Home for Thanksgiving

Autumn blows in on the heels of summer each and every year, bringing crisp and clear days with cider-scented breezes and chills running down Kit's spine. It's her favorite season and always has been, she reflects, breathing in the fine day as she slams her car door and walks up to the old house; the sky pops with azure blue behind it, though a bank of gray clouds is building on the horizon. If only she could enjoy it properly. Brown leaves crackle underfoot. The wind tugs at her scarf, gray and cherry-red strips running across the wool, and she secures it with her free hand, as the other's clutching at a latte- not pumpkin spice, but still appropriately warm in her gloved hand.

Fallen leaves cartwheel over the sweeping, unkempt lawn. The house, Chicago brick with gaping, empty window-eyes, glares down at her approaching figure like a disapproving ghost. Kit returns its scornful gaze with an almost-breathless wonder, finally face-to-face with the house of her literal dreams. Every night last week, the house has featured in her dreams, just like in the pictures on the real estate site, but always a little brighter, a little shinier and freshly landscaped. Every night, she walked up to it just like she's doing now, stepped up and tried to see inside the windows, finally quit stalling and opened the door. Sometimes the door wouldn't budge, sometimes it was too dark to see, and sometimes she just woke up before she could pass the doorway; she never managed to enter the interior of her first real house. Now, however, she's finally doing it, wide awake.

Kit jiggles the key in the lock, which clicks and pops and finally releases the grand front door; it swings open without a touch, and Kit steps inside. Her boots echo in the empty gloom, bouncing from wall to wall, unfettered by people or furniture. It isn't the cheerful space she'd hoped for, in any shape or form, but she's determined not to throw in the towel so soon. Discouraging circumstances and disappointing houses can't bring her down.

Needing the warm, milky comfort of a good latte, Kit sips from the cup, and in slightly better spirits tugs off her wool scarf. There's no coat hooks on the wall, so she drapes it on the door handle, followed by her coat. The house is drafty, but her sweater can take it. She ought to begin, she knows that, but for a few halting moments she just looks around, searching for a way to get moving. Might as well familiarize herself with the layout, she decides; that way she won't get mixed up later. She's grown up in a house populated with screaming siblings, and without anyone or anything to fill it, the place feels like a ghost town.

Her mother can't comprehend why Kit bought this ancient house; she was the good child, with perfect grades straight through to the community college and neat manners. But this broken-down Milwaukee beauty, sold cheap after months on the market, is Kit's ticket out of her dead-end hometown with more cows than people. She wasn't going to let it slip away. "I can do this, whatever Mom thinks. I can do this on my own," she mutters, wishing she sounded braver, more determined. The empty enormity of her dream home places an uncertain quaver in her voice that she hasn't heard before.

The ground floor is plain as whole-wheat toast. Kit notes the ancient kitchen appliances, and wonders if she has room in her budget for new ones- probably not, so she'll have to make do with these. On her way to the second floor, the stairs groan under her cautious weight. The railing wobbles when she places a hand on it, and the bedroom door shrieks with hinges starving for oil as she peeks inside. A blank, white room, boasting no character or points of interest. Her sister is bringing what little furniture Kit owns tomorrow, but until then, she's stuck with a sleeping bag.

On to the attic. This door is worse than the bedroom's, and the inside is cramped but bare. A few boxes unneeded by the previous owners, inches of dust on everything, ragged spiderwebs crossing the narrow space; other than that, it's empty. Shivering in the dark, cold environment, Kit ducks under webs to reach the solitary window on the opposite side of the room. When she raises the shade, clean autumn sunlight pours through the glass, casting a slightly less threatening glow over the attic.

"Well." She downs another swig of coffee, one hand on her hip, and surveys the good points of the room. Once cleaned up- her arachnophobia shudders at the thought of cleaning this place- it'll be a cozy, cheerful little spot, a nice place to sit and drink buckets of coffee. "It might look a little dreary right now, but it has good bones," Kit decides, swiping a phrase she's heard on home renovation shows. She'll need to stop by Target and pick up some more cleaning supplies, adding another item to her mental to-do list.

Back outside, the wind catches her unawares and whips her feather-brown hair all around her head, slamming the door behind her without stopping to catch its breath. Kit tugs open her car door and, draining the remainder of her lukewarm latte, puts the now-empty cup in the driver's-side cupholder. What possessions she could fit in it are shoved inside the Subaru's trunk and backseat, which she rifles through now, yanking free the sleeping bag and phone charger but leaving the rest for later. It took several trips to pack this car, with her parents' disapproving silence echoed in their refusal to help with her struggles, and it'll take longer to unload everything- but she's up to the challenge. She has to be.

