If You Lived Here, You'd Be Home Now

  He dropped the bag of balls on the ground so he could take a cookie. “It’s okay that Noah’s eating one of these, right?”

  “I’d like to get annoyed at you for asking me that,” I said, “but, sadly, you’re kind of justified. This time, it’s safe.” He took a bite and then I added, “Of course they’re deadly for anyone who doesn’t have celiac disease.”

  He put his hand to his throat and pretended to choke. Then he stopped pretending and took another bite. “It’s good,” he said.

  “Want something to drink?”

  “I wouldn’t say no to a glass of milk.”

  “You’re such a Boy Scout.”

  “Would you prefer it if I asked for a shot of tequila?”

  “It would certainly make things more interesting.”

  My mom was already getting him the glass of milk. “Let’s keep it dull,” she said and handed him the glass.

  “Here’s to no one throwing up this morning,” Andrew said, raising the glass.

  The kids cracked up. Nothing like a barf reference to amuse the under-ten set.

  14.

  It was really hot on Thanksgiving, which annoyed me since it had been cool and autumn-like just the week before. Even though I had grown up in Southern California, I had watched enough holiday specials to know that Thanksgiving Day was supposed to be brisk, Christmas Day white with snow, and New Year’s Eve cold enough to freeze your ass off.

  For a big city, Los Angeles was awfully reliant on another coast’s holiday clichés.

  On the plus side, the hot weather made it easy to get dressed. A new tank top, a pair of jeans (also new), a couple of Havaianas flip-flops (which Melanie had given me on my last birthday), and I was done. I let Noah choose his own clothes. He ended up with shorts that were too small and a T-shirt stained by some previous painting project, but since we were staying home, I didn’t care.

  The house smelled good. My mother always started the turkey early. Pretty much every year she told us the story of the very first time she had tried to cook Thanksgiving dinner herself and how the turkey slices had come off the bone dark pink and inedible. So now she overcompensated by starting the turkey absurdly early and roasting it until there wasn’t a bit of moisture left in the whole thing.

  She and Melanie were both busily cooking when I entered the kitchen, Mom stirring something on the stove, Melanie chopping something at the table. I counted the sweet potatoes lying on the counter. “Fifteen?” I said. “For six of us?”

  “I wanted to make sure we had leftovers,” Mom said. “And I don’t know how big an eater Andrew is.”

  “I doubt he can eat ten sweet potatoes at one sitting, no matter how big an eater he is.”

  “They’ll be mashed.”

  “Oh, well, that changes everything.” I poured myself a cup of coffee. The great thing about living at home with my folks was that coffee was always already made by the time I got up. I moved over to the table where Melanie was chopping furiously at something pale. “Onions?” I guessed, because her eyes were all red and swollen.

  She shook her head. “Celery.”

  “Oh. Why are you crying then?”

  “I’m not.”

  I looked questioningly over at my mother, who explained carefully, “Nicole and Cameron called from Hawaii to say hi a little while ago.”

  “Oh. Are they having a good time?”

  “Of course they’re having a good time,” Melanie said vehemently. “How could they not be having fun staying at a resort in Hawaii with a beautiful, famous celebrity and their adoring father who gives them anything they want? Why wouldn’t they prefer being there to being here, in the same old boring place with the same old boring mother?”

  “I’m sure they miss you,” I said. “But since they had to go, you don’t want them to be totally miserable, do you?”

  “No, of course not.” She chopped savagely at a piece of celery that had never done her any harm. “But I hate it. I hate being away from them on a holiday. I hate that they’re with some other woman who doesn’t care about them at all. And I hate that Gabriel gets to have fun with them after all he did to break up our family. I hate it all.”

  “And a Happy Thanksgiving to you too,” I said brightly.

  My mother gave me a reproving look. Melanie didn’t care, though. She was too busy attacking the Celery Stalk of Evil.

