:: chapter thirteen ::

After Halloween was all said and done, the issue of Thanksgiving raised itself. More to the point, the question was whose family would play host to the two of us over that weekend. We hadn’t discussed it in any real depth since moving into our apartment, even though I’d said we would at some point. So when Taylor mentioned it one Thursday evening near the beginning of November, I wasn’t surprised.

“I’ve been wondering something,” he said after dinner that evening. Being as there was nothing remotely worth watching on TV until Supernatural started at nine, we’d muted the television after the six-thirty news and set Taylor’s iPod (which was hooked up to our stereo) to shuffle through all fifty gigabytes of music that was contained on its hard drive – at the moment, All That You Are by Econoline Crush was the song playing. I was nursing a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream that was slowly but surely melting into soup, and Taylor for his part was working his way through a particularly large piece of lemon cheesecake. “I mean, I know you’re half-English and half-American.”

“I’m also a quarter Irish,” I reminded him. “Though I fail to see what my nationality has to do with anything.”

He was quiet for a little while as he ate. “Thanksgiving,” he said at last.

“I see,” I said. “So can I take this to mean that you’re coming to Maine with me?”

“I’m considering it.”

“Uh-huh.” I raised an eyebrow. “Admit it – the only reason you want to come with me is so you can try out my mum’s cooking.”

He scowled at me. “Come on, tell me – what’s Thanksgiving like at your house?”

I settled back into the couch and thought about it. In all honesty, I had always considered the way that my family celebrated Thanksgiving to be the norm, how it was celebrated by everyone. But now that I was being asked to describe it to someone who was essentially an outsider, I realised something – my family’s way of celebrating was, in all honesty, somewhat strange.

“The fact that my dad is American and my mum is English has a lot to do with it,” I admitted. “The way Dad tells it, he had to make a lot of concessions to get Mum to agree to leave England, and one of those was an alteration to Thanksgiving.” At Taylor’s raised eyebrow, I added, “It’s worth noting, though, that my dad is the king of bullshit and tall tales. It’s best to take everything he says with one very large pinch of salt.” I stirred my ice cream with my spoon. “But seriously though, the way we celebrate is basically combining Thanksgiving with what Mum considers to be the best parts of an English Christmas. Mum roasts up a turkey that’s big enough for Dad, Mum, Jack and I, with enough left over to feed any of my older siblings who drop around in the evening after they’ve celebrated with their own families. She also does up a shitload of mashed potatoes, lots of peas, green beans and carrots, and plenty of cranberry sauce to go with the turkey.” I finished my ice cream and leaned forward to set my bowl on the coffee table. “But we also have roast potatoes and pumpkin, and Mum roasts up a leg of pork. Dad’ll do up some mashed pumpkin as well because the two of us will eat that shit like it’s going out of fashion.” Taylor snickered at this. “And for dessert we usually have apple pie with plenty of whipped cream or ice cream – none of us like pumpkin pie, so it doesn’t even rate a mention.”

“That sounds amazing,” Taylor said.

“Oh, it is.” I couldn’t help but smile. “And Mum enforces the ‘no television on Thanksgiving’ rule with an iron fist – when I was growing up we didn’t have a TV, so it wasn’t much of a problem until we got our first set when I was sixteen. After Dad and Martin spent most of that Thanksgiving in front of the TV watching football, Mum put her foot down. The set gets shifted into the basement the afternoon before, and it doesn’t go back into the lounge room until Friday morning. Jack has to do the same with his TV, or he catches hell for it. We listen to music instead – Dad dusts off the record player, or Mum plays her Beatles or Elvis CDs. It depends on the year.”

I cast a sidelong glance at Taylor, and could almost see the wheels turning in his head. While he was thinking, I went into the kitchen with my bowl and deposited it in the sink, snagging the cordless from its cradle on the wall as I returned to the living room.

“I’m about to ring my mum,” I said, waving the handset at him. “Do I tell her to set an extra place at the table or what?”

