Remember Thursday - Kaige Gantzer (classic english novels TXT) 📗

It was like any other Thursday at our house. I really couldn’t have predicted what was to come. There was no particular calm before the storm, no notable warning of impending chaos.
The kitchen was uncomfortably hot, I recall feeling sticky under my flannel, yet the faulty oven door always leaked this inordinate amount of heat. Water boiling on the stove added to the rising temperature and humidity of the room. The radio was playing low with frequent static interruptions, adding background noise to the dishes clanging, cupboards slamming, and product packaging crinkling. The center island was covered in flour, batter, dried spaghetti sauce, onion skin, bread crumbs, and whatever other signs left for weeks, as if we were determined to prove our existence, if only by decaying remains of meals. The floor was in equally poor shape, covered in whatever had tumbled off the counters and with whatever our feet had drug in from outside.
Despite the condition of the kitchen, I felt satisfied with what I had prepared for the night; I had ripped the recipe out of a housekeeping magazine while sitting in the doctor’s office waiting room that day. It was a vegan lasagna recipe—really up-to-date with the latest dieting fashion. While the lasagna stayed warm in the oven and tea brewed on the stove, I went to lie down on the bed.
The room was refreshingly cool and the carpet was a relief from the kitchen tile. I went into the small connected powder room, stood on the rug, and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked worn out, but alert. My face was shiny from preparing dinner in the full heat of the kitchen. I noticed lines I hadn’t seen before and small bags under my eyes. Maybe I was older than I felt, maybe I really was ready for the news the doctor had given me that day. I slowly unbuttoned my shirt in front of the mirror and stared at myself. I wore a white bra with little puckers in the padding and give in the elastic from the age. Despite the padding and rough under wire, my breasts barely peaked out of the top of the bra. I moved my attention down to my ribs, which were still visible, though I’d gained weight that year. My stomach was white and flat until it bulged above my pants, creating one soft roll right under my belly button.
I looked away from the mirror and went to lie on my bed. The sheets were cool compared to the heat radiating from the kitchen. I got up to crack open a window and let in the biting fall breeze. My feet were sore from waitressing all day and standing in the kitchen that evening. The only rest they’d gotten was sitting in the stiff waiting room chair and then on the end of the examination table.
I laid back down on my bed and looked at the pattern of the ceiling. The plaster was mostly smooth with occasional bumps. I looked down at my stomach; the breeze coming through the open window was creating goose bumps to rise on my skin, making my stomach look like a reflection of the ceiling. At times I felt like this house was a part of me, so this reflection seemed all too familiar. The news the doctor delivered would only force me to become even more a part of this house. It would root me to the very foundation, chain me to the kitchen, and shackle me to the laundry machines.
Closing my eyes I pretended the breeze was carrying me away. The pillow was a cloud and I was somewhere way up in the stratosphere. This illusion lasted until I heard the front door open. He seemed to take up all the air in the house the minute he walked in. Maybe the illusion wasn’t over; there is very little air up in the stratosphere.
Footsteps down the hall, now on tile, he must be in the kitchen. Standing, waiting, what’s he doing? How long will he survey our messy life? 1, 2, 3, 4.. is that the oven opening? Oh please don’t open it; it still has at least 15 minutes to keep cooking.
Footsteps down the hall, getting closer. Maybe if I just keep my eyes closed he’ll think I’m sleeping. Oh god, I can smell him. Whiskey: There is no other scent like it. I’ll wait until tomorrow to tell him the doctor’s news.
“Put some god damn clothes on.”
I button up my flannel. He’s drunk and angry and besides that, I’m cold. Even more cold than I was before. The goose bumps aren’t just from the breeze anymore. There’s an impenetrable chill in the room now.
“It’s the fucking end of November. Why in the hell is the window open?”
Just close the window. You don’t have to answer. He’s drunk.
“Saw whatchya made for dinner.”
“Yeah, new recipe I found.”
We go to the kitchen. He swipes his arm across the table knocking a pile of dishes, newspapers, old food containers, and everything else we never bothered to clean up, on to the floor. Just ignore it. He’s drunk.
I pull the vegan lasagna from the oven. Maybe this will put him in better spirits—not that he hasn’t had his share of spirits for the night. I serve the plates, sit down, and wait. I want to see his reaction to it. I know he’s drunk; I still care what he thinks.
He’s not eating. He’s just sitting there, staring at the plate, not even looking at me. Please just try it. Please don’t get angry again, not today, too much has happened today.
“It’s fucking Thanksgiving.”
Oh god, is he kidding? No, he’s right. It’s Thursday. The last Thursday of November.
“I forgot. I’ve had a lot on my mind. Maybe we can celebrate tomorrow? It seems like it’s a bit late now.” Oh god, who forgets Thanksgiving?
“Hmph, what?”
“Well it’s just, some things. We can talk about it tomorrow or another time when you’re feeling better.”
“I feel fine, never been better.”
“Well, I’ve been feeling sick. Went to the doctor today. I’m pregnant.”
This was the last time I saw his face. He looked at me and just shook his head. He shook his head like I was a school girl who just told him I’d cheated on my exam or stolen penny candy. He was ashamed of me. I’d gotten pregnant. That’s how he saw it. I know it was. He never thought of it as him getting me pregnant. No, he wasn’t to blame. I got pregnant and I forgot Thanksgiving. Who has a family and forgets Thanksgiving?
He stood up and let the chair fall behind him. With a calm and steady stride he walked into our small office and closed the door.
A sound echoed every inch of our house, shaking the very foundation. A single BOOM rang out. I didn’t need to check to know what happened. I knew what happened because I felt free. I felt the chains holding me to the kitchen break, and the shackles crumble, and the foundation shook me free.
I called 911, told them my husband had shot himself in the head, then put away our leftovers, cleaned the kitchen until it shined, and did the laundry. Nothing else mattered anymore because my fetus and I were free. Nothing else matters, but I think next year I’ll remember to make turkey because now I have a family and something to be thankful for.

Publication Date: 12-28-2009

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