Thanksgiving: Part II

Essay #11

At Thanksgiving dinner, Chloe was the star. She was intriguing before she even opened her mouth and revealed her Aussie accent. Everyone back home had heard about my new friend, who had Brazilian, French, and American passports. With her credentials, she could have been in the CIA, or working for the U.N. The fact that she was giggling with me in my basement instead was thrilling. I felt more interesting by proximity to her.

“This is Chloe’s first Thanksgiving!” I announced to the table, as if Sasquatch and the Pilgrims were coming to lay maize at her feet.

She had been nervous about what to wear, dressing ultimately in a black satin top and jeans (the top I’m wearing as I write this). While carefully spooning items onto her plate, she fielded questions from all sides about her life story. Lila, ever the hard-hitting journalist, asked her what her plan was now that she was in NYC. Her tone was, okay, so your yoga gig fell through…now what???

“I guess I’m going to crash with Car for a while,” Chloe replied, “I’m trying to figure that out.”

“Not everyone has it all figured out, Li,” I told her. She was a planner, and she couldn’t begin to fathom why we lived as we did.

Chloe described her father, the strident Frenchman, a frequent topic of conversation between us. Her Papa wanted her to get some life direction and stop trying on different careers and countries.

“It’s good to get away from him,” Chloe explained, “Now I don’t have to depend on anyone.”

“Except Carson,” Lila interjected loudly.

I gasped, shooting Chloe an apologetic look. How could Lila talk to my new friend like that, on her first Thanksgiving no less? I should explain that Lila and I have a very sisterly relationship. She and my brother had been best friends since high school, when she was a tomboy in cleats and he had a soft-spoken Michael Cera thing going on. He brought her around all the time, and she and I became friends. Then, in their mid 20s, they upgraded from BFF to BF/GF. Now they were engaged. Yes, their story carried a certain Dawson and Joey adorability to it. Next year, Lila would become my actual sister. It was very fitting, because she had always talked to me like a sister. With my friends, I was sweet and borderline cordial, but with Lila, we could bicker and make plans to go to Starbucks in the same breath. When I was hungry in Brooklyn, she sent me money without being asked. She’s the only friend I would feel comfortable accepting money from, because I felt like we were built to withstand eternity. Any debt or misdeed would bounce off us, a ping pong ball against steel. She loves very simply and bigly, and though she will find fault with your details, it never occurs to her to lessen her embrace. She is Lebanese, and I think she is very Lebanese in love and friendship. Picture the archetypal Arab grandmother, telling you you’re getting fat, with no intention of being mean, just trying to help you stay pretty and get married. Yash understands Lila perfectly. He thinks saccharine sweetness and the “cancel culture” when someone doesn’t live up to your expectations are bizarre American paradoxes.

Ordinarily, I appreciate Lila’s tribal, protective nature. But now, as I watched Chloe’s stung expression, I felt protective over her. That was a major Yellowcard! I told Lila telepathically.

After the meal, my brother and Lila went to her parent’s house to do a second dinner with them. Chloe and I retired to my living room to discuss Li’s rude comment. We were full of my Mom’s turkey and challah bread stuffing and mashed ruttabaga (it’s an Irish Pennsylvania delicacy) and. Aunt Mon’s apple pie.

“I can’t believe she said that, babe,” I said, slugging my Jameson rocks. We had access to a never-ending rivulet of alcohol here. On the wine rack rested an octave of cabernets and noirs, waiting to be uncorked. Yesterday, we would have needed to forgo dinner to afford a bottle. Today, we drank like Marie Antoinette. I switched easily and immediately back into hedonism, but the paradox still floored me. It’s kind of like when you go home. in college, and your parents text you at 9 pm, asking why you weren’t home from the grocery store yet. Don’t they know that three days ago, you were out until 3 at a paint party, surrounded by a peninsula of molly, coke, and sex??

“I know,” Chloe said, looking bleary-eyed. “What did I do to her?”

I rolled my eyes, “She’s probably jealous because you took away attention from her wedding.” (Lila won’t like it when she reads this, but I said it).

