Chapter Twenty-One: Thanksgiving

I never could have another peaceful Thanksgiving after that one.

"Gordon Johnson, for heaven's sake, get a move on. You and Gordie are going to be late."

Gordon crossed his arms and looked down at his mother, who glared back up at him with a defiance he had rarely seen in his lifetime. "Mother," he said, "I don't like the idea of you spending Thanksgiving alone. You should come with us to Penny's."

"Well it's a very good thing that I am not alone for Thanksgiving, darling. Phoebe's right upstairs."

"Mother, I hardly think that-"

Patience put a hand on her son's forearm, willing peace into his body, an act she had been trying and failing at for thirty-six long years. "Please, Gordon," she said. "It's a holiday. I don't want to fight."

Gordon looked like he very well would do whatever he pleased, but just then Gordie entered the room, stuffing a small paperback into his suit pocket. "Ready, Dad?" he asked.

There was a small sigh of resignation and then Gordon said, "Go get in the car, Gordie. It's cold outside." Gordie smiled and gave Patience a quick hug, then hurried past his father and through the front door. "Now, Mother, are you sure-"

"I'll be fine, Gordon," she said, pushing him toward the door. "Give Penny and Patty my love."

"We won't be late."

"You never are, dear."

Gordon raised an eyebrow and Patience gave a small wave, then shut the door behind him, leaning back against it and letting out a sigh of relief. Much as she loved her son, he was a huge pain at times. He's just looking out for you, she told herself. And she knew it was hard for him. Between losing his father at such a young age and Elizabeth's death he had turned into a compulsive worrier. Gordie, unfortunately, would suffer the worst of it.

The children always did, after all. Patience knew that very well. And at least Gordon wasn't the scatterbrained, starry-eyed lost soul she was. Patience shook her head. This week was an unusual exception to the norm of the past few decades; for the first time in years she felt grounded, bitter, and tired. She thought she might prefer her other personality more.

The problem was, of course, that her oldest and dearest friend was ill and there was nothing either of them could do to stop what was inevitably coming. The reality of the situation had brought Patience back to earth, momentarily. After all, if she wasn't going to be there for Phoebe in her hour of need, who was.

She went to the kitchen and poured two bowls of the chicken noodle soup she had made (hardly the feast she knew her daughter would be preparing, but enough for two old girls to get through the night). And they could still give thanks, too.

"Phoebe," she said, entering her cousin's room and smiling broadly. "Ready for the best Thanksgiving dinner of your life?"

Phoebe managed a weak smile, and Patience felt the same stab of pain in her heart that she had been feeling for some time now. It had been what finally jolted her back to reality (it was also, coincidentally, what had sent her away from it).

She set the bowls down on the dresser and pulled out the two trays she had beneath her arm, settling one onto Phoebe's lap, and the other on the chair near her bed. Then the soup went onto both trays and she carefully picked up her own tray and sat down. "I hope you're hungry," she said.

"We have to give thanks first," said Phoebe, coughing a little and clearing her throat. "Tradition."

Patience nodded. "I am thankful for my wonderful, loving family," she said.

"You use that every year," said Phoebe. Patience shrugged.

"Well then, I'm also thankful that very soon I'll have a loving grandson-in-law to put my ring to good use."

"Much better," said Phoebe.

"Yes, well, it's your turn now."

Phoebe swallowed and looked up at the ceiling. "Oh, well I don't know," she said.

"Hurry up," Patience teased. "The soup is getting cold."

"I'm thankful," Phoebe said, all the while still staring at the ceiling, "that in my lifetime I had a beautiful cousin through whom I could live the family life vicariously, without actually having to give up my wild ways."

"Ah, so that's where Penny gets that wild spirit from."

Phoebe smirked, and finally looked back at Patience. "All the good qualitites come from distant cousins, dear. Everyone knows that."

"Yes, well on that note, I suggest we eat."

They both dug into their soup, albeit, Patience a little faster than Phoebe, whose hands were shaking rather badly. One outward gesture of help that suggested Phoebe was incapable of anything, though, would end with spilled soup all over the bedspread. Patience knew her cousin better than anyone. And Phoebe was the only one who knew her.

Part of Patience wanted to speak out against the elephant in the room. They both knew Phoebe was dying, and they both knew it was merely a matter of time, but neither one had yet to admit it. The rest of the family, with the exception of Gordie, who was sometimes too smart for his own good, was living in denial.

It wasn't until Phoebe put down her spoon and leaned her head back against the pillow, that she spoke again. "You know, Patience," she said, "I must say that I have had seventy-four wonderful years of life."

"Mostly good?" asked Patience.

"Mostly," said Phoebe. "And I think 1969 is a grand year to die."

Patience shrugged. "I'm personally holding out for the 1970s."

"Well," said Phoebe, "you would."

They both smiled, a sad truth twisting through both of their hearts and Patience was just opening her mouth to speak when they were interrupted by the doorbell.

"Expecting company?" asked Phoebe.

Patience shook her head. "I'll be right back," she said.

She went downstairs as quickly as she could at her old age and pulled open the door. To her shock, there stood Victor, clearly intoxicated, and looking as though he'd been through hell and back.

"Victor!" she said. He swayed back in forth in front of her and raised a hand in salutation.

"Hello," he said. "I'm here to give you back your ring."

Patience stared at him, trying to decipher the slurred rambling and finally realizing what he meant when he thrust the ring box she had given to him right in her face.

"What?" she said. "Why, Victor? I told you you could have it." She shook her head, confused. "Come in, okay? We'll get you some coffee and-"

"No!" said Victor, and he forced the box into her hand. "I can't have it. Patty said no."

"She said what?" asked Patience, stunned. "She said no?"

Victor nodded emphatically, swiping a hand across his eyes and heaving a great sigh.

"But why?"

"Don't know."

Patience shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts away and concentrate on Patty. She had been so sure of her granddaughter's feelings.

"I gotta go now," said Victor. "I got a taxi."

"Well I'm very glad you're not driving, Victor," said Patience, "but we're not through yet. I don't care if Patty said no, I think you should keep the ring and try again."

"No!" said Victor. "She doesn't want me."

"You listen to me, young man," said Patience, pulling every ounce of strength she possessed inward. "I don't care if she told you no, I know my granddaughter very well and I tell you right now that she's not thinking clearly. Now if you just wait and let me talk to her, maybe we can sort this out."

Victor blinked several times and gaped at her. "You'll talk to her?"

"Only if you take this back," she said.

Victor stared at the ring box for several long seconds, maybe just trying to focus on it, and finally swiped it out of her hand. "I'll guard it with my life," he said.

Patience nodded. "Of course you will. Now," she said, taking him by the arm and leading him down the stairs, "you go home and go right to bed. Get a nice long sleep, and I'll go sort things out with Patty, okay?"

"'Kay."

"Good," said Patience, and she opened the door of the taxi and helped Victor inside. She waited until Victor managed to give the driver his address and then shut the door and watched the cab hurry away before going back indoors. If nothing else, at least now she could reassure Penny that Victor really was wild about Patty.

What in the world was going on with Patty? Patience could understand perfectly well if her granddaughter didn't feel a thing in the world for Victor, but she didn't really believe that was the case. And she knew all too well about doubt and grief and regret. She would not let Patty make the same mistakes she did.

"Phoebe," she said, walking back into the room, "you've got to help me decide how to tell Patty about Arnold."

But Phoebe couldn't help. And as Patience looked down at her cousin's lifeless body on that Thanksgiving, she felt more lost and alone than she had in all of her life.