How to Ruin Thanksgiving: by Grandma

CHAPTER ONE

Turkey isn’t the only item devoured at our family’s Thanksgiving feast. Someone’s dignity will be bitten to the quick as well. Last year it was my brother Simon’s, the year before, my mother’s. My grandmother is the culprit; it’s anyone’s call who the victim will be year to year. Dad says her actions are the result of dementia. Maybe. She certainly speaks without a filter or a kind bone in her aged body. But I wonder. She gets a lot of merriment out of others’ weaknesses or struggles. In truth, I don’t remember her any other way. She’s been critical, condescending, and cold for as long as I’ve known her. So… forever. Every November when the days shorten and the stores display their holiday wares, Dad tells me this might be Grandma’s last year. “Winter is hard on old people,” he says, alluding to the possibility that Grandma’s days are shortening too. “This might be her last Thanksgiving, Carly,” he warns. I don’t see it as a warning, but more of a hope. I’ve been hoping for a long, long, time.

Last year

We were in the midst of heaping our plates full of turkey when Grandma brought up a painful memory from my brother’s middle-school years. Typical Grandma. She’s got to get under someone’s skin every year. Topic of the day: the time everyone in his class went to Disney World except him. Now, why would she do that? Who dredges up bad memories on Thanksgiving? Better yet, whose grandmother does that?

When Simon was in the eighth grade, he didn’t sell his share of raffle tickets for our school and had to spend Field Trip Day in the library. You’d think a grandmother would want to shelter her grandson from remembering hurtful events, but not mine. Dementia, my ass. I see the gleam in her eye when she brings up uncomfortable accounts; she likes to make people squirm. And she did.

Mom has always felt guilty for not allowing Simon to stay home that day. She had to relive that guilt when Grandma harped on about how Simon wouldn’t go out and pester the neighbors to buy. And how he should have been tough enough to keep up with the other eighth graders in sales. Mom sighed and told Grandma, “It was seven years ago. Everyone still feels badly for Simon.” She’s always the peace maker.

Dad’s regret lingered long after Simon’s eighth grade year ended. He says he should have walked with him around the neighborhood or taken the tickets into work. Once again, his conscience (and Grandma’s opening the can of worms) makes him feel obliged to restate his apology. “Son, if I could do that over again, I’d have bought them all myself.” He could never apologize enough. He’s the problem-solver.

I always feel emotional pain the strongest. I remember how miserable Simon was that day, and that depresses me for the rest of dinner. I’m the empathizer. I can still see my older brother’s slumped shoulders as he sat alone in the cafeteria eating his lunch at his usual table devoid of any other kids. Then he made his way back to the lonely library, feet scuffing the hallway floors, fingers dragging the walls as if to mark his passage into “The Worst Day of My Middle School Life.”

Grandma’s choice of victim that year was prime. Simon had just started a new job, fresh out of high school and was unsure if he was suited for it. I swear my Grandma could tell. “Are you any better at your job now?” she asked, disdain dripping from her fake-smile face.

He met her eyes briefly, and I hoped for a minute that he’d confront her nastiness. The moment passed. I recall he hemmed and hawed, leaving me to sympathize with his discomfort. Mom jumped up to get more food, and Dad over-sold Simon’s job strengths to a grandparent who didn’t hear a word. Grandma smiled at everyone’s obvious efforts to deflect her punches.

Grandma is no Alzheimer’s casualty; she’s just mean.

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To the outsider, we all present as middle-of-the-road people, typical in our dress, mannerisms and interactions. Then the doors close on our family Thanksgiving, and we morph into neurotic, caustic-tongued, or passive family members. Don’t get me wrong. We’re not weirdos … I don’t think. From what I understand all families have issues. Ours just gets exacerbated on this holiday. Not Christmas, or Easter, or any other holiday, just Thanksgiving. I think it’s because the other ones have a focus, but the November holiday’s focus IS family.

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Two years ago

Grandma decided to comment on all the food choices. Granted there was a lot of store-bought sides and desserts, but my mother had to work the day before Thanksgiving. “That’s no excuse for doing things differently,” according to Grandma.

“Sue, what’s with these mashed taters? They’re gluey,” she said as she dumped them off her fork onto her plate over and over.

“Sue, the dressing’s dried out. Did you get microwaveable or something?” This as she’s stuffing bites in her mouth.

“Sue, you got any ice cream for the pumpkin pie? It’s got no taste.”

Mom tripped over herself apologizing, trying to explain how she didn’t have a lot of time.

Dad asked for seconds to end the conflict and give my mother support. But he didn’t say a word against Grandma.

Simon stared at each food as Grandma castrated it and pushed it to the side of his plate.

Me, I just watched Mom with desperate eyes, wishing someone would tell Grandma she could bring the food next year. I’d never say that of course. I’m not the aggressor; I’m the silent worrier. When possible, I avoid.

Present Day

The food smells delicious, with aromas of roast turkey mixed with hot gravy wafting into the dining room as we all take our places. Grandma is quiet, so that’s a good sign. Simon unfolds his napkin, placing it on his lap and sits straight up. He’s had a good year in sales, and his confidence is blooming. Grandma’s got nothing on him!

After the dinner prayer, the first sounds are the clanking of utensils to plates. Conversation is limited to complimenting Mom (Phew!) and the unseasonably warm fall. The leaves have just changed color, about two weeks later than usual, and the whole town’s been debating if it’s a sign of global warming. We all keep our comments benign, hoping to be spared Grandma’s wrath.

I see, out of the corner of my eye, Grandma staring at me, looking me over. What? Okay, don’t panic, I tell myself. She rarely asks about my life, she’s never met my boyfriend, and she can’t read my mind. Nonetheless, my heart starts to race, my pulse quickens, and I can just tell she’s going to turn her attention to me. I force a casual expression and remind myself my grandmother can’t be clairvoyant; she can’t spill a secret she doesn’t know.

“So, Carly,” she begins, a scheming glint in her eye. I suck in my breath, silently praying she’ll just ask me a normal grandparent question. Sure. Fat chance. “You look … different … older … than your seventeen years.”

Oh no. Here we go. Something about my make-up or haircut or clothing choices. I breathe a little easier knowing I can handle these kinds of jabs.

She leans in and points to my stomach, hidden under the tablecloth and my loose-fitting sweater. A slow, knowing and somewhat evil, smile builds. “When’s the baby due?”