I take a shot to prepare for this. More accurately, I douse the clear poison with a splash of cranberry juice—the only chaser my parents keep in the fridge. My tongue revolts, bubbling a familiar distaste, but I still return to it.
He is not here. The boy who doesn’t want to be an alcoholic like his parents but has a passion for mixed cocktails. He never joins me in November because most people don’t covet a midday gathering with elderly folks and sun-dressed high school graduates from your old youth group. Would anyone choose my father and his turkey jokes projected on the screen over the crinkles of their grandmother’s forehead or silver spoons clinking against porcelain plates? At least I don’t have forced conversations with cousins I pretend to like.
My mother takes a shot, too.
Every year, she wakes up with visions of stirring bread cubes and vegetables floating on the ceiling. Dad is either stuffing his gut in a button-down or he’s already left. She slumps out of bed, prays the oven timer will tick down in time, wraps the crumbling mush with tin foil, and shoves it in the back seat.
One year, when my oldest sister got her license, she drifted the car, and the hot glass nearly fell to its death. Amber was the kind of high schooler who got her car grounded. But now, instead of hiding Pink Whitney in desk drawers, she’s downing the shot (hold the cranberry) in the open kitchen with my mother, who’s claiming to be reliving her twenties with us. We’re tipsy through the car ride. Amber’s boyfriend is at the wheel while the three brunette girls giggle with their blonde creator.
The parking lot has few spaces left, the worship already strumming while we’re sliding the Sharpies in swoopy cursive on our name tags. I say I don’t want to be like my parents. But I return here, letting my sweater fuzz catch on the sticker. The church oozes stale coffee and sugar pourers—of loose change and pressed checks—of stinging smiles and judgment.
My high school graduation walking partner approaches me. My eyes are spinning at her buck teeth and thin wire glasses. She is also the girl who told the children’s pastor in front of the entire Sunday school that I bullied her in second grade, the girl who punched me at Bible camp in sixth grade, and the girl who debated gay discrimination in AP LANG. I mutter some pleasantries.
My mother is bombarded by people she is supposed to know. With their squinted eyes, they declare how they hardly recognize her: “I can’t believe how blonde your hair is!” even though she’s been spending her tithing on highlights for years. “Where’s the auburn?” Translation: You’re not here enough for a pastor’s wife.
My mom would say, “He’s the teacher’s husband.”
For some reason, “Reverend” is attached to my father’s name—his whole being. Though he’s not what you’re imagining—no crisp white collar or firm hands chopping us down to a cookie-cutter batch. He’s the Hawaiian shirt-wearing, disco-dancing, silly voice guy who brags about having gay roommates in college. He won’t force faith on us, just silently hopes Amber doesn’t show up to Sunday service in booty shorts or me in pajamas. When our faces appear in the sanctuary—recognized by elders, staff, and churchgoers—the point is not for his sermon to carve into our hearts.
It’s that we’re seen.
After these non-pleasant pleasantries, we can finally proceed to the reason all of us are here in the first place.
Food.
I hold my paper plate through the tall vertical table, passing the bowls of contradicting textures, and head straight for the smooth powder-made mashed potatoes. Take one bite of dry turkey. Demolish two Hawaiian buns. Scrape the pumpkin from the pie crust. Every year, I’m too picky to eat Mom’s stuffing.
Even from pre-school to alumni, some things never change.
I’m halfway through shoving the third buttered roll in my cheeks when my father clasps his hands: “Dear Heavenly Father . . .” Amber’s eyes meet mine, wide open. The image of a flawless Christian burns to ashes with every dress taken off, every shot of vodka. Lying about living with her boyfriend. Lying about the sex.
Some things do change.
Yet somehow, the rebellion skipped my middle sister. Jessica sits with her hands clasped, her legs forever crossed until marriage. Nothing could break the seal of her eyelids. The never-wrong, Homecoming princess, social guillotine who was one A- away from Valedictorian. She thinks I’ve changed my faith for the atheist boy, but I peer around and see the graduation walking partner, or I hear the words of repentance from a Bible camp preacher instead of the uplifting melodies. The boy didn’t do that.
Still. What a waste, really, to give my covenant bond—my sacred promise—to some guy.
The one time he attended church, he wore a white suit for Easter and chuckled at children worshipping on stage. Their pastel dresses and pigtails scattered like the watercolors they were baptized in. I snarked with him at the whiny, forced voices diverging in noises beyond pitch, singing about salvation and providence. Amber’s boyfriend joined in, falsely raising his hands to the sky. Our men of little faith. Amber ground her teeth in his ear: “That was me.”
That was us.
My sacred promise disappears by the following Thanksgiving. And I say I don’t follow the commandments, the eternal life, the blind faith. But then I look at my father, and the gold rings on my parents’ fingers, how they’ve had to be resized with age.
So, this year, I am with you.
My father adds you to The Bible App, and you annotate verses every night. And I don’t take a shot before we cram into the backseat. We hold hands as we enter the church.
Saintly Jessica says I changed again because I stopped pointing my finger at children singing. How I wouldn’t throw up at the idea of my own kids standing on that stage, like I would two years ago. But it is not blind faith, but rather a fogged-up view. I turn off the wondering:
If I brought a girl here instead of you, the wrinkled faces upon greeting would stutter, and I’d be a human gossip blog. Prayers for the pastor’s daughter.
Then, I’d pour out the poison and let the sting dissolve on my tongue. And “Love Expert” Jessica would say I changed again for my relationship. She huffs, breaking down the blue wax of the crayon on a descrambler activity sheet—EREMNBOV. She moves to the pilgrim coloring spread. To the word search, still scanning for TURKEY, still being asked by churchgoers if she’s found a boyfriend yet.
Amber squeezes her man’s hand, having to deny the questions of marriage and babies. Mom’s plotting her escape post service—what path she’ll take to avoid the wave of clutched pearls.
My father prays again into the microphone, and I wonder what he says to his colleagues—what he says to God about the family plot in Heaven and whether every space is still secured.
Would his girls have to all down shots to prepare?
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