Author's Note: This is the final excerpt that I will post for this novel. Look for it in ebook format. In the meantime, feel free to visit any of my webpages, site or forum, to read about happenings or to leave me a note. You can also take the character quiz. You guys are the best.

Take care.

EA

Thanksgiving dinner will take place at Mom and Dad’s as usual. Year after year, my parents and I made the full extent of the invited. This year, the guests double to include Elliot, and my sister and her fiancé. Liza had been invited, but she declined, stating she should perform her familial duties and visit her parents in Boston; poor girl tries hard to fix that frail relationship.

This should be interesting. Even though four sixths of the guests are relatives, myself included, I’m wracked with worry over the dinner, especially since Mom wants me to bring dessert.

I spend the entire morning in the kitchen, unable to decide whether to make the pecan, apple, or pumpkin pie. I’m sure Mom meant for me to buy the pastry, but for some reason I feel Betty-Crockery and want to try my hand in the mix, literally, though my success with confectionary goods has been shaky at best. I think I made brownies in Home Ec. No one wanted to partner with me, since I wouldn’t share the oven mitts and insisted every utensil be washed three times at least; as for test tasting, that was disallowed.

Staring down at the three recipes before me, I opt to make them all. Dinner isn’t ‘til six anyway, and it’s only nine fifteen. I have plenty of time to make three individual pies, while working on compiling my resource list for the Creative NonFiction project, and maybe I can add a page or two to my story. Why not? Elliot’s not around to tease me about names, or make moaning and groaning noises behind me as he occasionally does when an intimate scene takes precedence. Then he gets himself so worked up …. The point is, he took the morning to meet his boss in the city, leaving me free to multitask.

Twisting my unkempt locks into a high bun, I proceed to sterilize the kitchen, eradicating the threat of E. Coli or Salmonella from contaminating the fresh foods. After forty-five minutes of mopping, wiping and airing out the eight-by-ten area, I preheat the oven, and turn my gaze to the recipes yet again.

“Eenie, meenie, minie, mo…” is how I base my decision on which pie to start with. My finger lands on the pumpkin. I pull out all the required ingredients I need, minus one – there’s no pumpkin, not even that horrible pumpkin in a can mix.

“Well, pumpkin, that takes you out of the candidacy,” I joke, carelessly fingering the glossy paper containing the step-by-step directions. “Next time then.”

I proceed to the apple pie, knowing that I’m stock full of that fruit since I believe in its reputed power of keeping “the dentist away”. OCD and dental visits don’t go well at all, since it requires hands in an individual’s mouth – the easiest access for all microbiological warfare - and you wouldn’t believe me if I told you the horrendousness of my last visit. If Dr. Wasu hadn’t knocked me out with the gas, he might have rendered me unconscious with a blow to the head to quiet the screaming and shaking, from me of course.

Peeling and slicing the apples in no time, I toss them into the pan with some sugar and settle in front of the computer to finalize my compilation of cited sources for Tristan E.’s assignment. Deciding not to procrastinate on the matter, I work diligently to finish the entire list in one sitting. I don’t know how long I tab, italicize and double space, but just as I finish entering the last item, the whiff of something rather piquant catches my attention.

“Shit!” I cry, knowing what’s become of the apple slices. Sure enough, as I hastily move the pan from the burner, sending some of the frittered fruit flying across the stovetop, I see that the slices are a scorched black instead of the golden brown represented in the picture.

Woefully, I release a sigh, resting against a countertop. I know perfectly well that I should give up the notion of baking, but wanting to impress the guests, Chester especially, I go for my third attempt with the Pecan Pie.

I look through the list of items. “Eggs, sugar, salt, corn syrup, vanilla, pie crust and pecans,” I read aloud. Opening the cabinet above me, I find a bag of the prized items. Ok. This should do. I should be fine. “No writing, Erika. You’ve only got one more chance at redemption, and then that’s it. It’ll be Entenmann’s Chocolate Marble Cake.”

Following the recipe step by step, I stand guard in front of the oven, not even pulling up a seat until the said forty-five minutes are up. Something could happen while retrieving a chair. The phone rings a couple of times as well, but I don’t bother answering. If it’s important, the caller will leave a message.

