Page 22 of Call My Bluff
“Hear ye, hear ye!” Mr. Huxley called. “I proclaim it time for the annual giving of thanks. I’ll go first. I’m thankful to still have two good legs to stand on, though one is admittedly better looking than the other.”
Everyone around the table laughed, since it was well known that Mr. Huxley had a prosthetic leg.
“Now, go this way,” he ordered, gesturing to his right.
Mrs. Kiernan pushed back her chair and stood up. “I’m thankful to have two new grandbabies this year, both healthy.”
The tradition continued down the line, and other neighbors mentioned their health, their friends and, of course, the ability to feed their families for another season. Finally, it was Noah’s turn. He casually pushed his chair back and rose to stand.
“This year, I am thankful for mail,” he said.
There was a confused sort of pause around the table.
“For mail?” Mr. Kiernan asked, and Noah nodded. He cleared his throat, the anticipation making his mouth dry.
“Yes, for mail. Specifically, for the letter saying I’ve been accepted to grad school at UT Chattanoo—”
He didn’t get to finish, because his mother leapt from her chair like it was on fire.
“NOAH JAMES!” she shouted. He staggered as she threw her arms around him with more force than he was expecting. “You’re gonna be a doctor!”
“Of physical therapy,” he clarified. “But yes.”
The table burst into applause and excited chatter, only some of which he could hear over his mother’s babbling.
“How long have you known? When do you start? Why didn’t you tell me!?” she asked.
“Next fall,” he said, returning her hug. “And I wanted to surprise you.”
She grumbled something about his timing, though her cheeks were wet and her smile was happy when she pulled away. “I am so proud of you! I knew you would do it.”
Noah felt a hot prickling sensation along the bridge of his nose, which only got worse when he looked around the patio. Mrs. Hernandez was dabbing her eyes with a napkin, and Mr. Huxley was nodding his head, as if he’d known this day would come all along. Noah’s family, such as it was, was beaming at him.
These were the people who meant the most to him in the world—the ones who had been there through the hardest times of his life.
So why could he only think about the one who wasn’t there?
He accepted all the congratulations and praise his neighbors heaped upon him, wearing them like a cape for the rest of themeal. He put on a big smile and twirled the little ones high in the air like helicopters. He made his usual jokes. But somehow, it all felt hollow.
And he knew his mother could tell.
When they were finally alone in their quiet kitchen, his mom deftly washing the many dishes and Noah drying beside her, he kept his eyes on the speckled countertop and waited.
At last, she cleared her throat. “Honey, let it out,” she said simply.
Those four words gave Noah permission to open the box where he stuffed all the things he didn’t want to think about—the things that rarely saw the light of day.
“I want to tell him,” he said. The words felt sharp in his throat, like pieces of glass, and he clamped down on the sudden wave of emotion that surged into his chest. “I hate him so much I can’t breathe, but I still want to tell him. And I wish I didn’t.”
Noah heard the clink of dishes touching the bottom of the sink, and then the faucet turned off. His mother’s warm fingers, still damp from the water, moved against the side of his face, turning it—and the rest of his body—toward her. He stepped into her hug like he was a little boy again and not a grown man of almost twenty-three.
“Honey, don’t let him take this from you,” she said softly. Her hands moved along his spine in a comforting rhythm. “You deserve to get what you want.”
“Do I?” Noah asked, his cheek resting against her temple.
“Yes,” she said firmly, “you do. Noah, your father made the biggest mistake of his life when he chose not to be part of yours. You are a good man.”
“But I’m just like him!” Noah blurted, unable to help himself. “Everybody always said so.”
