Thanksgiving

We know the secrets of the universe, yet we don't really understand them.

—T. J. Fields

Thanksgiving dinner, 2021.

Inside a house, somewhere, in America.

The house was large and old. It had high ceilings and many windows, which looked out upon trees that were bare then but would be green again came springtime. The house was white with black shutters, its roof slate gray; the front door had a brass knocker and there was a black iron banister on the stairs leading up to it. There was an ornamental wrought-iron railing beside the steps down to the ground level, where there was a porch. On the porch were two wicker chairs and a small table covered with a white cloth.

Inside, the TV was on, left there alone, broadcasting Sanxingdui archaeological discovery in China on a documentary channel. The dining room table was covered with an elaborate spread of food: turkey and stuffing; cranberry sauce and gravy; mashed potatoes and sweet potato casserole. There were green beans in cream cheese, peas swimming in butter, candied yams topped by marshmallows, and rolls made from scratch. A bottle of Whiskey was open on the table, where it sat next to a platter holding various cheeses and fruit. A silver tray held several glasses.

The smell alone brought back memories for the old man—a whiff of thanksgiving dinner when he was young. He remembered his family coming together, crowded into the kitchen, his mother fussing about and his father and brothers chatting with each other, everyone watching her as she prepared the meal. He remembered that first bite, so full of flavor; how good everything tasted, how much you wanted to savor every morsel, the way one could only eat so much before needing to stop. And then the best part—the leftovers, the sandwiches made from turkey or ham, or even the mashed potatoes, the gravy poured over ice cream like thick chocolate syrup, the sweet potato pie smeared with whipped cream. The memory of those meals lasted long after they were gone. That was what Thanksgiving meant—the food. But for the time of then, he hadn't seen or heard anyone at all over the past weeks while staying inside this big house. Not even neighbors who lived nearby came to check up on things once every few days.

At the table, the old man was talking to the middle-aged woman, actually to himself, because the woman was not really there: her left hand supporting her jaw, her right hand turning a fork inside the Spaghetti on the plate before her. Her hair was blond and thick, black, and some already grey roots showed through between strands. She wore no makeup and nothing special about how she dressed either. A plain T-shirt and jeans.

She didn't talk much, just ate slowly. Sometimes she would pick something off the plate, eat it then put the fork down again. When she spoke, it sounded forced and unnatural, like she was reading from a script.

"Alima is the best, " said the old man "she really knows how to cook. Look at the roast turkey. You can tell that it's juicy by just looking at it." The woman didn't answer; she just stared into space with an expression of utter absent-mindedness.

"Very lovely woman. She even invited me to her home for Thanksgiving, but I was expecting your family to come. So she had to prepare everything for the dinner and did it again for her whole family when she is back home. I feel so useless. I don't even know what to do without her. " The old man continued and took a bite of turkey off his fork.

"Thanksgiving, thanksgiving, I think I should thank her first. You know, for years, she cleans the house, cooks dinner, does the laundry, and never makes a mistake. Every day I came back home from work, the house is clean, dinner is ready, and clothes are folded neatly. Very grateful for her nice work." He turned to the woman, "Ellie..., Ellie! Are you listening?"

"Yes, dad!" the woman jerked up her head, who wasn't paying attention and kept staring into nowhere, picking spaghetti noodles off her plate one by one. " Yes, Alima is a very nice person. A poor woman though had the burden of a big family on her shoulders. How many kids does she have?"

"Five? Or six?" Owen Andrews thought a little, "I don't really remember. We don't have much chance to talk. She told me before, but now maybe she has more children than the time she told me."

Ellie finally was dragged back to reality from her wandering mind. "What about you, dad? It has been a while since the last time I came by."

"Me? I'm fine. I am healthier than anyone my age."

"Any news you want to share?"

"Oh, yes, there is one: I just stopped working for that 'Institution'."

"You quit?"

"Yes!"

"Good for you! You should do that earlier. I always don't understand why you served this 'Institution' or whatever it is after your retirement from the profession of the university. Go around! To Africa, to China, to anywhere you want." Ellie turned to the TV, showing with her palm the documentary on TV, and continued, "You are always obsessed with these ancient things and want to see them with your own eyes, right?"

"Yes, yes, that's true. However, now I can't."

"Why Not?" Ellie Price asked.

"I didn't quit that 'Institution', but that 'Institution" quit me. Because I'm not qualified anymore."

"Their loss. Whatever it is for, it doesn't matter, right? You can enjoy your retirement life the way you want."

Owen paused for a moment.

"Well, not really, they quit me because I'm sick," he said lightly, without a hint of sadness.

"What? What do you mean by 'sick'?"

"Well, you know, just some normal geriatric disease, like Alzheimer's disease or something."

"What? Have you gone to the hospital?" Ellie Price stood up, went to her father's side, and took his hand.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. No big deal. Just go back, sit down and finish your dinner." Owen tapped her daughter's shoulder two times lightly.

