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Whitney gasped, horrified. “You cannot eat dessert first. If you eat sugar first it will make you eat more and that is unhealthy.”
Each head at the table turned toward the precocious five-year-old who knew way too much for her own good and who seriously needed to learn how to use contractions. Whitney didn’t seem bothered to be the center of attention. On the other hand, Jonah cleared his throat and wrapped his arm around his daughter. “Honey, it’s okay for one day.”
Um. In this family it was pretty much okay every day.
“But Father,” she replied, “what about the obesity epidemic?”
Eliza smoothed her daughter’s hair. “It is wise of you to be mindful of such things. You do not have to eat dessert first, or at all, if that is what you choose.” Her alto voice was mesmerizing almost to the point that I didn’t want to eat pie first. But that thought quickly left my brain. I noticed Eliza also didn’t use contractions. Weird. I also noticed Jonah give his ex a pointed look. It wasn’t unkind, but it was apparent he was displeased.
In response, Eliza took a deep breath and gave him a nod. “Whitney, perhaps it would be good to try a different approach today. I did bring your favorite honey roasted peaches and Greek yogurt.”
That was right. I remembered Grandma mentioning that Eliza was health conscious and had asked if Grandma would be offended if she brought her own food. Grandma thought it was odd but didn’t see the harm in it. I wasn’t so sure it was harmless, judging by Jonah’s reaction and the fact that I couldn’t be friends with someone who didn’t like pie. Not that I thought Eliza and I would become bosom buddies. After all, she’d married the love of my life. And rumor had it she was staying with Jonah. Yeah, that bothered me even though I had no business being jealous. The exes were free to shack up as much as they wanted and do whatever they pleased.
“Would it really be all right to eat that first?” Whitney asked her mother, too concerned for such a little girl.
“I believe for today it will be,” Eliza responded as if she were pleased with herself for making an exception.
I looked between Dani and Kinsley who were sitting on either side of me to see if they thought this was as weird as I did. Their vacant stares said we were all on the same page.
Grandma turned the attention back to her. Her uneasy smile said she too wasn’t sure what to make of it all, but she soldiered on. “Before pie, though, Ariana will perform her annual Thanksgiving blessing song.” She turned toward me. “Take it away, honey.”
Before I could reluctantly stand—I was a little embarrassed in present company to perform the song I wrote every year for this occasion—Whitney had another question. “What is a blessing song?” she asked Jonah.
“It’s the best part of Thanksgiving,” he informed her before throwing me a wink.
“I thought the best part was when we read George Washington’s proclamation about Thanksgiving Day and then eat butternut squash stuffed with rice,” Whitney responded with no guile.
Jonah’s ears turned red. “Well—”
“Whitney,” Eliza interrupted, “each family has their own traditions. It is important that you appreciate people’s differences and perhaps incorporate them into your life.” Eliza gave me a meaningful look. Almost as if she was giving me permission into her daughter’s life. Did she know Jonah’s intent? If so, Jonah must not have told her how messed up I was or how reluctant I was to be in any sort of relationship where I was afraid it would end bitterly. That included one with her daughter. Don’t get me wrong, I liked Whitney. In some ways I even understood her. She used her intelligence to hide her fear and I used any means possible to hide mine. The question was, what was Whitney afraid of? Part of me ached to know so I could ease it.
I stood and headed for the bench near the front door where I had left my ukulele. Even with my back turned, I could feel every eye in the room on me. I had a feeling those who knew what I did every year were anxious to see how I incorporated each person at the table into my song. Like I said, this was going down as probably the most cringeworthy holiday in my existence. And that was saying a lot since one of my stepfathers used to eat Thanksgiving dinner in his boxer shorts. He figured why unbutton your pants when you could not wear them at all. I was still disturbed by it.
When I returned to the table, I swallowed hard and refused to look at anyone for fear of losing my nerve. Usually I loved this part—I was the one who had started the tradition. Dani was right, I made up several holiday traditions in hopes of recapturing what I wanted so badly growing up—innocence, peace, and happiness.
