The 13th Gift Read Online Free PDF Page B

home, it is around seven p.m. I walk in the door regretting having gone into work so early. The extra hours at the office resulted in an additional story to write. I am tired. My feet hurt. Nick and Megan are sitting at the table with bowls of mac ’n’ cheese before them. Ben is not around, but his car is in the driveway, and I am encouraged to see that food is on the table.
    “Smells yummy.”
    The kids look at each other and freeze. I get no hello, or “how was your day?” The sense of relief I experienced walking through the door evaporates. I dump my coat and purse on the couch and sit down with Nick and Megan. Upon closer examination, the concoction in front of them looks like steaming bowls of cellulite. Nick’s dinner is smothered in Frank’s Red Hotsauce. Megan’s is garnished with more dill pickles than a McDonald’s uses in a day.
    “It’s not horrible,” Nick says feebly.
    “Where’s your brother?”
    “Basement.”
    In the kitchen I find the source of the cellulite. An empty jar of mayonnaise sits on the counter. There is no butter or milk in the refrigerator. I stomp off to talk to my eldest.
    I had promised Ben at his father’s funeral that I would not allow this death to force him into adulthood. I think that was the last time my son really listened to me. I try talking to him, but he is so angry—with me, his dad, life. His rage fuels mine, and we both explode with hurtful words and creep away exhausted by the effort. I don’t fear my son, but I fear what we will say to each other at moments when the truth of our family’s loss hits us broadside. When I hug him, he shirks me off. When I tread gently, he ignores me. When I yell, he yells back. I fear lightning will strike. Contemplating when it will happen or where keeps me on high alert and on edge.
    I can still hear the kids talking upstairs, and their conversation confirms there is a problem.
    “I hate this,” Megan says to Nick.
    “It’s not that bad.”
    “Not just the food, everything. We used to talk at dinner, about school and sports and stuff. I miss Mom’s roast beef sandwiches, and chicken and noodles.”
    “Tacos with black olives,” Nick adds to the list.
    Family meals used to be special. The television got turned off. Telephone calls went unanswered. Each of us shared the best of our dayand the worst. Now dinners consist of cold-meat sandwiches, salads, hamburgers from a bag, and apparently mac ’n’ cheese made out of mayo. There is very little conversation without Rick to lead it
.
    “Tell me about your day, princess.” Nick gives his best impression of their dad. “How about you twirl some macaroni on that fork for me.”
    Of Italian descent, their father had given his fine-art-of-eating-pasta demonstration every time spaghetti appeared on the menu. Megan’s utensil scrapes against her bowl, and I imagine my children attempting to spin the mac ’n’ cheese around it, even though the elbow noodles aren’t twirling material.
    “No cutting spaghetti noodles in our house,” Nick continues his dad impersonation.
    The sound of Megan’s laughter weighs me down, and I pause. I want to go upstairs and share these memories with my children. I want to march downstairs and get Ben to fess up about the dinner, but my body is stone. I can’t move. I just lie down on the couch and listen.
    “I don’t want to forget Daddy’s way of twirling spaghetti on a fork,” Megan says softly.
    Her comment quiets Nick. The two remain silent for the rest of the meal, which doesn’t take long. The garbage disposal runs a long time and I suspect neither of them ate much. The aroma of pulverizing dill pickles wafts all the way to the family room.
    “It’s your turn to do dishes,” Nick’s parting comment, before his footsteps thump up the stairs to his room.
    “Why is it always my turn?” his sister calls after him.
    A few minutes later, Megan is kneeling on the floor in frontof the couch and prying open my right eyelid. She