if her super-efficiency, even more amazing than normal, wasn't a clue that all was not well. 

If it was, it went right over my head.

Morning slipped quickly into afternoon, the temperature outside dropped, our kitchen windows steamed over, and Dad donned hat, scarf, and gloves for rushed visits to his turkey.

"Evan! Nora! Stop what you're doing!" he suddenly yelled from the back door. Surprised, Mom dropped a handful of rolls on the hardwood floor. I was caught in the swinging door between the kitchen and the dining room, a forbidden spoonful of stuffing en route to my mouth.

"Behold the turkey!" Dad cried, and brought forth the turkey, smoked to a deep golden brown, its enticing aroma filling the room with a tantalizing outdoorsy bitter-sweetness.

"It's beautiful," Mom told him.

"The best ever," I agreed.

"Thank you, ladies," Dad said, marching his masterpiece to the counter. "Love that grill."

Mom and I exchanged a smile. We'd bought Dad the grill for his fortieth birthday in December of last year. Before then, he'd never even boiled water; since then, he'd been grilling everything that couldn't hop the fence and run for cover.

We soon had all the food arranged on the dining room table and sat smiling at each other across candles and poinsettias in Autumn shades of red and orange.

"Everything is just so perfect," Dad said.

Mom had just lifted the bowl of cranberry sauce, and that's when she began to cry.

"Nora, what's wrong?" Dad asked.

"Nothing. Nothing, I'm fine." Mom said, pressing a napkin to her mouth with her free hand and blinking her eyes rapidly to fight back the tears. Dad gently took the bowl out of her hand and set it down. Then Mom drew in one long shaky breath and brought herself back under control.

"I'm okay," she said. "Just tired, I guess. Let's eat."

So we ate. 

Dad told a couple of silly jokes he'd heard at the office, and Mom and I groaned in response, but laughed anyway. No one mentioned Uncle Ben, Dad's older brother, who'd lived with us for three years until his second stroke forced him into a retirement home last year. 

And no one mentioned my brother, Ethan, who'd graduated from college in June and immediately left for Florida with his new wife, Olivia, to live near her parents and "learn the trade" at their brokerage firm. 

Thanksgiving had always meant the four of us plus, for a long while, Uncle Ben, plus, as of last year, Olivia. 

This Thanksgiving was different, all right, and as if an unspoken rule was created, no one mentioned anything.

"Amazing how little time it takes to eat a meal, after all the hours it takes to prepare it," Dad commented when we were all respectfully stuffed until we could stuff no more.

"And how long it takes to clean up after," I added, gathering his dish and mine as Mom loaded herself down with more plates, bowls, trays, and glasses than it seemed possible for any one person to handle — especially one so short she had to sit on a pillow to drive. Through the swinging door we trooped, Dad bringing in the remains of his turkey.