* * *

Morning in the empty bedroom dawns shivery and damp. Kit props herself up on one elbow, the wet cold of the morning seeping through her sleeping bag and into her bones. If she were at home, not sleeping on this unforgiving wood floor inside an old, empty house, she'd go downstairs and hug her knees in front of the fireplace while her mom flipped pancakes or fried eggs. She's one of those moms that makes breakfast into a full, homemade meal, not just a bowl of cereal. But Kit's an adult now, and it's high time she made herself breakfast. She always knew that her mom wouldn't be around forever. Still, she didn't imagine that it would happen like this.

Shaking her head, as if that will clear it out, she climbs groggily from the sleeping bag and presses her hand against the cold clarity of the window. A light rain spatters on the dirty glass, rolling down it in shaky teardrops and leaving behind smudged lines like a map of somewhere you don't want to be lost in. She allows herself a movie-heroine sigh, gazing up at the blanket of grey clouds for five distinct heartbeats, and then bends to grab her phone, abruptly enough to shake her growing homesickness. She pads down the stairs to the beat of rain on the rooftops.

The kitchen is painted with the bleak, colorless light of the shower outside, but at least the power works. Kit fumbles with her new coffee maker, a present from her friends back in her hometown; she made sure to bring it in yesterday, realizing she'd need it, but neglected to set it up until now. Soon its cheerful bubbling rises in the empty space, highlighting the room's lack of activity. She sleepwalks around the kitchen, empty mug in her hand, and peers into groaning cherry wood cabinets; one of these contains the sugar, but this early she can't recall which one. She finds it, the coffee's done, and her morning brightens a little with the tiny serendipity. Outside, the rain slows to a petering drizzle.

Lingering over her warm drink, Kit hasn't yet finished it when she hears a sharp rapping on the front door. That'll be her sister, ten minutes early even after a two-hour car ride. She gulps the last bitter drops of coffee, puddled at the bottom of the mug, on her way to the door, and pulls open the door a little too quickly. All at once, her sister's face appears, and Kit lets out a squeak as she grabs onto her. "Sara!"

"Kathrine!" Her sister's blueish eyes light up, and when Kit releases her from the hug, she sees her grinning like a jack-o-lantern. "You're in pajamas still. Have you even gotten your coffee?"

"Of course I have. I can't live without it, you know," Kit returns, grinning. The smile washes off after a moment, and she adds, "I'm starting to think I can't live without you, either. And the others."

Sara tilts her head like a curious pigeon. "You aren't going back, are you? I'm so proud of you, moving out even after Mom said all that. You've never been a farm girl."

"I- I don't know. This has been my dream for- well, for my whole life. Even in high school, when I got straight A's and studied past nine? That was so I could make it into a good college and get away from the farmland," Kit admits. She didn't realize, way back then, that it wasn't as simple as finding a new home. There's matters like money, loneliness, and that crippling fear of being forced to run home like a runaway puppy.

"Then you can't backtrack now. What are you going to do, throw away your whole life? Your dream? Come on." Sara steps back, making room for Kit in front of the door- where the welcome mat would go, if she had one. They stand huddled for a minute, shoulder to shoulder, and watch raindrops dripping from the overhanging roof. The icy wet air finds its way into the folds of Kit's pajamas and curls up on the tips of her nose and fingers, and she ducks inside to shiver into a scarf, coat and boots. Warmer, she rejoins Sara, and they murmur to each other about tiny things: the weather, the crops back home. They reminisce briefly about their favorite types of cheese, taking seriously their duty as native Wisconsinites. Kit looks her sister over through her peripheral vision, noting all the little details. Her sister has always been a prettier version of herself, with a smaller nose, hair slightly blonder, an inch taller. She can't find it in herself to be jealous. Then they tramp over to the car, where Sara's husband, Alan, helps them open the U-Haul.

"I never liked fall, because of days like this," Sara remarks as they hustle a chair into Kit's new home. "It's so gloomy, doesn't give you much reason to feel alive. Nothing but cold rain."

"It's my favorite season," Kit tells her, though she's beginning to doubt it for the same reason. It's hard not to feel homesick on a dreary day like this one. "There's always the good things: pumpkin picking- guess I can't do that out here- blue skies, ripe apples, salted caramel lattes..."

"Halloween," her sister adds. "Thanksgiving." She twists to face Kit, walking backwards up the porch step and through the doorway with surprising ease. "Will you be coming to Thanksgiving at the house?"