  I asked Noah for his help in getting the dining room ready. He drew a picture to put in the middle of the table. (I knew it was a turkey because he told me so; otherwise I might have guessed something altogether different, like an alien, or a football with spines.) Then he made place cards, writing the names in big, uneven print on small pieces of paper.

  “Where should I put Coach Andrew?” he asked as he sorted through his slips of paper.

  “I don’t know. Do you want to sit next to him?”

  “I don’t care. But okay.” He put himself next to Andrew. “And Grandma goes at this end and Grandpa at the other end. You want to be across from me or from Andrew?”

  “You decide.”

  “I’ll put him across from Melanie.”

  “Actually,” I said, “put him across from me. Just in case Mel gets sad and has to get up from the table.” That seemed like a real possibility.

  Noah trotted around the table, carefully folding the little pieces of paper so they’d stand up on the plates. “It’s good Coach Andrew’s coming,” he said. “Otherwise, there’d be no dads.”

  “Coach Andrew isn’t a dad.”

  “Well, sort of.”

  “No, he’s not. But Grandpa is.”

  “Forget it,” he said. “You don’t understand anything.” He tossed the last name card on a plate and stomped out of the room, apparently and inexplicably annoyed with me.

  I went back into the kitchen. “He’s driving me crazy,” I announced to no one in particular.

  “What’s wrong?” My mother looked up from basting the turkey.

  “Nothing. I’m just tired of Noah’s always getting mad at me for no reason.”

  She raised her eyebrows and bent back over the turkey with a little snicker.

  “What’s so funny?” I said.

  “Nothing,” she said airily. “Nothing at all.”

  I left it at that, but I felt even more annoyed than I had before.

  The doorbell rang at exactly 4 p.m. I called out “I’ve got it” and opened the door to Coach Andrew, who held out a bunch of flowers. “For the ladies of the house,” he said.

  “Oh, shit,” I said. “Oops, sorry. I mean, thanks for the flowers. But someone should have told you we don’t dress up for Thanksgiving here.”

  “Yes, I see that,” he said with a meaningful glance at my jeans and tank top. He was wearing a jacket and tie and nice black leather shoes. No baseball cap for once. He looked weird without it, almost unrecognizable. His hair was darker than I had realized—as dark as his eyes.

  “Not that you don’t look nice,” I said. “But maybe a little hot?” It was over eighty degrees out. Sweat was plastering down the hair at his temples.

  “Does this mean I can take off the jacket and tie?”

  “You can and you should.” I let him in and he entered the house, shrugging off the jacket and loosening the tie so fast you’d think they were suffocating him. “Just throw them on the sofa.”

  He tossed aside the extra clothing then went to work on the top button of his shirt. Once he got that open, he started in on his cuffs, undoing the buttons and rolling the sleeves up over his wrists.

  “The pants are staying on, right?” I said, leaning against the sofa back. I was enjoying the striptease. “I mean, we’re casual, but we’re not that casual.”

  “I’m done.” With his clothing all deconstructed like that, he looked like a movie nerd suddenly turned hunky and athletic after a workout montage and a few drinks. To add to the effect, he even ran his fingers through his hair so it looked a little thicker and messier. “Okay,” he said with what appea
red to be a genuine sigh of relief. “I feel much better. Part of the reason I became a coach is so I’d never have to wear a jacket and tie to work.”

  “Is Thanksgiving usually dressy at your home?” I asked, leading him back toward the kitchen.

  He nodded. “My grandparents are formal people and they kind of set the tone. Gotten used to your new hair yet?” He brushed his hand across the top of my head.

  “Hey!” I said, ducking a little.

  “Sorry.” He quickly retracted his hand. “It’s just so tempting. But I should have asked for permission first.”

  “It’s okay. It’s just that people keep doing that to me. I’m starting to feel like a dog.”

  “Speaking of which, where is the First Lady of the United States?”

  “Right there.” We had reached the entrance to the kitchen, and I pointed to where Eleanor Roosevelt sat, intently watching Melanie put the finishing touches to a pie like she could will her into tossing her something to eat.

