bothered her too that night, and by the time she got to bed, Sam was asleep and she felt like death and she looked it. He had promised to help her in the morning.
She set her alarm clock for six-fifteen, so she could put the turkey in the oven. It was a big bird, and it would take a long time to cook. They ate their Thanksgiving dinner at noon usually. But when she got up, she was too sick to move, and she lost an hour throwing up as quietly as she could in the bathroom.
But by the time Annabelle got up, she was putting the turkey in, and a little while later Sam joined them. Annabelle wanted to go to the Macy's Thanks giving Day parade, and Alex didn't have the heart to ask him not to and help her cook dinner.
They left around nine o'clock, and Alex was doing the best she could in the kitchen. She had made the stuffing, done the vegetables, and was about to start on the potatoes. They had bought the pies fortunately, but she still hadn't tackled the popovers or the chestnuts.
And the moment they left, Alex was seized with a bout of vomiting that left her choking and breathless. She was so frightened she almost called 911, and suddenly longed for Brock to be there to help her. She got an ice pack for herself, and finally stood in the shower, throwing up, thinking that might help. She was still in her nightgown, looking gray, when they came back at eleven-thirty.
“Didn't you get dressed?” He looked shocked when he looked at her. She hadn't even combed her hair, which told him she hadn't even bothered to make the effort. But the turkey smelled good, and everything was either in the oven or on the stove. “What time do we eat?” he asked, as Annabelle went to her room to play and he flipped on the television to watch football.
“Not till one. I started the turkey a little late.” It was a miracle, considering how sick she'd been that morning.
“Do you need help?” he asked casually, as he put his feet up. It was more than a little late, and she didn't say anything. She had managed to do all of it, which amazed no one more than it did her. Sam had no idea what she'd been battling to do it.
She went to get out of her nightgown then, and put on a white dress and comb her hair. But she didn't have time or feel well enough to put on makeup. She was almost the color of the dress when they finally sat down to eat. And Sam glanced at her, as he carved, irritated that she hadn't made the effort to put on makeup. Did she want to look sick? Did she want them to feel sorry for her? Using a little blush certainly wouldn't have killed her.
But Alex had no idea how bad she looked, although she certainly felt it. She felt as though her whole body were dipped in lead, and she could scarcely move as she served their dinner.
Sam said the same grace they always did, and Annabelle told her mother all about the parade. And five minutes after they'd started to eat, Alex had to make a wild dash from the table. The work, and the heat in the kitchen, and the smells had just been too much for her. She couldn't do it. She did everything she could to stop throwing up, but she couldn't.
“For God's sake,” Sam came to snarl at her, desperate to keep up the appearance of normalcy for Annabelle, and himself, “can't you at least make the effort to sit there?”
“I can't,” she said, between retching and tears, “I can't stop.”
“Force yourself, for chrissake. She deserves a better Thanksgiving than this. We all do.”
“Stop it!” she screamed at him, sobbing openly, shouting so loud they both knew Annabelle could hear them, “stop doing this to me, you bastard! I can't help it!”
“The hell you can't, dragging around all day in your nightgown, wearing that goddamn white face like a ghost so it scares everyone. You don't even try anymore, except to go to work. But for us, you let it all hang out and puke all over yourself whenever it suits you.”
“Go fuck yourself,” she moaned, and then threw up all over again. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was emotional. Maybe she just couldn't take any more shit