Mom gives me a sad smile. “I’m right here, peanut.”
“I know.” And I’m grateful for that. The last few weeks of her life, Mom was so sick she slept all the time. When she was awake, she was barely coherent and whispered about the past.
When she died, it wasn’t anything like I thought it would be. It was so still … so quiet. A breath in, a breath out and then she wasn’t alive anymore. It felt wrong. Her dying should have been huge. There should have been violent storms and earthquakes. But none of that happened. She slipped away and the world kept turning. As I said, it felt wrong.
I had stood by her side, silent tears streaming down my face as I lost my best friend, my rock, my mother. “I love you.” So much. I’m not sure any daughter has loved her mother as much as I love her.
“I love you more.”
“V,” Dad calls. “Brunch is ready!”
Mom goes back to staring out the window. I stand, walk across the room, and at the door, I pause and look back at Mom. I hate that she died, but I’m so grateful she chose to stay here with me. I need to convince Dad about ghosts. I need him to believe and then he’ll see her. And when I die, he’ll never be alone because he’ll see me, too.
“Great news,” I say as I head down the stairs. “I don’t have a headache…”
My lungs squeeze when I hit the last step. Lights. There are lights strung everywhere. Orange lights, white lights, and all the paper turkeys I had taken down before we left for Florida are back up. Stranger? There are more than there were before. The one with large googly eyes hanging from the stairs’ entrance causes me to smile.
The large, long table Dad keeps in the basement is set up, covered with a white tablecloth and set with Mom’s fancy china and crystal. My mouth waters at the sight of so much food, and it’s such an odd combination. Waffles and bacon and sausage and eggs … and turkey and dressing and green beans and rolls.
Complete awe overwhelms me as Jesse, Nazareth, Scarlett and Dad step into my view from the living room. My eyes burn. They’re giving me Thanksgiving. “You did all of this?”
“We helped,” Dad says, then gestures toward the kitchen, “but he did most of it.”
He?
“Surprise!” Lucy jumps out from behind the couch. She’s in an orange shirt that has a turkey on it, black leggings and a bright orange tutu. “Sawyer says it’s Thanksgiving!”
She runs to me, and I gladly pick her up and accept her warm hug. A quick kiss to my cheek and she shimmies back to the ground, takes my hand and guides me to the table. “I made the turkey.”
“You did?” I say, and that’s when I scan the kitchen and find Sawyer watching me.
His hands are in the pockets of his khakis, and he’s beautiful in his pressed, button-down blue shirt. There’s wariness there, but also hope. He’s waiting on me, on my reaction, and as Lucy continues to talk nonstop about all the food she helped her brother make, I let go of her hand, and approach Sawyer. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“You did this?”
“I had help.” He keeps his baby blues on me, and my heart flutters. “You know, you’re not dressed correctly. Christmas isn’t until the end of October.”
The laugh bubbles out of me, and he gives me his brilliant smile, the sunrise after the darkest night. He lifts his hand, cradles my face and I lean into his touch. His eyes darken, the same way they did when he kissed me the other night, and my blood starts to tingle. Gravity pulls me toward him, him toward me, and right as our lips are about to meet my father clears his throat. “While I like that my daughter is happy, do you mind if you took your hands off of her?”
My heart pounds and we separate so fast we could both be track stars. Dad gives Sawyer the evil eye, puts an arm around me and guides me to the table. I glance at Sawyer over my shoulder. Even though he has red cheeks, he’s grinning from ear to ear. So am I.
This is the best Thanksgiving ever.
SAWYER
Thursday Aug. 8: Weight 112 ½ lb.
Nothing much doing today. Cured quite a lot.
Was weighed today. Still keep on losing. It makes me sick.