  “What kind of guard dog is she, anyway? Letting a stranger come waltzing in without a bark? Come here, girl!” She looked up at the sound of Andrew’s voice and broke her pose, dashing over to greet him. As he petted her, she snuffled her nose right into the crotch of his pants. “Whoa!” he said, backing up.

  I hauled her back by her collar with my free hand. “For god’s sake, Eleanor Roosevelt, at least buy him a drink first. Look, Mom—Andrew brought flowers.” I held them out to her.

  “Lovely,” she said with a quick glance. “Thank you, Andrew.” She went back to mashing sweet potatoes. “Can you put them in a vase for me, Rickie?”

  “Where do you keep the vases?”

  “You really don’t know? You’ve only lived in this house your whole life.” Spending the whole day in a hot kitchen never improved my mother’s temper. She gave a curt nod across the room. “That cabinet over there.”

  I went over and opened the cabinet. The vases were on the top shelf. “I can’t reach them.” I was casting around for a stool when Andrew came up next to me.

  “Here,” he said. “How’s this one?” He reached up and plucked out a dark green glass vase, his arm brushing against mine.

  “That’s good,” I said, shrinking back a bit, embarrassed.

  He didn’t seem to notice, just took the vase over to the sink, filled it with water, then held out his hand for the flowers. I gave them to him. He undid the paper they were wrapped in and plunked them into the water. “Ideally you’d put a pinch of sugar in the water and trim the stems, but you can do that later. This will hold them for now.” He played with the flowers a bit, tilting his head to see how they looked as he gently angled them this way and that.

  “Look at you,” I said. “For a macho coach, you’re awfully good at this.”

  “Thank you,” he said calmly. “I like arranging flowers. Always have.” His strong, slender fingers moved smoothly among the stems. I found myself staring at them, mesmerized. “Do we have teams yet?” he asked with a glance up.

  “Teams?”

  “For the football game.”

  “Oh. We haven’t really thought about it.” Probably because no one in the house was actually planning to play football.

  “How about kids against adults?”

  “Slightly unfair,” I said. “Seeing as how Noah’s the only kid here.”

  “He is?” Andrew glanced over at Melanie. “I thought—”

  I cut him off. “Nicole and Cameron went to Hawaii with their dad.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  “So, anyway, about the football thing…”

  “The football thing?” he repeated. “That doesn’t inspire confidence.”

  “It’s not like you’re dressed for it,” I said defensively.

  “I was prepared to dirty my clothing in the name of sportsmanship.”

  “How many people do you need to play?”

  “How many you got?”

  “Well, there’s Noah.”

  “And?”

  “No ‘and,’ ” I said. “There’s just Noah.”

  “What about you?”

  “I don’t know how to play.”

  “I’ll teach you.”

  “You can’t play with uneven numbers.”

  “Sure, you can.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s against the rules.”

  He folded his arms. “Who’s the PE coach here?”

  “Man, it didn’t take you long to start throwing your authority around, did it?”

  My mother was watching us from over by the sink. She wasn’t saying anything, but she was watching us.

  “So should we give it a try?” Andrew said.

  “I don’t know if we even have time before dinner—”

  He turned to my mother. “Mrs. Allen, does Rickie have your permission to come out and play for a little while?”

  Mom laughed. “Please get her out into the fresh air. You’d think she was a vampire, the way she avoids the sunlight.”

  “That is so not true!” I protested. “I take Eleanor Roosevelt to the park all the time.”

  “Once in the last month, if I remember correctly.”

  “Well, you don’t, because it was more than that.”

  “If you say so.” She didn’t sound convinced.

  “You’re just trying to delay this,” Andrew said to me. “Afraid you’ll be bad at it?”

  “I just don’t want to humiliate you. I mean, if I go out there to play football for the first time, and I totally wail on your butt—”

  “I’m terrified,” Andrew said dryly. “Come on, get moving. Where’s Noah?”

