“What kind of pie did you bring?” Mona asks, smacking her gums.
“Pumpkin, ma’am,” Demi says.
Mona cocks her head sideways. “Thank heavens. If you’d have said rhubarb or something crazy, I’d have had to show you the door.”
I mouth, “she’s joking” to Demi, and Demi mouths back, “I know.”
“Is there anything I can help you with?” Demi leaves my side and goes to Mona, placing her hand on her back. “I’d be happy to take over. I love to cook, and I don’t get to nearly as much as I used to these days.”
Mona looks at me, then at Demi, thinks for a moment, and then reaches for her cane.
“Sure,” Mona says. “Have at it. I’m gonna go watch my stories. Holler if you need anything.”
My mother waddles back to the living room, plopping down in the middle of the worn out sofa and taking a moment to catch her breath. She squints at the TV and flips channels, banging the remote against the coffee table when the buttons jam.
“That’s your mom, huh?” Demi whispers with a smile.
“Biological mother, yes,” I say slowly. “That’s Mona.”
“You have her eyes.”
“And nothing else.” I’ve been told I look exactly like my father, but my memories fail me. Last time I saw him I was five. Or so I’m told. He was an over-the-road truck driver who died of a massive coronary in the middle of hauling a load from New York to Nebraska.
I open Mona’s cupboards in search of clean plates and set the table as Demi peruses the stove situation. Two pans of some gelatinous concoctions bubble and boil, and the timer on the microwave signals that some dish in the oven is finished.
How Mona conjured up the energy to put all this together is beyond me. Half the time, she can barely take the time to microwave a Hot Pocket or two.
“Oh, Royal,” Mona calls out, muting her TV. “Set a fourth place.”
“Four?” I call back, scratching the side of my temple. “Who else is coming?”
Our eyes meet from across the house, and I wait.
“Don’t hate me,” she says. “But I invited Misty.”
My blood reaches a frenzied boil beneath my skin, and for a minute, I can’t see straight. Everything’s blurry. Everything’s a shade of crimson. If Demi weren’t here, I’d fucking lose it. I’d walk right out and never come back here again.
Mona knows how I feel about Misty, and for the last seven years, I thought Mona felt the same way.
It takes all the energy Mona has to get back up from the couch, and she limps through the sagging floor of the dining room back to the bustling kitchen.
“It’s the holidays, Royal,” she says. “And Misty just lost the love of her life. She’s homeless. Been staying at some women’s shelter. And she’s trying to get clean.”
“Or so she says,” I spit back.
“It’s time,” Mona says. “It’s time to forgive. To let go of the past and move forward.”
Demi stands at the stove, her back toward us. She’s not a part of this conversation, but I’m sure she’s very much tuned in.
“It’s going to be fine,” Mona says. “Deep down, Misty has a good heart. She just needs us to remind her.”
Misty does not fucking have a good heart. In fact, I’m quite positive she doesn’t have a heart at all. Nobody with a heart would’ve done half the shit she did. Someone with a heart is capable of feeling remorse. Guilt. Shame.
Misty feels nothing.
My body shakes, my fists clenched at my sides. I’ll try my hardest to remain cordial today, but only for Demi’s sake. Demi did not sacrifice her Rosewood Thanksgiving for a Lockhart Shit Show.
As soon as the food is spread out and glasses are filled and seats are taken, a cold gush of air and the gentle shutting of the front door ushers in a demon from hell.
Misty’s hair is a freshly dyed platinum blonde, washed for once, and pulled into a low ponytail. A thick layer of makeup hides the meth scabs around her mouth, and she’s dressed in enough layers to camouflage her bag of bones body.
Her eyes are brighter though. And she’s less fidgety.
“Hi, Mom. Happy Thanksgiving.” Misty wraps her arms around Mona, and I silently hate that she calls her “Mom.” It’s as if she’s in a better place emotionally, and I know that’s not true. Mona was never a mom to us.
Not to mention the fact that Misty can so easily disregard the past lights a fire so deep within me that I have to look away for a second and gather my thoughts.
Demi slides into the chair next to me, reaching beneath the table and taking my hand. She doesn’t say anything, but clearly she notices my discomfort. I may have mentioned Misty to Demi once or twice in the past, but only briefly. We were always placed in separate foster homes growing up, but with Misty being four years younger, I’d always felt extra protective of her. She was the only real family I had. We were in the same boat. As her big brother, it was my job to come running when she needed something.