He sighed. “All right, I’ll come. It’s better than watching Mark and Skya mooning at each other across the table.”

I grinned in satisfaction and punched in my parents’ number. When it was picked up at the other end of the line, I rolled my eyes at the greeting I heard.

“City Morgue, you kill ‘em we chill ‘em.”

“Jack, get off the phone,” I groaned. “What if that had been Grandpa calling?”

“He gets a kick out of it,” my little brother said. He sounded rather proud of himself. “What’s up, sis?”

“I need to talk to Mum. She around?”

“Yeah, hold on.” There was a sort of muffled scraping noise, before I heard Jack yell, “Mum, Bella’s on the phone!”

“It’s Bel, dickhead,” I muttered.

“Isobel?”

I couldn’t help smiling as I heard my mother’s voice. She had retained her English accent even after nineteen years of living in the United States, and to me it always sounded like home. My own accent, like those belonging to my brothers and sisters, was a hodgepodge of New England American and Southern English. Depending on which of my parents I was speaking to, though, I tended to use one accent or the other. “Hi Mum!” I said brightly, slipping into my English accent as I spoke. “I just thought I should call you to let you know what my plans are for Thanksgiving.”

“Oh? And what would those be?”

“I’ll be coming home for the weekend, and I’ll be bringing my boyfriend with me. If you and Dad don’t mind, of course.”

“Of course we don’t mind,” Mum said, her tone faintly chiding. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting Taylor, and so has your dad – Sami spoke very highly of him after she met the two of you for lunch back in September.”

“Really?”

“Really. And it takes a lot to impress her, as you well know.”

“Considering I’m almost exactly like her.”

“Precisely. When were the two of you planning to come up?”

I looked over at Taylor, who was just finishing off his dessert. “I’m not sure. Let me ask him.” I covered the microphone part of the handset and whistled to get Taylor’s attention. “What time did you want to leave here on the Wednesday?”

As if in response, Taylor went to where his laptop sat on a shelf above the TV and picked it up one-handed. He sat back down on the couch and opened the lid of his computer, swiping the pad of his right index finger across the trackpad to bring it out of standby. I sat back down next to him, watching as he loaded up Google Maps and tapped brooklyn heights, new york and eastport, maine into their respective fields, before hitting ‘Get Directions’.

“If we go straight to Eastport from here,” he said as he studied the map that popped up, “it’s going to take us almost ten-and-a-half hours driving non-stop. That’s far longer than I’m willing to drive without a break. It’ll take longer if the roads are packed, which they’re bound to be.”

“How much longer?”

“About forty-five minutes.” He then proceeded to tap boston, massachusetts and portland, maine into two new fields, did a bit of field switching, and clicked ‘Get Directions’ again to bring up a new map. “I figure that if we leave here at about eight or so, we can be in Boston for lunch. Then we can make a pit stop in Portland to let Ratchet have a bit of a run around, before heading up to Eastport. We can be at your parents’ house in time for dinner.” He looked at me. “That sound good?”

“Suits me.” I went back to my phone call. “We’re planning to leave here around eight on the Wednesday morning – it’s almost a ten-and-a-half hour drive, so we’ll probably get there at about six-thirty that evening, maybe seven.”

“Why don’t you fly up?”

“Because we’d have to drive up from Portland anyway. It’s going to cost us a fair bit in fuel, but we can afford it.” I looked back at the screen of the laptop – Taylor had now opened up Outlook Express, and was looking through his new emails. “Also, I should probably tell you that we’ll be bringing Taylor’s dog with us.”

“Why not leave the dog with one of your neighbours?”

“Because most of them are leaving the city for Thanksgiving too. You don’t have to worry, Mum – Ratchet is extremely well-trained. Tay takes her everywhere with him, and he’s had no problems with her whatsoever. Ratchet’s an assistance dog,” I added by way of an explanation.

