After dinner I thought about helping clear the table, but Sue and Grace beat me to it.
Peter’s mother handed out pens and sheets of paper. “I don’t know if the boys told you,” she said to me and Sue, “but we have this tradition of writing down what we’re thankful for, and then we put it in that vase.” She pointed to a shiny blue vase. “Then we go around the table and everyone takes one out and reads it, and everyone guesses who wrote what. It’s just this silly tradition. .” As she walked away, I noticed she was kind of waddling.
Sue looked thoughtfully at her paper. Close up she had bad skin, with makeup caked over the blemishes. Sometimes the thing that solved the problem was the bigger problem.
“I’m thankful I have this glass of alcohol,” I whispered to Sue. She giggled.
“I’m thankful for having locked in a low interest rate,” I said loud enough for Darren to hear. He snorted. I was making fun of this family tradition. I had never realized how jokes were always a little mean. That was why these people never joked around. My mother and I and Raj were always laughing, when we weren’t screaming at each other.
“I am thankful I have a cozy apartment to come home to every night.”
“Peter!” I yelled. No one else said anything. I guess we were not supposed to literally shout.
Peter nodded, “Yup.”
Sue dug one out. “I am thankful for having a mother who taught us the value of sacrifice.”
No one said anything. Finally Sandy said, “Marcie.” Marcie nodded. So Marcie was Peter’s mother’s sister. They didn’t really look alike. Marcie was as skinny as a jackrabbit, with a dyke haircut and a warm smile. Sandy’s face was as long as Sunday, and her body was wide and heavy, like mine would be if I ever had kids and got to sixty.
“I am thankful to Jesus,” some number or chapter of the Bible I didn’t really hear, “and have been thinking and praying on the idea of judgment and hoping the Lord will guide me to a state of mind where I will not cast judgment on anyone.” I pointed to Rick. “That was you, huh?” He nodded. I told myself I should quit guessing and give other people a chance.
I wished I could stop talking. I couldn’t stop talking. I had nothing to say.
“I am thankful for not living in poverty, being in pain, or having too little or too much, but most of the time feeling all right, and even good, full of good food and wine, and good company like tonight.” There was a general mmm and aw.
“A writer wrote that,” Darren said, and everyone nodded. “Maya, was that you?”
I nodded. When in doubt, just ramble a little, Kerouac style.
Peter’s mother gave me an approving nod. “Very nice,” she said.
It was Peter’s turn. “I am thankful for friends, new and old,” he read. He refilled his wine glass. He was obviously wasted.
Grace guessed, “Sue?”
Sue nodded. Friends new and old. Hallmark bullshit.
It was my turn. I took one out. “I am thankful to the Lord for keeping me safe and well during my travels.” Grace had just come back from Italy.
I had completely lost interest. I mentally replayed how impressed everyone had been with what I wrote.
“After dinner the men sat on the living room floor and sang songs while the women cleaned up the kitchen,” I told my therapist a week later, and then buried my head into a pillow.
“Where were you?”
“I lingered in the kitchen, but every time I grabbed a pot and took it to the counter, there was no space for it, so Sandy had to move this huge, heavy blender, like, just so I could put down the mashed potatoes. I was making things more difficult for her. I started doing the dishes, but she said, ‘Don’t worry about it. There’s a dishwasher.’ Sue was loading the dishwasher and made me feel dumb for not thinking of it. I am not good that way. I don’t know how she seamlessly blends in and knows where everything goes. Some people can just get into the rhythm of things, but I never know how. But then I feel bad that I’m not helping, like I’m being rude. The truth is I don’t really want to help. I just don’t want to look like an asshole, and it’s not fair, because men aren’t expected to do this stuff, like there’s this rule if you have a vagina you are programmed to wash dishes or sweep the floor or whatever. Also, you know when people say, ‘It’s okay, I’ll do it.’ Are you supposed to do it anyway or take their word for it? Because I always take their word for it. Some people really don’t want you to be all up in their shit, so how are you supposed to know?”
“Were you this anxious the whole time?”
“No. Once I just gave up on trying to help, I went and sat on the living room floor and listened to music, and everyone was so happy. It was weird. I didn’t know people did stuff like that in real life. It made me so uncomfortable.” I talked with my hand over my face.
“What about it was uncomfortable?”
“I am jealous he grew up in this warm, loving environment where people cared about things, like writing, and people just liked each other. Whenever my family got together for the holidays, all the kids just sat in front of the TV while our parents talked about money, houses, the prices of this or that, real estate. It was awful. No one in my family even knows I can write, but I write a few lines on a piece of paper and Peter’s family is impressed.”
“Every family has their problems. They were probably on their best behavior for the holidays,” she said.
“No, I mean, maybe, but at least they could fake that well. I felt it. It was nice; they actually listened to each other. At first it made me anxious and crazy, but once I got drunk, it was really nice.”
“What about a family being warm and polite makes you anxious when you’re sober?”
“I always have this feeling I’m going to fuck it up somehow. Like I’m walking on eggshells, and then it’s this impulse control thing. I keep thinking, What if I just said ‘Fuck’ really loud? What would happen?”
The morning after Thanksgiving, I woke up shivering. I had to pee. I lay there until I was in physical pain. I poked Peter in the face.
“Whhhat?” he yawned, after the third or fourth poke.
“I’m freezing.”
“So?”
“Fix it,” I said.
“Didn’t you bring a sweater or something?” He rolled over to face the wall. He was always rolling over and facing the wall. It was no use. There was no way I could fall asleep again. The only way I had fallen asleep in the first place was all the Xanax and the wine. Then the nausea hit. It was my second day of being clean. I made myself get out from under the covers and find the Suboxone in my purse. I put it under my tongue and then took two Xanaxes. Suboxone dissolving underneath the tongue is unpleasant. It made me gag. I was covered in sweat and shivering. I went back to bed till the Xanax kicked in. I took a shit in the bathroom. Popped two more Xanaxes. You can’t be too frugal with the Xanax the first few days. Soon the Suboxone would kick in and give me a nice buzz and some energy. I couldn’t imagine doing this without any meds. I would be naked in the corner, bawling and vomiting, my shit-covered drawers on the floor, and no one on Earth would sit in that room without praying I would fall asleep for a while. Peter would leave me to hang out with his family or to work or whatever. He wouldn’t take a wet rag and wipe my face. He wouldn’t try to feed me a spoonful of broth. He would tell me to take a shower. He would lay out clean clothes. He would gasp with relief as soon as he walked out the door and could think whatever he wanted. Bad things. And because marriage is really a war, he would have new weapons to use against me: “Oh, the junkie says I’m an alcoholic.” I found my phone and put my smokes in my coat. After I took a piss, I went to the fridge. I had already decided I wasn’t going to eat today, but I wanted to look at the food like a weirdo.