Grace

Frank took my hand.

“Thank you God…”

I tried to keep my eyes closed, but the urge to examine the table, the people, Brian – who I had looked at many times before, but was somehow different – was overwhelming. The prayer droned on and I closed my eyes again and waited for something terrible to overtake me. The plane ride had been filled with admonitions about what I shouldn’t say and shouldn’t do and shouldn’t be. Without saying anything at all, he had transmitted these fears through the stale, chilled air of the coach cabin.

My hair felt too short against my neck. I couldn’t free my hands to adjust my sweater to hide my androgyny. I was stuck exposed with what I was sure was atheist, feminist whore written on my forehead. An itch began to creep up my arm. I breathed deeply and practiced acceptance. Jesus looked down from above the mantle, chiding me for my feeble attempt at Buddhist practice.

“…and thank you Jesus for bringing Brian and Marisa safely from New York to be with us on this special day. Amen.”

Brian squeezed my hand.

It was the first time he had acknowledged my presence since we’d arrived.

The drive from Milwaukee was the first indication that I would be spending the holiday alone with his family. His mother nervously asked him to drive. The humming silence of the engine and the tires on the road was broken only occasionally by church gossip and exits fast approaching on the left and right. I sat quietly passing judgment about the infrequency of his calls home and the wayward brother he never talked about and the religion he had so wholeheartedly forsaken in exchange for anger and regret.

His childhood home was unassuming. The siding matched the sparse lawn and said nothing of the trauma contained within its boxy four walls. I couldn’t remember why we’d come here. I thought maybe after five years some of the pain would have washed away. Selfishly, I wanted to see where he’d come from. I wanted to tell him that it actually wasn’t so bad. I wanted to erase his memories. F

rank finished eating and got up without a word. The television flickered back on and, beer in hand, he faded away.

I asked Margie about her job and about the renovations in the basement, but the words seemed hollow.

I washed the dishes while they looked up cell phone plans and Black Friday sales on the internet. The kitchen felt cold.

Rather than argue in the house, we went out and cranked up the heat in the car. I wanted to tell him to come back. I wanted him to know how much it hurt to be in the same room with him and feel alone. I wanted to shake him and see the light come back on behind his eyes. But we didn’t speak. We didn’t say a word. The radio clicked on and we sat staring straight ahead listening to the Christmas music they erroneously play before Thanksgiving. I glanced over at him and he was looking back. The tears ran down his face. I took his hand and we waited for the words that could, however inadequately, express the moment.