“She has an unusual name.”

“Yeah, that’s Taylor’s brother’s fault. She got named for a character in the video game Ratchet & Clank.”

Once I had finished my call and hung up, I handed the handset off to Taylor so he could make a call of his own – to his mother, as it turned out. While he spoke to her, I shifted his laptop onto my lap so that I could check my own email. I switched programs back to Firefox and scanned the tabs before opening a new one of my own. Open were his LiveJournal friends page, Google Maps, The Onion, I Can Has Cheezburger, The New York Times, a Wikipedia article about a city in Australia called Wollongong, and one reading Zamel’s Jewellery ~ Solitaire. I nearly did a double take at that last tab, and moved the mouse cursor over it. Right as I went to click it, though, my finger froze above the trackpad. This was Taylor’s computer, and I didn’t pry into what was on it unless we were using it together – something that rarely happened. That tab was therefore private and not any of my concern, unless he chose to share it with me. And so I closed the laptop and flipped it over, setting it to one side before getting up to fetch my own computer.

“Well, Mom is a little disappointed that I’m not coming home for Thanksgiving,” Taylor said as he came back to sit on the couch. “She did make me promise to go home for Christmas and New Year’s though.” I looked over at him, and saw that he was eyeing me. “Now there’s an idea.”

“Did it hurt?” I asked as I brought my email up on my laptop.

“Funny.” Out of the corner of my eye I could see his fingers flying over the keyboard of his laptop. “Why don’t you come home with me for Christmas? You’ll be able to meet the rest of my family.”

“Wait, there are more of you?”

He grinned. “Oh yeah. I’m related to probably three-quarters of all the Hansons and Lawyers in Tulsa. Dad’s the third of nine kids, and Mom’s sixth of seven. I have lots of aunts and uncles and a shitload of cousins. No nieces or nephews yet, thank God. My parents would freak.”

“Your parents won’t mind me coming with you?”

“No way. They adore you, Issie – they’ll be more than happy to have you stay over Christmas.” He stretched. “Besides which, you’re my family – and family shouldn’t be apart at this time of year.”

Family. I’m his family. That particular thought produced a feeling of warmth deep inside, and I smiled. Christmas with the Hanson family…now that I thought about it, it didn’t sound too bad at all. Especially since Taylor would be there too.

“You have a deal,” I agreed.

“Mum, I’m home!” I called as I entered the house through the front door, having used the key I still had on my key ring. Taylor’s BMW was parked in the driveway, where Dad’s car would usually be parked were he not at work, and we had left our gear in the car for the time being. I had warned Taylor just before we had arrived that if he didn’t want to be parked in, he’d need to shift his car once Dad was on his way home. Taylor followed close on my heels, with Ratchet darting ahead as Taylor closed the door behind us. It was about six-thirty in the evening of the day before Thanksgiving.

“Not so loud, Isobel,” Mum chided as she came into the foyer. “It’s good to see you, sweetheart,” she said as she hugged me tightly. “It’s been too long.”

“Definitely,” I agreed as I was released. I then stepped back alongside Taylor. “Mum, this is my boyfriend Taylor Hanson,” I said, making introductions. “Tay, this is Marian Reynolds, my mum.” These last two words were spoken with just a hint of pride.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last,” Mum said as she shook Taylor’s outstretched hand. “Isobel has told us so much about you – she’s very taken with you.”

“Likewise,” Taylor agreed. “Ratchet, heel!” he commanded, clicking his fingers and pointing to a spot next to his feet. “Sorry about this Mrs. Reynolds – she tends to get excited when she’s in a new place. I thought I’d trained that out of her.”

“Taylor, please, it’s Marian. And you needn’t apologise. I completely understand. What breed is she?”

“Beagle,” Taylor replied as he picked Ratchet up.

“She’s so small,” Mum commented. “How old is she?”