My feet and back ache, and sweat glistens on my brow, but I don’t flinch. Finally, the timer buzzes, and after securing the oven mitts, I retrieve my prized good from the stove’s belly. It sparkles picture-perfect under my 100 watt bulb lighting; something savoring of pride swells inside me. It’s nice from time to time to actually win a battle, even if it is against inanimate objects.

Settling the pie down carefully on a cooling rack, I pull off the gloves and release a satisfied sigh. However, I don’t have long to revel in my silent celebrations as the phone rings once more.

“Hello?”

“Erika,” Mom’s voice crackles through as she gets right to the heart of the matter. “I forgot to tell you to bring rolls as well. Your father didn’t have a chance to pick some up at the bakery and he’s already on his way to the airport to get Diane and Chester.”

My confidence sweltering, I could make lobster bisque if I had to. “Sure thing,” I compromise myself.

“Great, oh, and make sure it’s enough to feed eight.”

“Eight? Did you forget Bob and Betsy aren’t around?” Who else could she have possibly invited – unless Dad’s side of the family finally decided to join us? Uncle Alfred and his wife Pamela live in Camden, New Jersey and rarely make an appearance. Just goes to show you how the Seals blood is quiet and reserved. I don’t quite know where I came from.

“Your friend Liza called me to say she had a change of plans. She’s not going to Boston to see her parents and wanted to know if the invitation was still open. She tried calling you, but said no one answered.”

“Yeah, I was busy watching the pie.”

There’s a pause on the phone, and I know my mother wonders why I’d prefer to stand and watch a pie as opposed to tending to a phone call. She doesn’t press the matter and I don’t offer any more information. Such are our conversations.

“So who’s the other person?” I ask, eager to hurry the conversation.

Mom mumbles something unintelligent into the mouthpiece. Sounds like… Varichela?

“Holy shit, Mom!” I suddenly cry out. “You did not invite Maricela!”

“Watch your mouth, young lady,” she reprimands swiftly and sternly. Mom absolutely hates it when I curse, but sometimes it just slips out. After mumbling my apologies, I try again.

“Why did you invite her?” How am I going to tell Elliot?

“Well… I know what you’ve told me about her, and I know how she’s treated you… but she’s all by herself Erika-”

“How’d you get her number?” I’m boggled by this. It’s not every day my mother floors me, but she manages to do so now.

“I asked Elliot for it,” Mom actually confesses.

“What? When?” I can’t believe this. It’s a good thing that pie sits safely on the stove; I’d have forgotten all about it by now.

“Just this morning. I got to thinking about that crazy girl all by herself in her apartment, and – I know you’re not going to like the comparison – but I thought about my girls. She’s a mix of you and Diane, though neither of you are as mean-spirited, thank goodness. She has your sister’s intellectual air combined with your neuroses.”

“Thanks a lot, Mom.” Geez. My folks were never ones for building confidence.

“The point is, she’s lonely and scared, and from your own admission, seems to want to change, and it looks like she needs your help.”

“My help?” I echo in disbelief. I can’t even help myself, not through therapy or medication or education or love. The thought of anyone relying on me for support frightens me.

“She needs a friend. And though I can’t force you to choose your associations, at least I can invite her over to ease a bit of her loneliness. And who knows? Maybe her interest in other things will rekindle and she can move on, instead of harboring this resentment towards you.”

Wow. Since when has come become such an expert in life and internal healing? That’s the soundest advice I’ve ever heard her give. Figures she’s not really offering it to me.

“Honestly, Mom, I’m not looking forward to dinner, but at least I don’t have to worry telling Elliot about it. How did he react when you told him?” I wince at the image of his face receiving the news. If it was anything like the night he caught Maricela and I reviewing the contract, then it must have been scary.

“He didn’t say much. I asked him if he minded and he told me he did, but understood why I did it. I love that boy. He’s just so mature and steady. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

Yes Mom. I know. However, I don’t respond. The last thing I want to tell her is how the best thing that ever happened to me might leave.

Mom clears her throat. “So, butter rolls if you can find them. We’ll see you tonight, sweetie. And don’t forget to take your medication.” She abruptly hangs up.

I stare at the phone until I hear the dial tone return, only one thought crossing my mind. What will dinner bring for us all?