H: How’s it going?
G: Brayden ate the last piece of pie, Micha forced us to watch three musicals, and Michaela has already typed up her Christmas list. #sendhelp
My lips twitch in a smile, more than a little jealous of the silly chaos in her home, but it almost feels strange to do that here—smile. I’ve been trapped in this oppressively quiet house all day with nothing but my parents, a great aunt and uncle, and some distant cousin who I’m pretty sure is old enough to have lived through Prohibition.
I can probably count on one hand the amount of words I’ve said after walking through the door. Dinner is over now. The house is tastefully decorated to reflect the season, warm-colored flowers placed in the foyer, a centerpiece on the table so enormous that it was almost impossible to see who sat opposite me, even if there were conversation. It all feels empty and pointlessly festive. The house is too big for the three of us and we seem to just roll around like rubber balls, every now and then bouncing off one another before rolling in different directions.
H: I wish I could. Two more days, right?
G: GTG. We’re leaving in a minute to go to the shelter downtown.
H: Of course you are.
G: Hey! I’m not being a goody-two shoes. It’s a family tradition.
H: I know you’re not. You’re just being you, and I like you.
More than like, my mind supplies.
G: Later?
H: Later.
I slide my phone into my pocket and glance down the hall. My father’s probably locked up in his office by now. My mom is likely carefully planning all the ways she’s going to micromanage the staff into the ground for the post-Thanksgiving, crack-of-dawn Christmas decoration prep tomorrow. My aunt and uncle already took the ancient cousin away, so it’s just me now, enveloped in the empty silence of my bedroom.
I’m struck by the lack of close family—of Hollis, of laughter and questions and life.
An idea pops into my head. I head into the kitchen where Renata and another woman are cleaning up from dinner. I feel awkward as I enter, like an intruder, suddenly struck with the strange instinct to knock, or apologize, or start washing pans.
A wide assortment of uneaten desserts sit on the counter, and I clear my throat, asking, “Can I have this?”
Renata turns to me with an easy smile. “Whatever you want, sweetie.”
I duck my head, feeling like I’m eight years old, all over again. “Thanks, Nata.” I pick a pie up to carry it out, but she stops me, hand on my arm.
“Hold your horses, now.” She takes it from me and covers it tightly in foil, handing me a small container of whipped cream to take with it. “There you are.”
“Thank you,” I say again. There have been a lot of times I’ve dismissed Renata as just the help—simply someone paid to do things for me and my family—and though she’s the only source of warmth here, I’ve often discounted it as likely artificial. But that’s unfair. She’s also always going the extra mile to do nice things for me. I take it for granted. “I hope you have a happy Thanksgiving.”
She gives me a strange look, and then smiles, straightening my collar. “You be good,” she says, going back to her cleaning. “And don’t you go eating that all by yourself. You’ll make yourself sick, you hear?”
I smile. “I won’t, promise.”
No one notices when I slip out of the house, and once the pie is secure, I head out. The drive isn’t long—I’d even venture to call it nice, considering the lack of traffic. I fleetingly wish that Gwendolyn could be with me right now. She’d probably know what to say or how to handle what I’m about to walk into. Her first reaction is to be positive. Mine is to be combative. Although she definitely knows how to fight, she also knows how to defuse, disarm.
I get off the highway and make my way to an apartment complex in an industrial area that’s turned mixed-use residential. Five years ago, this area was a certifiable shit-hole. High crime, graffiti-covered facades, burned-out buildings. Back in the day, Ansel used to drive down here to buy weed and other goodies. All of that has changed, now. There are coffee shops and restaurants dotting the old buildings, along with renovated houses here and there, new construction.
I double check the address. I’d gotten it years ago, procured on a whim from an old family friend who had apparently kept sparingly in touch with her. I have no way to be sure if it’s still her place, but I park the car in front of the old bungalow and grab the pie. The walk down the long driveway is a little confusing. Her place isn’t the bungalow, but instead the carriage house in the back.
I climb up the stairs and hear music coming from inside. Shit. If it is her place, then she has company. A part of me is a little hurt at the idea of Hollis celebrating Thanksgiving on her own. Like it’s just proof that she’s built this whole different life outside of us—outside of me—and is enjoying it, is all the better for it.
But I know it makes sense. She should have that. I shouldn’t expect her to stand still like the rest of the Bates clan.
I take a steeling breath and knock.
I consider making a break for it while I wait, but the door opens and Hollis stands before me, her wide gray eyes matching my own. Her hair is twisted in a complicated knot, and even though she’s not a Bates anymore—not in spirit—the threads of our genetics have held strong. She’s still got that same elegant and effortless beauty. She’s wearing some kind of hippie floral dress that our mother would absolutely loathe.
She looks amazing.