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I put my hand to my throat to massage it a little.
Jack nodded, all sympathy. “You have to build up an immunity.”
What were we doing? Why was he even here? Were we hanging out like friends? Who needed friends when they had Kennedy Monroe?
Next, Jack offered me Doghouse’s half-drunk water glass with one hand, then he took a forkful of something that did not resemble food off Doghouse’s abandoned plate. “You should chase that with some yam and marshmallow salad.”
I shook my head. That was insult to injury. Then, making words at last, I said, “You should go back to your seat.”
But Jack just frowned at me. “This is my seat now.”
That’s when Doc stood up at the far end and clinked his moonshine jar with his fork until we all gave him our attention.
“Please join hands,” Doc said, all formal.
Jack took my hand—and the warm, smooth feel of his skin against mine sent tingles through my body.
Or maybe that was just toxins from the moonshine.
“On this beautiful evening,” Doc said, “here with so many friends, I offer thanks to whatever gods and goddesses we all pray to: for our blessings, for our big, beautiful, imperfect country, and even for our hardships. May we look after each other, tolerate each other, and forgive each other. Amen.”
Then Doc looked at Connie and said, “Does our hostess want to add anything?”
Connie stood up and raised her glass. “You all know I’ve been sick this year. I’d never have chosen to get sick, of course. But I’ve been thinking a lot about the upsides of it. How it forces you to slow down. How it makes you take stock of your life. How it lets you guilt-trip your family into spending time together. I’m grateful my lymph system was clear. I’m grateful they got clean margins. I’m grateful to be on the mend. And: More than anything, I’m grateful to have learned how to be grateful.” Then she nodded. “Thanks for coming tonight. Be careful of the moonshine. Amen.”
Folks took their hands back and turned to their plates.
Then Doc added, “If you’ve joined us before, you know the missus always likes us to go around the table and say something we’re thankful for—large or small. Starting tonight with”—he pointed—“our son, Jack.”
Jack didn’t miss a beat. He lifted the fork he was still holding as if making a toast and said, “I’m thankful for this yam and marshmallow salad.”
I thought I’d be next, but the man on Jack’s other side took the baton. “I’m thankful that the rain forecast was wrong.”
The lady next to him went then. “I’m thankful for my new grandbaby.”
The next guy was thankful for Doc Stapleton’s moonshine.
And we went on down the line. Amadi was thankful for his wife and kids. Doc Stapleton was thankful for Connie Stapleton, and Connie was thankful for him right back. Glenn was thankful to have found an empty seat next to Kennedy Monroe, Kennedy Monroe was thankful to have reached twenty-four million followers on Instagram, and Doghouse and Kelly were nowhere to be seen—and I’ll bet they were both very thankful for that.
I always feel a little shy in situations like these. Every time I heard a new answer, I changed mine in my head.
At my turn, I just… hesitated.
Everybody watched me, and waited, while I tried to decide what to say.
Finally, Connie leaned forward. “Can’t you think of something you’re thankful for, Hannah?”
I met her eyes. “I can think of too much.”
The whole table laughed in relief at that.
“Just do them all, sweetheart,” Connie said.
So I did. I blame the moonshine. “I’m thankful to be here,” I said. “I’m thankful for the tire swing. I’m thankful for the Brazos River. I’m thankful for that turkey bow tie Doc’s wearing. I’m thankful for the time I’ve spent in this garden. I’m thankful for the honeybees. For the Stapleton record collection. For Clipper. I’m thankful for all the bougainvillea everywhere. I’m thankful to have seen what a real, loving family actually looks like. And I think…” I suddenly realized my voice was trembling a bit. I tried to cover by making it louder. “I think just because you can’t keep something doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it. Nothing lasts forever. What matters is what we take with us. I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to escape. I’ve spent too much time on the run from hard things. But now I wonder if escape is overrated. I think, now, I’m going to try thinking about what I can carry forward. What I can hold onto. Not just only always what I have to leave behind.”
The table was quiet for a few seconds after I stopped talking, and I felt a little squeeze of panic that maybe I had overshot “thoughtful” and landed, instead, on “crazytown.”
But just as I started to give up on myself, the whole table broke into applause.