After Ellie went back in her chair, Owen continued slowly, " I found my hands trembled slightly, and couldn't remember what to do next in working sometimes, so I went to the hospital, saw a doctor, did a lot of health checks, took back bottles of pills. And now, I'm just fine. It's not that serious. Just some memory problem, forgetful, losing track of things sometimes, that sort of thing..."

"What did the doctor say?"

"They gave me a disease review schedule, telling me when I should go back to the hospital. I think I'm just doing fine."

"How are you feeling? Anything uncomfortable now?" Ellie Price looked very concerned.

"I didn't feel anything physically. I'm happy and strong. Don't you worry about me, girl!" Owen took another big bite of salad.

Ellie tried to stay calm. She knew her father well enough, but still worried about him. This was a good opportunity to learn more about his condition, she thought. She also understood that her father was very independent, which was dangerous then because of his Alzheimer's disease. Maybe, the best option for him then was a nursing home.

"What about you, Ellie? Do you have any news?" Owen suddenly asked.

"Well, everything is going fine with me."

"I feel the opposite. Your account of why Luke and Peter are not here tonight, I don't buy it. Don't you lie to me, because I already know you even before you were born, remember?" Owen put down his fork, waiting for Ellie's answer.

"Dad, please don't make such a fuss," Ellie said, shaking her head.

Owen looked at her eyes directly, saying nothing for a moment.

Ellie lowered her head and sighed, "I'm getting divorced from Peter."

Owen took a sip of whiskey from the glass. "I already had a clue after you entered the house. And that's what upsets and distracts you all night."

Ellie headed up a little, running her hands back through her long hair.

"Does Luke know?" Owen asked.

"Yes. How are we able to hide this from him? He is a big bog now." Let the truth out, Ellie felt released and depressed.

Ellie hated Thanksgiving, which always threw bad news one after another onto her face just like tonight.

After a minute of silence, Ellie stood up and walked out of the house, saying, "Excuse me, dad. I really need some air."

When she reached outside, she realized that it was snowing heavily, falling from the sky, covering the ground. It was cold, freezing. Some snowflakes touched her face and melted instantly. The world was enveloped in a light, fluffy blanket of white. Everything seemed to slow down as the flakes landed upon and disappeared again beneath the surface. A car drove by, kicking up large amounts of white dust behind its wheels. She watched it disappear quickly into the distance, vanishing from sight. There were people walking on the sidewalk beside the road, bundled up against the winter weather. They hurried along, trying to escape the storm.

Ellie wondered whether those passersby ever thought about where their lives would lead them tomorrow morning, or later today perhaps when they wake up to start another day. Did they imagine what kind of fate awaited them? Were they scared? Angry? Excited? Happy? Sad? All of these feelings were mixed together and tangled up in the human heart. Each of us, each person has different emotions and thoughts inside of our hearts, making it impossible for others to guess what exactly we're thinking and feeling. Even we ourselves sometimes don't know what we really think deep inside.

Then Ellie remembered that her father had Alzheimer's disease and that she had just announced her getting a divorce. She felt confused and lost. Perhaps she shouldn't have talked about these matters yet, especially with her father, whom she loved dearly. But she couldn't hold herself back anymore and had to let the words flow freely. She needed someone else to help her find answers. She lit a cigarette.

Owen wiped his lips with a napkin, picked up the remote control from the sofa, turned off the TV, then went out to the side of his daughter, one arm around her shoulders.

"Come on, Ellie, let's go back inside," said Owen gently. "You are shaking. Let me get you some wine."

Inside the house, it was warm and cozy. A splintering sound from the fireplace, a glass of wine in her left hand, Ellie leaned her head sideways on her father's shoulder, while Owen took a sip of his Whiskey from time to time.

"Dad."

"Yes?"

"I don't want to go back to my house. It feels empty and cold, but here is so warm."

"Good. Your room upstairs keeps just the same as the time you were a college girl." After finishing his words, Owen got up and went to find a blanket to drape around Ellie's shoulder.

"Thank you," Ellie whispered.

He smiled and nodded. "Your mother used to complain about how cold and uncomfortable it was to live in this house. Now she is no longer around to blame."

Ellie sat quietly for a moment. Then she raised her voice, "I miss mom so much."

Ellie's mother, Owen's wife, died of cancer years ago, and two years after that her younger sister died of a drug overdose.

"You know what's my fear? This, all of it, your mother, your sister, the happy pieces of our lives and even bitter ones, that I could possibly forget, you know, because of my disease." Owen patted Ellie on her back.

Then a long silence, and tears faintly appeared in her eyes.

"Dad, I'm so tired. I want to sleep, but I can't; I want to stop thinking, but I can't help it."

"Then let me tell you a bedtime story, which you always like when you are a little girl." Owen took another sip of whisky.

"Great!" Ellie was cheered up a little by her dad.

"You know what's the 'Institution' that I worked for all these years?"

"No."

"It's CIA."