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sorry, Cin. But … we’ll deal with it in our own way. We don’t want to talk about it. When I think about that night –’ His voice broke. ‘I won’t make him talk about it.’
    I heard what he didn’t say. That he didn’t want to hear what I had to say about that night.
    But he was right. I didn’t want to talk about it.
    ‘He’s withdrawing, Ray. He barely speaks any more.’ Her voice was choked with tears.
    ‘He’s
thirteen
. Reticence is normal for thirteen.’
    ‘If he was this way before, I’d agree. But he wasn’t. Hewas happy and communicative. Watching him with Rose gave me hopes of having sons who’d still talk to me and laugh with me and kiss me goodbye when they become teenagers. This isn’t normal behaviour for
Landon
– thirteen or not.’
    My father sighed again. ‘His mother is dead. How can he ever be normal again?’
    She sniffed, and I knew she’d begun crying softly.
    ‘I can’t discuss this any more,’ he said. ‘I appreciate your help, and Charles’s – but I just can’t –’
    ‘What if I find a therapist for him? What if I take him, and you don’t have to be involved, until you want to –’
    ‘
No
. Not … yet. Give him time.’
    ‘But –’
    ‘
Cindy
.’ That was his
I’m done
voice. I was all too familiar with it. When I wanted something my parents didn’t want me to have, Dad had always been the one to deliver the final no, and that was how he said it.
Landon
, and that scowl. No use arguing once I’d got that.
    Before I was born, the Maxfields and the Hellers began celebrating Thanksgiving together. They did it every year – through postdoc assignments on opposite coasts, Charles’s acceptance of an assistant professor position at Georgetown, and my father’s decision to take his PhD and work for the government instead of some university. After I came along, they kept the tradition, settling twenty minutes from each other in Arlington and Alexandria – both inside the Beltway.
    This year was supposed to be our year to host. Instead,Dad and I drove to their house, each silent, hating and enduring the stupid Christmas carols on the radio. Neither of us moved to change the station.
    My mother had loved holidays – all of them. For her, none were spoiled by too much hype or commercialism. She made heart-shaped cookies in February, oohed and aahed over fireworks in July, and sang along the moment Christmas carols began playing, no matter how many weeks it was until December 25th. I would never hear her voice again. My stomach heaved and my jaw clamped tight, my body launching a protest against the meal we were about to have. Without her.
    I sat in the front seat with a store-bought pumpkin pie on my lap and a can of whipped cream in a bag at my feet. We’d burned the edges of the crust, and Dad had scraped off the blackened parts, leaving the pie looking as though squirrels had broken into the house and sampled it. It had to be the most half-assed contribution the Maxfields had ever made to Thanksgiving dinner.
    I was smart enough to keep this thought to myself.
    The meal was bearable, but grim and pretty quiet until Caleb – who was almost four and still considered cutlery optional – stuck his finger through the whipped cream and pumpkin filling and then sucked it off.
    ‘Caleb –
fork
,’ Cindy said gently, for the fourth or fifth time since we’d begun eating. She rolled her eyes when Cole copied him. ‘
Cole
,’ she said less gently. I couldn’t help smiling when both brothers stuck their pie-coated fingers in their mouths. Carlie snorted a laugh.
    ‘Wha?’ Cole asked his mother, faking innocence, unapologetically sucking whipped cream from his finger.
    Giggling, Caleb copied his older brother. ‘Yuh – wha?’ Then, for some inexplicable reason, he glanced around the table, popped his sticky finger from his mouth, and lisped, ‘Where’s Wose?’ Everyone froze, and his eyes filled with tears. ‘Where’s
Wose
?’ he wailed, as