Ripple Effect

Chapter Forty-Five: ...can't have Thanksgiving without conflict.

Stevie

11:03 AM

Crisp morning light flowed up the staircase along with the murmur of voices from the television in the lounge; it was the kind of light that made the day feel fresh, as though cleansed of all that had come before. But as Stevie plodded down the stairs, Uncle Will's words still weaved circles through her mind—his warning that her mother was planning to run, and his insistence that she stop her. Why he would want to stop her, Stevie didn't know; what bothered her more was the fact that, if it was true, if her mother really had been intending to run, then why hadn't she said anything? Why keep it hidden and hold her at a distance?

Stevie clung to the newel cap, and the mahogany squeaked beneath her fingers as she spun down the last step and into the kitchen. "Hey, guys."

With her headphones on and her gaze fixed on her sketchbook whilst she swept her pencil across the page, Alison didn't so much as look up from the table, but hunched on the stool at the end of the kitchen island and staring at the screen of his cell phone, Jason twisted around and gave her a half-nod of acknowledgement as she padded past and towards the refrigerator.

"Hey, honey." Her father offered her a strained smile, and then dumped a bundle of carrots and a peeler in front of Jason. "Here, Jase. Do these, will you?"

Jason pulled a face, one that said he'd rather take the trash out for the next month than peel a bunch of carrots. "Do we really have to do Thanksgiving this year?"

"Yes."

"But why? Mom's not even here."

The glass bottles that nestled in the door of the refrigerator clinked against one another as Stevie pulled it open. She scoured the shelves, whilst the yellow light flooded out along with the faint chill, and then she plucked the Tupperware tub of Bircher muesli from the back of the second shelf, where someone had tucked it behind the pots of strawberry and raspberry yoghurt and a rather questionable head of iceberg lettuce, the outer leaves of which were beginning to slime and brown.

"Because...it's tradition." Their father returned to peeling the potatoes in the middle of the counter, whilst Stevie elbowed the refrigerator door shut and then tugged open one of the drawers and rifled free a teaspoon.

"In some countries it's tradition to eat the ashes of dead relatives," Jason said, "but you don't see us lining up to do that."

Their father studied him for a long moment, his expression a picture of horrified bemusement, as though he were debating whether it was wise to argue or even question that point, or perhaps simply wondering where the hell it had come from. Then— "Just peel the carrots."

Stevie spooned a dollop of the Bircher muesli into her mouth as she hovered on the opposite side of the island. Its apple-sweet and creamy taste coated her tongue, lifted by the kick of cinnamon. She dragged the spoon through the oat and yoghurt mixture, and cast the occasional glance at her father as she searched for a way to segue into the conversation. "So...I stopped by the hospital after work yesterday, thought I'd talk to Uncle Will."

Jason shot her a look. "The fact that you spent your evening talking to a coma patient really ought to tell you something about the state of your social life."

Stevie glared at him. Perhaps it wouldn't have stung so much were it not gritted with grains of truth. In the pause, she dislodged the oats from her front teeth using the tip of her tongue. "You know, technically he's not comatose anymore; he's minimally conscious."

"Oh, I stand corrected."

"And I didn't spend all evening there. I got a coffee too."

Jason stopped midway through peeling a carrot. He raised his eyebrows at her. "On your own?"