Thanksgiving

By Amethyst Turner

Gathered around a long wood table

I wait and wait to see the angel

Who tells me what I'm thankful for

Why life isn't just a bore

She never appears

The devil just jeers

At all of the pain he has served me for

XXX

Of course, the child lived on. Richard found her passed out in the drawer, hit Libby across the face, and that was that.

She didn't stop trying. Libby founded a package of those little magnetic marbles she used to play with as a kid in the basement. They had been recalled after several children had swallowed them and had their organs torn apart by the magnets searching for their brethren inside of them. Amethyst seemed to enjoy playing with them, but showed no interest in eating them.

She added half a pint of bleach to her milk, but Amethyst didn't like the taste and abandoned it after one sip. Libby tried to force it down her throat, but the girl began to wretch violently.

She left Richard's broken beer bottles on the floor, hoping the child would accidentally slit her own wrists, but thought better of it. She would be blamed for that, wouldn't she? Neglect, abuse, manslaughter . . . was it still manslaughter if the victim was a baby?

Amethyst was growing. By Thanksgiving, she hardly fit into her old baby carrier. Richard would have to get a new one soon. Libby managed to fit the straps over her, ignoring the child's shrieks of pain as she did. "Shut up," she muttered, slamming the door and climbing into the driver's seat.

Libby couldn't remember the last time she'd driven, but it was her only option. Richard refused to come. He hated her family. To be honest, Libby would have rather stayed home as well. Still, sitting on the couch with Richard, eating frozen turkey sandwiches sounded like a dismal alternative to visiting her family.

Besides, everyone had been pestering her to see the baby. This was a perfect opportunity to get them to stop bugging her.

Amethyst had grown a little halo of blond curls and a face like Libby used to have. Richard was always commenting on how pretty she was. Libby was prepared for a whole lot of that at dinner.

The four hour drive passed in a whirlwind of scary thoughts and Aimee's crying. I could drive off the road right now . . . she's not strapped in right. She'd go through the windshield, and I might survive . . . maybe she'll choke at dinner.

The Virginia suburb in which Libby's parents lived was clean and crisp with warm fall energy. Red and orange leaves dotted the yards, blanketing the place with a uniform color scheme. Libby was hit by memories of childhood; playing beneath the shade of these same trees, peeking over these same bushes at the neighbors.

She glanced down at her watch. They were almost thirty minutes late. The sun was beginning to set. Libby realized that she would have to drive home in the dark.

Aimee had fallen asleep in the backseat. Libby sighed, heaving the ten month old out of her carseat and setting her down on the road beside the car to get out the baby bag. Maybe a car would drive by and that would be the end.

No cars drove by. Her daughter remained intact.

Libby let the baby crawl up the walk behind her. To hell with what her parents thought of it. The baby needed the exercise anyway, right? Aimee was on the skinny side, but kids needed to move around, Libby decided. Well, move around then.

She rang the doorbell, tucking the bag under her arm. Aimee giggled at her from the bottom step. She scooted off the walk and began to rip at the grass in the lawn. Libby rolled her eyes. "Stop that."

The baby continued to shred grass between her fingers, throwing the pile in the air when she was finished. Libby didn't have the energy to reprimand her further.

Her father opened the door, an expression of delight glued to his face. Libby's mind was elsewhere as he embraced her, babbling about how good it was to see her and how delightful her daughter was.

"Come inside!"

Aimee looked up, giggling. Specks of green flecked her gold hair.

I hate you.

XXX

Amethyst liked the mashed potatoes. She didn't have to chew them.

Mommy didn't seem to like them very much. She sat with her back straight on the chair next to Aimee's carrier, (She would have liked to sit on the floor, but didn't protest) not touching the food in front of her. Instead, she spooned bits of mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce into Aimee's mouth and sent hostile glares at her family members.

Aimee wondered if she had ever seen so many people in the same room. They were all different shapes and sizes, but all bigger than her. She amused herself by watching the bald man across from her's mustache jiggle above his lip as he talked. Every time he'd begin to chew, she had a giggling fit.

When she laughed, people around her went aww. Mommy gave her a disapproving glares. She came to find these amusing as well, and would break into renewed giggles each time her mother looked at her.

Aimee recognized a few of the people. Her grandmother sat on her other side, leaning across to talk to her mother every so often. Mama, Amethyst called her. Remembering that this was a word she could say, she reached her fist out of the carrier and batted at Mama's arm.

The woman turned to her, a hand over her heart. "Oh, Sheryl. Look at those eyes. I haven't seen eyes that blue since Frank Sinatra!"

Frank Sinatra. Aimee giggled. "Mama!"

Her grandmother and the woman beside her aww'ed loudly. Her grandfather chuckled. Papa, Aimee liked to call him. Grandpa was entirely too long of a word to fit in her mouth, no matter how many times Mama and Papa repeated it to her.

"Papa," she added, pointing to him. Their side of the table erupted with Awws and laughter.

Mama looked worried. She glanced at Mommy. "Honey, I'm Grandma. This is Mama." She patter Aimee's mother's arm. Mommy grimaced.

Amethyst frowned. "Mama!" She cried again, shaking her fist toward her grandmother.

"Grandma."

"Mama!" She felt her face crumpling. No, no, don't cry. She didn't have control over the shrieks coming from her. It felt like being in the drawer again, sucking in the stale air and screaming it out again, trying to breathe.

Mama never put her in the drawer, even when she was being bad.

Mommy looked angry. She shoved her chair back, grabbing the carrier. Aimee's stomach jumped as she was swung in an arc off the chair. Spit up- rocketed out of her mouth, covering the tablecloth in front of her. Mommy growled.

"That's all for you," she spat. "We're going home."

XXX

On December first, Libby woke up to find a letter on her nightstand.

She had stopped opening the mail months ago. Richard took it to himself to sift through for bills and the occasional coupon. She could already tell who the purple envelope was from, just by looking at it. After all, who else besides Vita Miller used purple envelopes?

Richard was still asleep beside her. Libby took the letter downstairs.

It wasn't, after all, a letter. It was an invitation. She tore it in half, ignoring the lump in her throat.

She wouldn't go, Libby decided. Yes, he was her father. Yes, this was her chance to say goodbye. But she wouldn't. Her father's funeral was the perfect setting for familial reconciliation -- the one thing Libby refused to be a part of.

No, they would have to struggle through it on their own.

It wasn't that Libby didn't love her father. She simply didn't think it was worth it. Plus, there was Amethyst. God knew how the girl would react. Would she understand? Would she giggle during the service? No. It wasn't worth it.

Nothing was worth it anymore.

XXX

I don't care at all, I'll drink some alcohol

It'll make me who I really wanna be

But I'm that kind of special person that drinks too much

Cause nobody understands me

Because everybody's got somebody, everybody but me

Why can't anybody just tell me that I'm somebody's?

-40oz On Repeat, FIDLAR