Hours later, Lila blew up my phone, urging me to come over to play games with her family. This was a long-standing tradition. She has a big, fun family, all of them with jet-black hair, all quick to laughter, loving games and pranks and togetherness. However, I was too full and sleepy to make the trek over.

“Should I go?” Chloe asked me, to my disbelief. I didn’t understand why she’d want to go visit with a house full of strangers, especially when one had blistered her.

She went, and I went to bed, lobotomized by an ocean of drinks. I felt a weird prickle in the dusk before sleep, when the walls of reality sink into a dream quagmire: I could have drinks and go to bed, and be at peace. Chloe could not. She was always looking for something outside herself to caulk the big chasm within her. She had no off switch, and there was no end in sight.

The next day, we did lunch at my mom’s restaurant. We ordered all the delicious food we had promised ourselves. My mom was there, zipping around and greeting her patrons, occasionally stopping at our table to offer some funny anecdote. There was a happy buzz in the air; a lot of people from high school were home for the holiday.

Our server, Orion, didn’t have time to dote on us, (by that, I mean he forgot to refill our waters the whole meal). But when he came over, he proffered the smile that earned him 25% tip from all menopausal women.

“Did you have fun at Li’s last night?” I asked her.

“I guess,” she rolled her eyes. “But can we definitely go out tonight?”

“Of course!” I toasted the idea with my glass of red. I knew I didn’t have a drinking problem, because I only drank whiskey after 5. “You know how I am, babe. I take one night off, and I’m powered to go the next night.”

That evening, we went to the lounge that connects to my mother’s restaurant. It’s very Miami-esque, with white couches and turquoise walls. My best friend, Cody, was there, ever the man-about-town. He took an instant liking to Chloe, because I liked her, and because he loves all things that glitter. He’s an expert on sussing out the good kind of crazy. If Clo got his seal-of-approval, this boded well for her future on the whole.

“Can I have some angel dust, babe?” she whispered in my ear, over the bumping house music from the DJ’s corner.

“I’m sorry, Clo.” I explained to her that I was nearly out, so I wasn’t in a position to use it recreationally.

She asked again, and again I said no.

When I got up to go to the bathroom, I saw her dip her hand into my purse, grab my pill pottle, wet her finger, and dip it in the loose powder.

My party mood soured, but I didn’t say anything to them. If I did, it would come out as a shout, and possibly rupture things between us forever. I felt violated, as though someone had just taken a piss in my flower beds.

We went to another bar around the corner. It was usually a college bar, but since the kids were home, it had been taken back by townies. Many people from high school were out, especially kids a few grades below me. I had a series of great catch-ups with a few girls I hadn’t seen in years. I wanted to introduce Chloe, but she had disappeared into the crowd.

At one point, when I went to pay my tab, I went looking for her. I found her in tight conference with a few kids I went to high school with, who graduated the year after me. I knew them by name, of course, because our town is incestuous, but we had never spoken before.

“I know a guy I can call…” I heard one of them telling her.

Chloe glanced at me, flashing her beautiful veneers. “There you are, babe! Are you having fun?”

“What are you guys talking about?” I asked. They all looked shifty-eyed. Chloe sipped her drink and admitted, “We were going to see if we could get on our hands on some real angel dust, babe…”

“What, coke?” I said incredulously. “Why would you want to do that?” I didn’t mean it in the D.A.R.E sense, I meant it in the sense that it was already 2 am. I was 29 and tired. I had seen all the night had to offer. I had truffle fries and Jameson in my belly. I was ready to go to bed, wake up at 9:30, and help my mom make brunch.

I told them as much, not caring if it sounded lame.

“I think I’ll stay out,” Chloe said.

“Are you sure?” I asked, pulling her aside.

I saw by the steely, untired look in her eyes that she was.

On my Uber home, it occurred to me that Chloe didn’t know my address by heart. I had no idea how much money she had. How would she get home? Would she be okay?

By noon the next day, she still wasn’t back.

Nor by 2 pm.

Nor by 5.