Grandma is really fond of your animations. I think her favorite is the forty-second clip of the spider chasing that one red ant. When it reaches its posse, together they form that super ant that scares the spider away. It’s possible she just really admired the flowers you put in the background. I could probably pull up some of your animations for her, the ones I have on my phone—except “Griffin on the Left,” that’s for my eyes only—but I don’t have it in me to watch the videos myself. I need my phone, anyway, to hear your voice.
“Theo can’t make it,” I say. I’m sure my mom or aunt told her you died. She’s forgotten already, but I’m going to let it go instead of repeating it back to her. I like that she thinks you’re alive. “I’m going to get you more water, Grandma.”
I kick Davis off the TV, task him with getting his great-grandmother some more water, and I retreat into Rosie’s room, where I hide underneath the coats on her bed.
Putting a song on repeat used to drive you crazy. I could never shake certain lyrics or beats out of my head until I listened to the song for a week straight, sometimes two. You hated the sound of your own voice recorded even more, and I’m sorry you have to hear it again as I play your last voice mail on repeat: “Hey, Griff, sorry I missed your call. I was out and my phone was off . . . you sound like you’re walking the plank. If The Walking Dead pirates didn’t already chase you off, call me back and let me know you’re okay. Bye, man.”
I really like this message because there is no mention of Jackson, even though he was probably the reason you were out. Also because you called me Griff, not Griffin—like you got used to doing whenever Jackson was around.
I press play again.
I’m on my thirty-eighth listening this session when someone pats my ankles. I hadn’t even noticed they were sticking out over the edge of the bed. I’m tempted to just kick the hand away, but I come out from underneath the coats and see my dad.
“Dinner is ready. Thanksgiving dinner, which comes once a year. Don’t bank on seeing cornbread again for another year.”
What an awful pitch for Thanksgiving—the fuck do I care about cornbread? Has he completely forgotten the reason I’m hiding from the family I’m usually so excited to see?
But I get up and head out into the living room. Pretty much everyone already has their food on a plate, standing in a circle against the walls while the kids are on the floor sitting cross-legged or on their knees. Right: prayer first, then food. My mom has prepared me a plate because apparently when someone’s grieving, they revert back to an age where they have to hold someone’s hand to cross the street, ask permission to stay over at a friend’s house, probably require a nightlight, and can’t serve themselves dinner. I thank her before I have a condom-over-mouth-worthy outburst, and step over Reynaldo—I think—to stand between the busted stereo and a potted plant in desperate need of water.
Rosie throws a towel over her shoulder and claps, like we’re about to huddle together and she’s going to coach us through our dinner. “Who wants to lead us in prayer?” She turns to her three grown kids: Richie, the eldest, who was always too in his head over work to ever connect with you; Ronnie, who didn’t bring the latest love of his life to dinner this year; and Remy, who’s always been my least favorite. Not because he’s the third kid or how his name doesn’t quite fit with his brothers’, but because he used to talk shit about us behind your back, which I never told you about because his antigay nonsense is his nonsense.
None of them volunteer. My dad takes a step forward.
Rosie claps. “Whoa, first-timer. Take it away, Gregor.”
The turkey leg I’m sure Dad pushed women and children out of the way for almost rolls off his plate when he gestures out to the family, inviting us to hold hands. But we’re all holding food, some of us drinks. He realizes his error, chuckling. Remy is to my right, and he surely wasn’t going to hold my hand anyway. His son, Ralph—an old man’s name—is to my left, so this is all for the best.
“Dear God, thank you for bringing our family together for another year of good food and good company, but mainly good food . . .” He pauses, actually pauses expecting laughter. Grandma, my mom, Rosie, and a couple of my older cousins indulge him with a chuckle, but none of the younger ones do; the ego-soothing instinct isn’t quite programmed in them just yet. “A friendly face our family has grown to know well over the years is absent tonight, unfortunately. We all—Griffin especially—miss him dearly, and will continue praying for his family.”
I might freak out or throw up or throw up and freak out, Theo.
Dad pauses and takes a deep breath. “God, we ask you to keep our family safe for another year, and thank you for our blessings. Amen.”
In the choruses of “amen,” I sink against the wall, resting my arm on the rim of the pot. Whatever food I thought I was going to be able to manage before will not be happening. I think again of your family, especially Denise. I can’t even imagine what it must look like over there, what it must be like to be a family that others are specifically—and pointlessly—praying for on Thanksgiving. And then there’s Jackson, possibly tacked on at their table, camping out in their home. I don’t think it’s parasitic, but even I’ve kept my distance. They have enough wounds without tending to someone else’s pain, too.
“Griffin, Griffin,” Grandma calls me from across the room, her voice just loud enough to reach me, despite my cousins’ nearby conversation about football. “Where is Theo? I cooked the mashed potatoes.”