Chapter 7 - Thanksgiving
The pantry incident happened ten months before the stairs.
That made it the oldest one I could name.
Thanksgiving at our house.
Twenty-three people.
Margaret had been angry because I seated her beside Jason's aunt instead of beside Jason.
That was the level of conflict.
Seating.
She followed me into the pantry.
“You've been keeping him busy all day.”
“He's hosting.”
“He hasn't sat with me for ten minutes.”
“Margaret, I’m trying to get dinner out.”
“You always do this.”
I stepped toward the door.
She moved in front of it.
I said:
“Please move.”
She didn't.
I tried to go around.
She shoved past me.
My side hit the counter.
Hard.
I swore.
Margaret looked back.
“Then don't stand in my way.”
At the time, I told myself she was rude and physically careless.
I told Jason after everyone left.
He had been loading the dishwasher.
He stopped.
“She pushed you?”
I said:
“She bulldozed me.”
He looked toward the hallway.
“Did anyone see?”
That should have bothered me.
It didn't.
“No.”
He asked:
“Are you hurt?”
“Probably bruised.”
Then he said:
“Please don't make this a thing tonight.”
I remember staring at him.
“She left.”
“I know.”
He came close.
“She had a terrible Thanksgiving.”
I laughed.
“She had a bad seat.”
“She felt excluded.”
“What does that have to do with my ribs?”
He hugged me.
I let him.
The next morning, he brought coffee to bed.
I thought that meant he'd chosen me.
According to Margaret, he called her later.
Jason confirmed it when he came to Lauren's the following day.
We met in the backyard this time.
No porch.
No chance Margaret could appear at the chain.
“What did you promise?”
Jason sat on the edge of a patio chair.
“I told her I'd talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Making more room for her.”
I laughed.
“Physical room?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Family stuff.”
“Say actual words.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“I told her I'd make sure she didn't feel pushed out.”
“By me.”
“Yes.”
“And what did you tell her about the pantry?”
“That it couldn't happen again.”
I stared.
“So you knew then.”
“Yes.”
“You knew she had used her body against mine because she was angry.”
“Yes.”
“And you made two promises.”
He looked down.
“To her: I'd make sure you stop excluding her.”
“Yes.”
“To me: almost nothing.”
He shut his eyes.
“Yes.”
Something inside me went quiet.
“Did she shove you again after seventeen?”
Jason looked up.
“No.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“Then why were you so afraid?”
He thought.
“Because Dad had died.”
I waited.
“She got worse after.”
“Emotionally?”
“Yes.”
“Physically?”
“Not with me.”
He looked ashamed.
“I thought because she wasn't doing that, she was okay.”
That was a child's metric.
Not bleeding meant safe.
Not being pushed meant calm.
Jason continued.
“After Thanksgiving, I told myself it was a one-time thing.”
“July?”
“I couldn't tell myself that.”
“So what did you tell yourself?”
“That if I got her out soon, we wouldn't have to blow everything up.”
“But you didn't get her out.”
“No.”
“You gave her another promise.”
“Yes.”
“Then I went down the stairs.”
He looked at my brace.
His eyes filled.
I kept going.
“When you saw me at the bottom, did you know she pushed me?”
Jason's face changed.
“I knew there was a good chance.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
He stood.
“Emily.”
“Did you know?”
“I heard her yell.”
I stopped.
“What?”
He looked away.
“I was in the kitchen.”
“You heard the argument.”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
“I heard the casserole break.”
“Did you hear her say anything?”
His jaw tightened.
I remembered Margaret's voice above me.
Maybe now you'll stop turning my son against me.
“You heard her.”
“Yes.”
“And then you ran over.”
“Yes.”
“So when you reached the stairs and told me to say I slipped…”
Jason stared at the grass.
He had not been confused.
He had not been choosing between two versions.
He had recognized the pattern before he even saw my face.
I asked:
“Were you protecting her?”
Jason's voice broke.
“Yes.”
Then:
“And myself.”
That second answer mattered more.
“What does that mean?”
He sat again.
“If you said she pushed you, then everyone would ask what happened before.”
“Thanksgiving.”
“Yes.”
“July.”
“Yes.”
“And what you did.”
He nodded.
There was no mystery left in his first sentence at the stairs.
Say you slipped.
May you like
It hadn't been weakness under pressure.
It had been practice.
