A Thanksgiving Miracle?!
CREATIVE FICTION
Hello there, pleased to meet you. My name is Andrew. I’m 47 years old, although friends say I can pass for a guy in his late 30’s.
Sitting beside me in the car is Sophie, my wife. She has no age.
Snoring at the back are Stef, 14, and Ronnie, 12.
This annual drive is the longest we, as a family, will be in the same room. We’re on the way to my parent’s for Thanksgiving. We’ve been doing this every year. . .ever since parents invented ‘guilt’.
And every year, it’s always the same. I take the wheel and we head out at dawn, as the kids grumble back to sleep. Cruising the highways, my laid-back wife would suddenly go into a trance and mentally check every faucet, socket, appliance, and lock in the house. It’s a bad case of, ‘Did I leave the iron in the socket, or is it the ceiling fan still running?’
I usually assuage her by saying, ‘You left the refrigerator running, dear. That’s actually a good thing.’
She then parts her bag to check on our wallets, passports, IDs, insurance, and marriage certificate — followed by an alphabetical roll call of cough medicines, diarrhea tablets, motion-sickness pills, and dengue kits. I’m afraid that if anything is out of line, she will jump out of a speeding SUV, roll into a field, cross the roaring highway, and hitch back.
When the kids wake up 2 hours later, and the wife is exhausted from worry, it begins to truly feel like home. Silent farting commences. These stealth bombs can easily stink the whole interstate! (FYI: Positive thinking cannot cure toxic farts.)
Accusations and death threats fly out of nowhere. You would think that in a car of 4 people, it would be easy to ferret out the stinky suspect. But these 3 are cold-hearted liars. Through the rearview, I watch body parts flail around, intent on causing nerve damage.
The initial witch-hunting would then disintegrate into a million bones of contention. And there, in the backseat of our car, my two idiots flesh out their issues:
‘It’s so unfair!’
‘What’s unfair is you get to spend 16 hours in the bathroom while I slowly die from food poisoning.’
‘Then why didn’t you use the one downstairs!’
‘Because I like the one upstairs!’
‘What?! Why???’
‘Warmer seat.’
‘Makes no difference.’
‘Yes, it does!’
‘Does not.’
‘Does too!’
‘Does not.’
‘Does too!’
‘Yo, Mensa members!’ their mother chimes in. ‘May I remind you that your dad and I are not duty-bound to take you all the way to our place of destination. Remember November ’99?’
‘Sorry, mom. Please don’t leave us on that road again. That news crew followed us for hours!’
‘Yeah, mom. If you like, you can tell us the story of how you spent 40 agonizing hours laboring me into this world. . . I wouldn’t cut you off because I really love listening to that saga.’
‘Well, you really shouldn’t have been born, you fart-face! Dad, why does she get to go for Thanksgiving anyway? She doesn’t even eat meat! What would really make me explode in gratitude would be to discover one morning that my God-awful sister has flushed herself in the toilet in the middle of the night.’
‘Shut up, you $%£&!’
‘No, you shut up!’
When God created these two, He threw away the mold. One is a die-hard Celtics fan just because her brother has Kobe’s shoes. It’s like being a Democrat not because you disagree with Republicans, but because you hate your sister. It doesn’t matter what the issue is, the two will always take opposite sides, cursing, screaming, and clawing while at it.
A scene like this 10 years ago would have blown my top already. I would have prepped their faces for reconstructive surgery, and I would be posing sideways for my mug shots by now. But over the years, not only have I learned to tune out the chaos, I can hear the love. Yes, the love between siblings whose only commonality is their last name and home address. Despite all this hostility, I’m certain the dysfunctional duo really has each other’s back. They just have an awful, awful way of showing it. Like me and the wife.
Makes me wonder: If 2 idiots can create a ruckus worthy of a coronary, what would have 5 ruthless jackals have been capable of?
I don’t remember much, but my childhood consisted of 5 brothers passionately hitting each other in the head. And hitting back, harder. . .without crying in between. WWF pros used to videotape our sessions, hoping to learn new moves.
Really, none of us should have been allowed to live. Keeping us alive was such a disservice to humanity. Well, it’s true what they say, you can’t talk of LOVE until you give it to someone who deserves the pointed end of a spear.
Looking back. . .our parents did love us.
They did love me.
Perhaps not in the perfect way, or in the way I wanted, but in the best way they know how.
They loved me even though I considered their sermons as breakthroughs in the cure for insomnia.
It didn’t matter even when I was a B- student, and an awful basketball sub. In fact, I was the most relaxed player in the finals because I know that there was no chance in hell that the coach would let me play in a championship game. My only job then was to make the time-out huddle look formidable.
They loved me even when I was not a compliment magnet. I was always too limp, too slow, and too dumb for anything. They loved me still.
Simply being me was always enough.
They were always the first and loudest to clap at my school plays. . .even though I bungled my lines beyond comprehension.
They loved me enough to lie about the zits on my face when they were large enough to be pictured from the moon.
They loved me even when I talked nonsense. (No, I was not high.)
Even when I swore to their faces that I will never be the kind of parents that they were, only to have a family of my own and discover that mistakes are pretty much universal.
And yes, they were far from perfect human beings,(believe me), but boy did they love me. . .even when I hated myself.
Today, years from childhood and miles from youth, I have become wise enough for the burden of gratitude.
