Chapter 4: Thanksgiving

On Thanksgiving there were fourteen of us at the long table, with the good china and my mother's camera on a tripod.

I had packed before dinner.

Two boxes and my backpack sat inside the front door, under the pile of coats, where nobody would trip on them.

I had also sent one text from the prepaid phone.

It said: Six o'clock. Front curb. And Mabel had written back: Engine's running.

My grandfather sat at the far end in his good cardigan, quiet as always.

He was my father's father, a retired machinist with a cane hooked on his chair, and he did not like fuss.

My aunts passed potatoes.

My father stood up with his glass before anyone had finished the turkey.

"I'd like to say a few words," he said.

Everyone put down their forks.

My mother lifted her camera to record it.

"Fourteen months ago, this family lost my sister," my father said. "Faye lost her mother. We took her in, and she has become a daughter to us."

My aunts sighed.

"Today I'm proud to tell her something," he said. "We have set aside an education fund in her name. A real one, a generous one, from all of us."

He smiled down the table at Faye.

"Nobody has to worry about your future, sweetheart. You've got a family behind you."

The table broke into applause.

Faye's face went pink and then white.

She looked at her plate, and then at me.

My grandfather didn't clap.

His hand had stopped halfway to his glass, and he was looking at my father with no expression at all.

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