The Christmas Blanket

When I was in New Zealand, I told the Kiwis I worked with about this pie. I described the cinnamon, the nutmeg, the creamy, delectable pumpkin and perfect buttery crust, salivating as I did so. My stomach grumbled at the thought of it on the very long flight back to the States. As I drove here from the airport, and all the time I was at River’s, this pie was all I could think about.

Home is where Mama’s pumpkin pie is, I thought.

And yet now that I had it within reach, just a fork sweep away from it being in my mouth, I couldn’t eat it.

I pushed it around on my plate, eyes following the orangey brown smear of the filling. It smelled amazing, and I’d topped it with a heaping serving of Cool Whip. But still, I couldn’t take even one bite.

I’d never felt this nauseous in my life.

I wished it was because I was still hungover, that the Advil and hangover cure River had given me hadn’t worked. But the truth was that physically, I was fine.

But emotionally? Mentally?

I was a hot, steaming pile of garbage.

The surprise I’d looked forward to went off without a hitch, Mom and Dad both crying when they found me on the other side of the front door I’d knocked on. River had already pulled away after following me home by the time they ushered me inside, and from there, it was Mom fussing over whether there would be enough food or not, Grandma pinching my hips and saying I needed at least two servings before I withered away, Dad hugging me and doting on me, and my sister teasing me about how I had wrinkles now.

There was Christmas music and all the food I’d been lusting after. There was a warm fire and all the people I loved.

And yet, I was miserable.

“Mom’s gonna be offended if you don’t eat at least half of that,” my sister, Beth, said from where she sat on the other end of the couch. Mom and Dad were in the kitchen with Grandma and Robert, Beth’s husband, and Beth and I had retreated into the living room, sitting on the sofa in front of the Christmas tree.

“Trust me, I’d love to eat it all,” I said, stacking a bite up on my fork. “If only my stomach would allow it.”

Beth frowned, setting her own finished plate aside before she turned toward me. She had to move slowly, and she shifted a bit before getting her legs comfortably under her, thanks to her protruding belly.

Her protruding belly that was housing a baby. My future nephew.

And she hadn’t even told me.

Just like Mama hadn’t told me about her hip replacement surgery last fall, and Daddy hadn’t told me that he sold both our horses two years ago.

I was in a house with my family, and yet I realized I’d been so caught up in living my own life, in chasing my own adventure, that I completely missed out on what was happening here.

I felt like a stranger.

I might as well have been.

“Well, you going to talk to me about it, or just sit there playing with your food?”

I sighed, dragging my fork across the plate to remove the pie I’d stacked on it just to stack another one right after. “I don’t know what there is to say. I told you what happened.”

“You did. But you haven’t told me how you feel about being stuck in a cabin for two days with your ex-husband.” She glanced into the kitchen before lowering her voice. “Or sleeping with him.”

My sister looked nothing like me. Where my hair was dark as sin and slick straight, hers was dirty blonde and made of big barrel-wave curls. I tanned where she burned, her eyes were blue, where mine were inky wells of black.

But we had the same nose, and the same smile, and the same blood running through our veins.

And right now, I hated that she could see right through me.

I frowned, still staring at my pie. “Why doesn’t anyone tell me anything anymore?”

Beth didn’t answer, and when I looked up at her, she was watching me with the same look you might give an old woman slowly forgetting her memory. It was pity and sympathy and love all wrapped into one.

I hated it.

“Mom didn’t tell me about her surgery,” I continued. “Dad didn’t tell me about the horses. You didn’t tell me you’re freaking pregnant.” I pointed to her belly, letting my hand fall against my thigh with a slap as I shook my head. “And not a single one of you told me about River’s parents.”

Beth looked down at where her fingers curled together in her lap.

“Well?” I urged.

“What do you want from us, Eliza?” she finally asked, shaking her head as her blue eyes found mine. “You never wanted me to talk about River. Any time I would in that first year that you were gone, you’d get angry and ask me to stop. You told me it hurt to talk about him. You told me you didn’t want to know.”