Page 69 of Booked for the Holidays
“Want me to take something for you?” I ask.
“That’d be great. Here, take the pie.”
I grab the glass pan from her hands and lead her down the hallway. “My parents are in the kitchen.”
“Can I help with anything?”
“You’ll probably get put on potato duty. Think you’ll be okay with that after the latke fiasco?”
“Jerk.” She chuckles and we step into the kitchen.
“Mom, this is Bridget.”
My mom looks up from her usual spot at the table and smiles brightly. We pull a dining chair away to accommodate her wheelchair, giving her ample space to move around.
“Bridget,” she says. She pushes back from the wood and wheels herself over. “It’s so great to meet you.”
“It’s so great to meet you too, Mrs. Gardner.” Bridget answers with a sincere smile of her own.
Bridget’s attention, I notice, isn’t on the jagged scar running down her neck, raised and pink above her skin. She doesn’t blink at the brace on Mom’s left leg or the brief wince of pain she exhibits as she puts the brakes up on her chair.
Her focus is on Mom’s face, keeping eye contact with her the entire time. She squats down, kneeling on the tile floor of my parents’ kitchen, and hands over the bouquet of flowers.
“Thank you so much for having me over to celebrate Thanksgiving with you,” Bridget continues.
“Aren’t you a sweetheart,” Mom gushes. “Theo, there’s a vase under the sink. Can you fill it with some water for these?”
“Of course.” I make myself useful, listening to her instruction. Successfully filled with water, I head back to the women, taking the flowers and plopping them in the container. “I’ll put them in the window, yeah?”
It’s my mom’s favorite spot. The pane is low enough for her to look out to the front lawn and enjoy the sun streaming in.
“Perfect.” She pats my cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart. Bridget, would you mind helping me with the peeling? It’ll go twice as fast.”
“Of course,” Bridget agrees.
The pair make their way over toward the dilapidated table in the center of the room. They stop briefly at the oven so she can meet my dad, who nods hello and shakes her hand.
I lean against the door jamb, vase still in hand, and watch the women. Bridget smiles and nods along to the story my mom is sharing with her as she uses a peeler. Instantly, the room feels brighter, in a way it hasn’t in years. Everything is warmer. A bit more serene. The air is lighter. My shoulders are less heavy, a sense of peace circling through the space.
“Dad. You’re staring.”
I jump. My gaze cuts away to find Mac smirking at me.
“Sorry. I’m hungry and doing a time check for when to start the stuffing.”
“Hungry for food? Or for Bridget?”
“Mackenzie Ruth,” I hiss. “Watch your mouth.”
“It’s not my fault you’re drooling.”
“I am not.” I subtly run my thumb over my mouth to make sure she’s pulling my leg. “Don’t you have a job to do?”
“You mean topping the green bean casserole with the crispy onions that took me six seconds? Done. It’s not rocket science.”
“Wow. Is this attitude a temporary thing or should I expect it to stick around after your birthday, too?”
She giggles. “Be glad I haven’t broken my curfew or snuck out to meet someone.”