Taylor frowned. “Two-and-a-half,” he replied after a few moments. “Apparently she was the runt of the litter – at least that’s what I was told when I was learning to handle her.” He scratched Ratchet behind her left ear. “She’s my runt, though.”

“Why don’t you take her out into the yard?” I suggested. “Let her run off her energy before my dad gets home.”

“Best idea I’ve heard all day,” Taylor agreed. He flicked his gaze over to meet mine, and mouthed, “If she asks, tell her.” I nodded to show I had understood, and Taylor went out into the yard with Ratchet.

“I’ve been wondering, Isobel,” Mum said as I followed her into the kitchen. While she went to the stove I hopped up on one of the stools that was usually stored beneath the overhang of the kitchen bench. “When you called to let me know you were coming home for Thanksgiving, you mentioned that Ratchet is an assistance dog.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What disability does Taylor have?”

“He doesn’t have a disability per se,” I replied. “He’s got a bunch of illnesses, though. Chronic fatigue syndrome, generalised anxiety disorder, and two types of depression – dysthymia and seasonal affective disorder. The chronic fatigue is about as bad as a disability, though. It’s gotten worse recently – he took a bit of a turn while we were in Montreal a couple of months ago, and he still hasn’t managed to come back from it.”

“Oh dear,” Mum murmured. “He’s so young…”

“Yeah,” I agreed quietly. “He’s been dealing with it all for a long time, though. He’s had dysthymia and anxiety since he was fifteen, chronic fatigue since he was sixteen, and SAD since he was twenty-one.” I glanced over at the back door. “I wish he didn’t have to, though.” I traced the outline of a faint bleach stain on the dark granite bench top. “He’s on some pretty heavy-duty medication to handle everything, especially since the SAD just kicked in a few days ago. Hopefully it won’t lay him too low while we’re here.”

Dad arrived home from work, Jack close behind, right as Mum got dinner on the table. Tomorrow was going to be such a huge production that dinner wasn’t anything particularly elaborate or complicated – barbecued chicken, macaroni and cheese, and salad. I loaded up my plate with a couple of slices of chicken, tomato wedges, a generous handful of grated cheese, a few slices of pineapple and a heaping spoonful of pasta, and headed off to sit at the table. Taylor wasn’t far behind me, his own plate loaded down with chicken, tomato and pasta, nibbling on a raw carrot stick as he walked.

“I should warn you right now,” I said quietly as the two of us sat down at the table, side by side. “Dad likes to interrogate new boyfriends and girlfriends, and he is freaking ruthless. Odds are he’ll start straight after grace.”

And sure enough, I was right. Almost immediately after Mum had said grace, Dad launched forth into what was known to we Reynolds siblings as the Inquisition.

“Isobel has told us that you aren’t originally from New York City,” Dad said to begin, and Taylor nodded his confirmation. “Where did you live before moving there?”

“Oklahoma,” Taylor replied. “My twin and I and our older brother were born there, but my family moved to Arlington in September 1983. We did eventually return to Oklahoma in the late 1980s. I’ve also lived in South America and the Caribbean – Venezuela, Ecuador and Trinidad to be exact.” He ate a forkful of macaroni. “Though originally, my family comes from Europe – my mom’s family comes from The Netherlands via England, and my dad’s is from Denmark. It goes back about six generations on each side.”

“I see,” Dad said, sounding thoughtful. “Where exactly in England?”

“I think my mom said something about Devon at some point.”

“And what about work?”

“I’m a photographer for High Fidelity, but I also freelance on the side. I’ve also done production work on my brothers’ last two albums.”

“Your brothers are musicians?”

Taylor nodded. “They’re in a reasonably successful indie band – had a few number one albums over the years.” And here he clamped his mouth shut, lips twitching and shoulders shaking ever so slightly, indicating that he was attempting not to laugh. Evidently he hadn’t believed me when I’d told him that aside from me, Samantha was the only member of my family who understood the correlation between his surname and one of the most famous and successful bands of Generation Y.