Kit bites her lip, searching for evasive answers. "I don't know," she finally, honestly answers. "Does Mom even want me to? She got... kind of heated during our conversation last week."

Her face twitching with a grim smile, Sara says, "That wasn't a conversation, it was a shouting match. It must've sounded clear as a bell to the neighbors three houses down- but don't go too hard on her. She was a little worked up, sure, but I'll bet she regrets some of what she said. Maybe she thinks city folks are 'uppity', but you're her daughter no matter where you live. I know she'll come around."

"Maybe... You don't know how hard it is to break the mold. All our first, second and third cousins settled down within fifteen miles, and you and Alan are right next door..." Kit's words slip away. "It's hard. And it's scary, actually. I don't know anyone here. I'm starting to wonder if I've made a terrible choice, and I know my mom isn't with me on it."

"Hm. You want to know a secret?" Sara leans in, and Alan coughs and heads back to the U-Haul for more furniture. "I've always wanted to move out, too. I wanted to drop everything, leave those smelly cows behind, and go to UCLA. I had it planned out, sort of. I would find a little apartment with a view of the ocean, maybe end up with a cat, date some guy with a motorcycle and a leather jacket, but never settle down with him. Travel, once I'd saved up a bit." Her soft, high voice is dead serious, and the honey-brown waves of her hair flutter but fail to distract Kit from the gravity of her sister's words. "But there's a point to this, so keep listening. I wanted to do all of that, but I couldn't let Mom down. I tossed out my plans and stayed here, met Alan, was pretty happy. Alan is great. I still wish things had turned out a little bit different, though, and I'm glad- so glad!- that you're braver than I am. Keep it up, okay? Don't let Mom's separation anxiety get to you. She'll accept it eventually, and then she'll understand why you did it."

"I wish," Kit laughs, to hide her whirling thoughts. "I... don't think I can come to Thanksgiving. If things work out, I'll have found a job by then, and that will keep me busy, I hope."

"They'll give you Thanksgiving off. It's a national holiday." When Kit doesn't respond, Sara nods sharply, down and not up again, and drops the subject. Her feelings on the subject are clear, but Kit's made her own clear, too. Thanksgiving is now officially a touchy subject.

* * *

The first snow of the year is turning gray and brown by the time Thanksgiving arrives and strikes fear into the hearts of poultry. Sara is, as always, on-point with her rust-colored dress and heels, just outside the center of attention with the extended family. Every tractor-driving uncle and pie-baking aunt is here, every blustering grandmother and quiet father-in-law. People are beginning to shift, mutter, or glance furtively at the table; a few stomachs growl in low tones; but the hostess hasn't made a move toward the table yet, and Midwest manners prevent anyone else from initiating dinner. Then Sara turns, her earrings jangling with the slight motion, and spies a young woman in a red sweater. She's leaned against the wall, almond-brown hair fixed carefully, and when she faces her, Sara's certain. She picks her way toward her.

"Have you talked to Mom yet?"

"What do you think?" Kit shakes her head lightly to affirm her sister's suspicions, and looks up at the concerned wrinkle floating over Sara's eyebrows. "I don't want to. I'm heading out soon; it's a long drive."

"I'm glad you came," Sara begins, fleshing out every word, "but Mom will want to see you. She feels awful, you know. You need to give her a chance."

"Why?" Kit narrows her eyes slightly. "She can't tell me what to do any more, and the sooner she realizes, the better. I can make my dream a reality with or without her."

"I know that. It's just..." Kit's sister breathes in sharply. "Remember what I said, how you're her daughter no matter what? Well, that has another side. She's your mom, whatever the two of you said to each other. You can't spend your life not speaking to her."

"Maybe." Kit sighs. "You're right. But not today, all right? I'll do it on my own terms, in my own house. Not now." She pauses, and then hurries on, "You won't tell her I was here, will you? I don't know what she'll think."

"If you don't want me to, I won't."

"Good. Goodbye."

* * *

Kit's home is dark when she arrives. She unwinds her scarf and shakes snow from her shoes, recalling her first day here and marveling at the changes the house has seen. It's cleaned up; the railing is fixed; and the kitchen- she walks into it, flipping on the lights- is missing the energy of a family, failing to reconstruct the atmosphere of her parents' home, but cozy behind the dark windows. It makes her smile, even as she sits down to a cup of coffee instead of a full turkey meal. She'll need the caffeinated buzz- she plans to stay up late tonight, writing an email for her mom. Maybe Christmas will be at her house, the house she's dreamed of, the house that's finally hers.