Chapter 24: Thanksgiving on Linden Street

On Thanksgiving morning, there was snow on Linden Street for the first time that year.

I stood in the front hall at nine o'clock, in my socks, with a dish towel over my shoulder.

My roommate stood behind me with her suitcase and her stuffed rabbit, looking at the staircase.

"Your house has a banister," she said. "A real one. I thought you were exaggerating."

"I didn't exaggerate anything."

"I'll never say that again."

She had no one to go home to in Ohio that week, because her mother was working a double.

So I had asked her to come, and Esther had said, "Of course. We'll put her next to the pie."

The kitchen smelled like sage and butter.

Gary stood at the stove in an apron that said KISS THE COOK, which Brett had bought him as a joke and he had worn ever since.

He was basting a turkey.

He read the back of the can of cranberry sauce aloud, to nobody, and then he read the back of the gravy packet.

"No peanuts," he told me. "I checked twice."

"Thank you, Uncle Gary."

"Three times, actually."

Kayla came through the back door at ten with her hair in a net and flour on her sleeves.

She had a box of rolls from the bakery under one arm.

"They let me bring the broken ones," she said. "They taste the same."

She set them on the counter and kissed Esther on the cheek.

Esther patted her hand.

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