And then Dad asked the one question I had been dreading most of all – the one question I had never expected would come out of his mouth.

“What are your intentions toward my daughter?”

“Dad!” I objected loudly. “That is completely uncalled for!”

“I’m only looking out for your best interests, Issie,” Dad said, in what he evidently considered a reasonable tone of voice.

“Like hell you are! I’m not a little girl anymore – I’m a grown adult. I’m old enough to make my own choices, and to learn from my own mistakes. I don’t need you to fight my battles for me anymore.” I pushed my plate away and stood up so fast my chair tipped over backwards. “And don’t call me Issie!” I shouted before leaving the table and bolting out through the back sliding door, closing it so hard that it shifted off its track.

It seemed to be ages before somebody came to join me out on the back deck. I was sitting on the porch swing that had had a home on the deck for as long as I’d been able to remember, my knees drawn up to my chin and my arms wrapped around my shins. A glance to my right, and I could see Taylor sitting down next to me.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” I said quietly. “He’s…” I swallowed hard. “He’s not usually like that. At least, he’s never asked that question before.”

“I was sort of expecting it, to be honest,” Taylor said, his voice just as quiet. “I just didn’t think I’d be asked in front of your mom and brother.” I felt his left arm wind around my shoulders, and his thumb begin rubbing a small circle on my arm. I leaned a little closer to him, resting my head on his chest and letting my eyes slide closed, the sound of his heartbeat filling my ears.

“I shouldn’t have come home,” I said quietly. “Worst idea I’ve ever had.”

“You weren’t to know that this was going to happen. It’s not like you told your dad to give me the third degree, right?” I shook my head. “See? You don’t have any control over what he says. He chose to ask that question, and he chose the time to ask it.” His hand shifted from my arm to my hair, and he started running his fingers through my curls. “And besides which, your mom’s giving him one hell of a dressing-down right now. I don’t think he’ll ever make that mistake again.” His tone now turned quizzical. “And what’s so wrong with him calling you ‘Issie’?”

“Because you’re the only person alive who’s allowed to call me that. Before that it was only my grandmother who was allowed.” I let out a quiet hiccup. “If I wasn’t so set on not disappointing my mum, I’d want to go home tonight.”

“I think the best thing to do here is to just avoid your dad as much as possible,” Taylor suggested. “It won’t work for very long tomorrow, but I figure you can just ignore him in that case.”

I nodded. “Can we go back to New York after that? I feel a real need to just curl up on the couch with that tub of Cherry Garcia I saw you hiding in the freezer last week.”

“I hid it because it’s mine, and I knew you’d eat it otherwise,” Taylor informed me, his tone mock-stern.

“Maybe you should have bought two, if that’s the case,” I replied, and received a playful swat in response.

The next day, as Thanksgiving is wont to be, was absolutely insane. I sent a mental thank-you to my mother when I realised that she had given Taylor and I the opportunity to have a bit of a sleep-in – when I finally prised my eyes open and was able to see straight, I noted that the time on my watch read eleven-thirty. I hadn’t slept so late in who knew how long. Taylor for his part was still fast asleep.

“Hey sleepyhead,” I whispered when his eyes opened at last. “How’re you feeling?”

“Tired,” he replied, his voice sleepy but with a slight undercurrent of what I had come to recognise by now as pain. I truly hated it – seeing and hearing him in pain hurt me almost as much as I knew it hurt him.

“Where does it hurt?” I asked.

“Shoulders,” he replied. He tried to sit up and let out a soft groan.

“Right, roll over,” I directed, and helped him shift onto his front. I had only to touch his shoulders to feel the knots that lay just beneath the surface, and I started kneading them with my thumbs.

The creak of hinges made me look over from working at a particularly stubborn knot, and I saw Mum coming in with a glass of water. She smiled when she saw me and set the glass atop the chest of drawers next to the door. “It’s for Taylor,” she whispered. “There’s coffee in the kitchen, unless you’d rather have some tea.”

