Scent (Scomiche)

Is There Anything to be Thankful For?

“Are you spending Thanksgiving with anyone?” It’s a harsh subject change but I don’t want to feel the weight of my dad’s disappointment at the moment. Not that I ever do, but, come on, it’s a holiday. I deserve a break from self-loathing. But I do feel a pang in my heart. Why didn’t I go spend the day with him? He couldn’t possibly have spent the whole day giving me pity, I would’ve survived a dinner with the guy.

“Nah, just gonna, um,” he thinks, “I mean, I have Rudy. I’ll make us some turkey sandwiches and we’ll be fine.”

Rudy is a dog.

“Are you sure? I could drive up and we could have Thanksgiving tomorrow…”

“No, no, Mitch. I’m fine. Spend it how you were going to. With…?”

“My friend Scott and his daughter.”

“See, that sounds like more fun than sitting at home with your old man. I’ll-- wait, Rudy is barking at something. I’ll have to talk to you later.”

Even though I’m completely aware that “later” means Christmas, I agree and say goodbye. Slightly bothered by how little my dad and I actually talk, even when I make an effort, I slap on some foundation, cursing myself for not driving up to surprise him. Then I’m thinking about two things at once: what his reaction would’ve been and how I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard for Scott. I stick with the foundation and realize that my dad probably would’ve seemed indifferent, but I know he would’ve appreciated it deep down. Wait, tinted chapstick. Okay. Done.

I’m driving to Scott’s. I can do this. I’m not nervous at all. Not even a little. I’m walking up to his apartment. Easy. Simple. Just knock. Knocking. He yells, “Come in!” I do. I walk in. I am inside his apartment. Still not nervous. My heart is beating extremely fast for no reason. None.

“Vodka cranberry?” He offers, already handing one to me. “It’s Thanksgiving-y.”

“Oh, sure.” I accept it and take a sip, then look over to Lindsey who’s drinking a beverage that looks suspiciously the same color as mine. I immediately become worried and it disgusts me that I have any parental instinct whatsoever. I am not her father. Yet, Scott sees my wide eyes and assures me that it is only cranberry juice, no vodka, because she wanted to have what “Daddy’s drinking”. I sigh a breath of relief. Who have I become?

“Come in, relax, dinner isn’t for a while.”

I slip off my shoes and obediently try to relax. Lindsey waves me over to show what she’s working on. There are magazines scattering the floor, a posterboard, and scissors and glue laying next to her.

“What are you doing?”

“A thankful poster.”

“What’s that?” And though I can probably guess what that is, I actually kinda genuinely want to hear her explain it.

“Daddy thinks it would be ben-ef-cal? Ben…”

“Beneficial,” Scott chuckles.

“Beneficial,” Lindsey continues, “for me to cut out words of what I’m thankful for so we can hang it up.”

“Ooh, can I help?”

“Yeah!” She hands me a magazine she hasn’t used yet. I set my drink on the small table by the couch and sit criss-cross. “I’ll find letters to spell out Thanksgiving.”

It takes longer than I had expected. I had finished my vodka cran and was on to my next one by the time I found sufficient letters. “Are you thankful for Miley Cyrus?”