what are you thankful for, Pumpkin, my love?”
“You thankful?” Pumpkin replies.
“No, honey. I’m asking you. Tell us what you’re thankful for. Or maybe just something that makes you happy. What makes you happy?”
Pumpkin grins and looks my way. “Hi. How you?”
“Me? Oh... I’m...fine?”
“Pumpkin, tell us what you’re thankful for,” Nevaeh insists.
“I sick!” Pumpkin suddenly wails. “I hun-gee.”
“So then you can be thankful for food,” Nevaeh says kindly. “Say you’re thankful for food so you don’t have to be hungry.”
“No! I mad,” Pumpkin wails. “I so fus-tated!” She picks up her plastic plate and hurls it across the table, narrowly missing Anthony’s head. “I very not happy!”
“Pumpkin!” Anthony bellows. “That is inappropriate behavior. You do not throw your plate!”
An epic-size shriek escapes from Pumpkin’s tiny, little body. She kicks at the table. Beautiful, expensive dishes wobble dangerously as she thrashes about in her chair. “Leave me ’lone! I sad!”
Margaret tosses Anthony a worried look. “I don’t think she gets thankful yet. It’s making her upset. Can we let this one go? Please?”
“No,” Anthony replies sternly. “Bedtime. Take her now.”
Pumpkin’s eyes fill with tears and she immediately calms down. “No! I so sorry. I so sorry, Daddy.”
“Thank you for saying sorry, Pumpkin,” he replies. “But you still have to go to bed. Your behavior is very bad and Mommy and Daddy are very sad and frustrated.”
“I am bad! I am bad girl!” She screams as Margaret rises and grabs the toddler in her arms as she flails about. “Bad behavior! Bad!”
“Can we give her something to eat first?” Margaret shouts over Pumpkin’s screams, struggling to tame the redheaded beast of a child. “She hasn’t eaten since noon.”
“Don’t care. She ain’t gonna starve,” Anthony declares with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Good night, Pumpkin. Everybody say good-night to your sister.”
Nevaeh happily throws up the peace sign and Heaven and London mumble something that sounds similar to good night, but feels more like good riddance.
“I apologize for Pumpkin’s behavior, Tiffany,” Margaret says without actually looking at me, and, with Pumpkin thrashing about in her arms, excuses herself. A moment later I can still hear Pumpkin shrieking from somewhere deep inside the house.
Nevaeh whistles. “Get that kid a prescription. Stat.”
“Can you get her a prescription?” Heaven adds. “She doesn’t seem to be getting any better.”
“And Mom seems miserable,” London adds. “It’s not fair.”
Nevaeh nods. “We need to take a family vote. Pumpkin’s out of control. She needs medication.”
“She needs exactly what she’s getting,” Anthony states angrily. “Besides, no child of mine is going to be a victim of some whacked psychiatrist pushing pills.”
I swallow nervously.
“Now—I’m thankful for each and every one of you.” He smiles. It’s less of an I’m happy smile and more of an I’m done talking about this smile. “Let’s eat.”
* * *
“Babe, you outdid yourself this time.” Anthony exhales, pushing his empty plate away.
“Yeah. That was good,” I add as everyone else gives their personal praise for Margaret’s meal.
It actually wasn’t. There was a vegetable salad with some sort of brown tart dressing that gave me killer heartburn. Little brown pellets that everybody was calling keen-wah. I never had keen-wah before and I hope to never have it again after tonight. The grilled chicken wasn’t too bad, but it had pineapple salsa on top of it. Strange. And the pineapple mixed with the keen-wah, mixed with the In-N-Out burger I ate earlier made my stomach bubble. There was also fish soup that tasted like...well...fish. So many chunks of unknown stuff floating around in that bowl it took all my strength not to throw it all up. And I’m pretty sure I saw a fish eyeball in there. And for dessert we all had an un-birthday cake. Margaret bragged that it was gluten free. In fact, the whole meal was gluten free. Apparently, gluten is something else Pumpkin can’t have. No idea what gluten even is, but the cake tasted like coconut-flavored dirt balls, so my guess...gluten free is not a good thing. Mostly I’m glad this house comes with seven bathrooms because I am gonna need a toilet...soon. What if that wasn’t a meltdown Pumpkin had? What if she planned her escape?
“Play us a song on your guitar, Tiffany,” Heaven urges as we all make our way to sit around the glowing fire pit.
“Really?” I ask, surprised. “You guys want me to play?”
“Not if it’s gonna be ‘Hot Cross Buns’ or ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,’” Anthony jokes, and London cracks up like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard as she snuggles up beside Margaret on one of the couches surrounding the fire pit.
“I can go get your guitar for you,” Nevaeh offers.
“No, no. That’s okay. I’ll grab it.”
I excitedly race inside the house and up the stairs; within a minute I’m back, Little Buddy slung over one shoulder. I call my Gibson guitar Little Buddy. A four-thousand-dollar acoustic Grams bought me when I was twelve. Normally, we wouldn’t have been able to afford something so expensive, but Grams dipped into her retirement money and gifted me the fancy instrument. Mom was livid.
“A four-thousand-dollar guitar for a twelve-year-old?” Mom growled when I opened it on Christmas.
“It’s my money,” Grams replied with a wink in my direction. “Last time I checked, I was way past grown.”
“But, Mama,” Mom replied in frustration. “Tiffany’s not responsible enough for something like this.”
Only, Mom was wrong. I took extra special care of Little Buddy and was so enthralled with its magnificence I started practicing more and more and my skill level advanced exponentially. I even started teaching Mom some of the advanced techniques I was learning from YouTube. After I spent hours helping her un-learn some of her bad picking habits, she finally apologized to Grams and declared the guitar was the best thing to ever happen to our family.
Anthony brought a chair from the table, so now I’m seated in front of all of them, finally feeling at ease. When Little Buddy is in my hands, I’m not anxious or worried or sad. I’m my old self. The way I was before Mom got sick. Before she came home that fateful day and told me quite frankly: “Tiffany. I’m going to die.” Back when life seemed full of promise and happiness, where moms and daughters were best friends and never a lie was shared between them.
“What are you gonna play?” London