“No, coffee’s good,” I assured Mum as I finally eased the last knot out of Taylor’s right shoulder.

“All right. Come downstairs when you’re ready – I want you to give me a hand with things before dinner.”

“Okay,” I agreed. Mum withdrew back into the hallway, and I cracked my knuckles before starting on Taylor’s left shoulder.

The two of us finally made it downstairs at around twelve-fifteen to find Mum cooking up a storm in the kitchen, and Jack sitting at the kitchen bench eating a raw carrot stick leftover from dinner the night before. I went over to the cabinet above the stove, where I knew my parents kept the coffee and tea fixings, and took down two mugs and the sugar bowl, before going to the fridge and taking out the milk. A hunt around in the top drawer yielded a teaspoon, and I set about making up two mugs of coffee – black for Taylor, and white with three sugars for me. As much as I loved coffee, Mum tended to make it far too strong for my tastes.

“Medicine first,” I said as I sat down across from Taylor at the table. I slid his coffee just out of his reach and started drinking my own, raising both eyebrows when he scowled at me. “Then you can have your coffee.”

“Spoilsport,” he muttered, half a heartbeat before downing his medication. Only once he had taken both pills did I pass him his coffee.

Thanks to the little disagreement the previous evening between my father and I, Thanksgiving dinner passed in an almost stony silence. I kept my mouth shut unless I was putting food into it, speaking only when Mum, Jack or Taylor spoke to me, and ignoring my father completely. Anytime he attempted to make eye contact, I glared at him until he looked away once more.

Once we had finished dessert, a long-standing Reynolds tradition was continued – going around the table and saying what we were each thankful for. My parents and Jack went with the usual standards – good health, job stability, and the opportunity for a good education. This year, I chose to go with something a little different.

“I’m thankful that my editor asked me to conduct that interview back in January,” I said. “If he hadn’t, Taylor and I wouldn’t be together right now.” I reached for Taylor’s nearest hand, and he grasped hold and interlaced our fingers.

“I…” Taylor’s voice faltered, and he closed his eyes briefly. “I’m thankful to be alive,” he finished quietly. And with those words he got up from his seat and left the table, heading out onto the back deck. After a few seconds I followed him, stopping just outside the sliding door, and bit my bottom lip at the sight before me. He was sitting backed up against the railing of the deck, hunched over with his arms wrapped around his knees and his head bowed, shoulders trembling. Just from that, I could tell that he was crying. My movements tentative so that I didn’t startle him, I walked over and knelt down before him, putting a hand on his shoulder. He looked up after a few seconds, his face streaked with tears.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “And don’t you dare say ‘nothing’ because something is definitely going on here.”

“I just…” He took in a deep breath and let it out shakily. “This is the first Thanksgiving since I was a kid that I’ve had any cause to be thankful that I’m still breathing.” He scrubbed at his face with the back of his right hand. “And it’s the first time in years that I haven’t felt like…you know, ending it all.” He gave me a small, sheepish smile. “That sounds ridiculous, I know.”

“It doesn’t. I think it means that you’re happy. Zac said it himself while we were in Atlanta and you were singing that song of yours – you never sing unless you’re in a good mood.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Taylor said quietly, seeming to concede.

“No supposing about it – you know I’m right.” I tapped the side of my nose. “I know you pretty well – probably not as well as anyone in your family, but well enough for my liking. And I’ve learned to tell your moods apart.” I squeezed his shoulder gently. “You’re definitely happy.”

“I’d be even happier if we were home,” he murmured.

I shifted over to sit next to him and put my left arm around his shoulders, feeling him automatically lean closer. I knew he needed this, even if he didn’t come right out and say it.

“We’ll go inside when you’re ready,” I decided. “Pack our things, make our apologies to my parents, and just hit the road. I’ll do the first half of the driving – you can sleep until we hit Boston. How’s that sound?”