I now understand what it means to be a parent. I have been on the receiving end of a hissy fit, blamed and vilified for something I intended for good, and had the experience of doing everything humanly possible and realizing it is still not enough.
For it takes a parent to truly fathom the depths and heights of personal sacrifice. Only a parent can truly understand what it means to be backstabbed behind that shrink’s door.
So we drive for Thanksgiving every year. For gratitude. For Mom and Pops.
Last year, as we were turning into the street of my childhood — a silhouette of two stood along the driveway. It was mom, who somehow always knew the exact minute her kid was coming in, and dad, who always stood beside her. I asked how she always knew we were turning the corner into our street. ‘Mom, how do you do it?’
Dad answered, ‘Andrew, it’s no secret. She’s been standing here since mid-morning.’
Kissing your parents never gets old, and the moment those car doors swing open, I receive my hugs and kisses. . .but NEVER before the kids grab theirs from grandma and grandpa.
This makes me think about life coming full circle.
I look at my father and see a man who spent the better part of his life knocking on doors as a salesman so 5 burly boys got an increase in allowance. This fella worked for his family ’til his senses gave in. Even shortly after that. His eyes and ears have grown dull and I have a feeling that, somehow, this is not the same man.
He was a lion, with absolute command of his dominion. His voice was deafening to my trembling bones. That guy scared the crap out of me and made an honest boy out of an inveterate liar!
Now, it seemed the lion has been tamed. The eagle is on silent perch.
I dread that day, and I hope it never comes when his memory shall escape him, gnawing away bit by bit every moment until he would have lost even his sense of self. How strange it would be to see no trace of recognition in your father’s eyes:
‘Dad, it’s me, Andrew!’
‘Who?’
‘Aaandreeww!’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m your favorite son.
‘Oh, you are?’
‘Yes, dad. See this scar on my forehead? You signed that. To this day, I have never forgotten to flush the toilet.’
‘Oh, that’s good. . .Andrew, is it?’
How strange it must be for an old man to hear some middle-aged guy insist that they are related when in his head, it was the first time he saw the creep. How unsettling to be shown pictures of you and this guy together, when you can’t even remember that you ever went fishing.
My folks will both turn 70 next year, and somehow there’s something so daunting about that. I find myself wedged between 2 great generations. . .one at the checkout counter, the other, rummaging through the aisles of life. One slowly retreating into the night, the other, playing with fire.
I fear that as I release my kids out of the woodwork, my hands will then be entangled with the weary bones of my folks. Just when I begin to unwind from the gory mess of 2 vicious children, I might have to take in aging parents. . .who will then take the posture of kids.
Old people have that knack of turning into babies in the twilight of life. They resort to wearing diapers. . .and just like babies, they have a knack for filling them. I may have to raise those who raised me. . .minus the Science homework.
No, I am not an ingrate. . .just tired. And afraid. Glancing back on my life and the things I’ve missed, I was hoping to finally rendezvous with destiny. To be somebody. Late in life as it is. To go places, visit history, and play a part in it.
I may be just one speck of dust in this endless cosmos, but dang I can be a great part of it. I can be somebody. Not just a father of 2 and a faithful husband to a loving and paranoid wife. But somebody the stuff of youthful legends.
I’m sorry, I’m prattling again.
Oh, we’re almost there!
We are now entering my ‘hood’, my old stomping grounds. Crawling these familiar streets really takes me back.
Not long from now, we will be sharing a Thanksgiving meal that required 5 days of trial-and-error. (And counting.)
This reminds me of the man who hasn’t made it to this dinner in years. I know he could. . .if he really wanted to. But somehow, in the course of being brothers, stuff was said and actions were taken that pushed him to spend the holiday someplace else.
I love my brother Tom, I wish they were coming. He is no worse than the 4 of us who drag our families here year after year. Rick, who usually sits across from me, is probably the worst human being alive. But hey, he’s family and I’m thankful.
Perhaps someday, we can have a meal as brothers again.
Someday.
I can only hope that what happened to my family won’t overtake yours. I’m not even sure how it unraveled, but there was some sort of tipping point. After that, conversations ceased. Doors were closed and numbers were never dialed. There was just awkward silence.
Then it became familiar silence. Which pretty much characterized the rest of my relationship with Tom. We knew the other existed. . .somewhere. . .but we’d rather be searching for aliens in the vastness of space than talk to blood.
Why?
Because nasty promises were made and dares were taken too seriously. Talking required swallowing a high-quality lard called Pride and entailed scoring a rare truffle named Forgiveness. For years it seemed like too high a price to pay.
I hope your family never reaches that tipping point because it’s awfully hard to return from that place.
But, if what they say that, TIME HEALS ALL WOUNDS, is true, then perhaps some Thanksgiving dinner in the future. . .we may have to add a few more chairs around a larger table.
I’m hopeful. Because when it comes to family, you just can’t give up. No matter what. Because at the end of the day, really, at the end of life, it will still be about family. They are your worst enemies but at the same time the loves of your life.
I am always hoping to see Tom again at our table. The table that built our friendship, but also witnessed its decay.
I am hoping to say ‘I’m sorry’. . .and actually be forgiven.
And that’s really why we take this drive every year for Thanksgiving. My kids don’t really know why–why I insist on taking the wheel the whole way, even though my eyesight is surely fading.
It was never about grandma’s turkey.
We are turning the corner into our street now. Yet again, a silhouette of two stood along the driveway.
I hope there would be something different this year. . .
