Chapter 9: One Cup of Tea

My father came home from the hospital on a Tuesday and invited the whole Lasker family to Thanksgiving.

"It's a holiday," he said, when I stared at him. "Nobody eats alone because of a pill mix-up."

That was what Marcy had told him.

She had sat by his bed with wet eyes.

She said a friend at a pharmacy had put the wrong tin in her hands.

He had patted her head, and he had believed her.

I didn't argue.

I told Elias, and Elias said, "Let them come."

So on Thursday the dining room smelled of turkey and sage, and every seat was taken.

Dad sat at the head with a blanket over his knees.

Bryson's mother sat across from me in her pearls, and Bryson's father beside her, saying nothing.

Bryson had the chair opposite Elias, and they hadn't said a word to each other.

Marcy came last.

She came through the door with a pie in one hand and a steel thermos in the other.

"I made ginger tea," she said brightly. "For your stomach, Arthur. The doctor says warm drinks are good for you."

My father's face lit up.

"You're a saint, honey."

My skin went cold.

It was the same thermos.

Silver, with a green lid, the one she had carried everywhere for a year.

She set it down at the center of the table and unscrewed the cap.

The smell came up, ginger, and underneath it something bitter.

I knew that smell.

"Let me pour," Marcy said, and picked up the first cup.

"Wait," I said.

Everyone looked at me.

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