  “Wait,” I said. “I’ll go out with you and Noah and I’ll play whatever pathetic little game you can play with three people and a football. But before I do…”

  “Yes?”

  “I need a glass of wine.”

  “Fine. Just drink it fast—the sun’s going down.”

  I opened a bottle—Dad already had a few out in preparation for dinner—and poured us both a glass. “How about one for the chef?” my mother asked. She was now working on the salad, tearing lettuce leaves into small pieces. I handed her the glass I had poured for myself, and she immediately took a big, almost desperate gulp. “God, I needed that.” She set the glass down. “Andrew, would you mind helping me get the turkey out of the oven before you go out? It’s as big as Rickie, and I’m scared to lift it by myself.”

  “Of course.” He followed her to the stove. She opened the oven door and he peered in then gave a low whistle. “Beautiful.”

  She handed him the oven mitts. “I just hope it’s done.”

  “It’s been cooking for seven hours,” I said. I had poured myself a new glass of wine and was watching them over its edge. “It’s done. And done. And done.”

  “I’m always worried about undercooking it,” she said. “The first time I ever cooked a turkey, I didn’t leave myself enough time—”

  “I know,” I said. “You tell us this story every single year.”

  “I was telling him. I haven’t told you my turkey story before, have I, Andrew?”

  “No, and I’d love to hear it.” He squatted down and tugged on the oven rack with his mitted hands.

  “Let me tell the story,” I said. “It’ll save us all a lot of time. Mom undercooked the turkey and no one could eat it, so now she always overcooks it. End of story.”

  “You can be a real jerk sometimes, Rickie,” my mother said.

  “What? That’s the whole story, isn’t it?”

  Andrew was still in a crouch. “Um,” he said uncomfortably. “So where should I put this?”

  “Right on top of the stove,” Mom said. “Thank you.”

  He stood up carefully and set the pan down. The turkey’s skin was too dark and all shriveled, but Andrew said again how great it looked. “You want me to carve it?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” Mom said. “It needs to rest awhile.”

  “So we still have time to go out and play a g
ame?”

  “At least half an hour.”

  I drained the rest of my wine. “Guess I’m ready,” I said. “Or will be once the alcohol hits.”

  “Do you always need to get drunk before engaging in any physical activity?” Andrew asked. “I’m not judging, I’m just curious.”

  “Before some physical activities,” I said and then realized how much that sounded like innuendo. But it was unintentional. I think.

  “Huh,” he said. “Just so you know, I was lying when I said I wasn’t judging.” He touched my arm. “Come on, let’s go.” We left my mother poking a meat thermometer repeatedly into the turkey and staring at the dial while muttering to herself.

  15.

  Noah and I were a team. We weren’t very good at passing or catching, so Andrew could easily have stolen the ball from us any time he wanted to, but he let us make a touchdown or two. He made more, though, even with no one to pass to. Noah would frequently try to tackle him. Once Andrew’s foot slipped just as Noah grabbed at him, and they both fell down on the grass. Neither was hurt, but Andrew’s nice white shirt got covered with dirt and grass stains, while Noah’s tee went from Slightly Paint Stained to Very Grass Stained.

  The sun was setting, and the heat of the afternoon gave way quickly to a comfortably cool temperature, which was on the verge of turning too cold for someone wearing a tank top, when Melanie came to the back door and shouted for us to come in for dinner.

  “Light’s fading anyway,” Andrew said. As we all turned back toward the house, he tossed the ball to Noah and managed to land it right in Noah’s curved arms.

  “What was the final score?” Noah asked, hugging the filthy ball to his chest.

  Andrew tilted his head thoughtfully. “Let me think. Three… plus seven… and then there was the safety… and of course that last touchdown… I’m pretty sure it was zero to zero.”

  “We suck,” Noah said cheerfully as we all fell into step, side by side.

  “Speak for yourself,” I said. “I rule at this.”

  “Really?” Andrew nudged my shoulder with his. “So you meant to do all that ball dropping?”

  “Didn’t want to embarrass you amateurs by looking too good.”