12 Hours to Thanksgiving (part 1 of 3)

It all started with me tearing my coat. It had cost me more than I should have spent (I was pretty broke), but when I put it on, I felt different, as though a new me emerged from the bedroom — a confident, collected me, not the waffling, disorganized girl who had looked back at me in the mirror for the past twenty-four years.

I was turning my life around, giving it a direction. I’d worked in Mr. McGregor’s coffee shop a few blocks away for the past two years after graduating college with a Liberal Arts degree. I was tired of hearing Aunt Eunice’s “So, got a real job yet, Helen?” every holiday (partly, it must be admitted, because I did need to get a real job. Just like I needed to get a life).

My weekdays went like this: 

5 AM: Alarm goes off
5:20 AM: I press the snooze button one last time
5:25 AM: I realize I have five minutes to get to work
5:36 AM: I walk into work. Cue a sarcastic comment about punctuality from Bobby, our resident “chef”. Nick’s already there, of course, helping finish up the morning pastries. (“He’s always on time, despite living five blocks further away than you do,” Bobby helpfully points out.) I brew coffee and ready the dining area
6 AM: We open
6:01 AM: Mr. Ellis comes in and orders his usual (French roast, black, and blueberry pancakes)
10 AM: Break — alone time to consider my pitiful existence and eat granola bars from the vending machine
2 PM: I get a talking to by Mr. McGregor about something I’ve done wrong during the day. Nick walks home with me, listening in sympathetic silence to my complaints
2:10 PM: Nap time
5 PM: Mom (or insert other random relative) calls to “check up”
5:30 PM: I eat dinner (either Mom’s convinced me to come home for dinner or I eat take-out in my apartment)
7 PM-12 AM: I write

Those last five hours were, without a doubt, the best part of my day. I’d sit down at my computer, turn on some Michael Buble or a movie soundtrack, and let the words just flow out, pages and pages of them. Sometimes it would be an exhilarating adventure story, sometimes a winsome romance, sometimes a sweeping epic of a Dostoevsky-ic nature, sometimes an offbeat sci-fi story. Often it would be a meld of whatever genre of book I was reading with the tv show with which I was currently obsessed. But the writing was always uplifting and wondrous. Until the weekend, that is.

I hated weekends. That’s when it would hit me — how boring my life was and how it was frittering away. (Thank you, Aunt Eunice. I’d see her every Sunday at church and she’d never fail to mention how accomplished all my siblings and cousins seemed in comparison with me.) Normally, I really didn’t mind being alone. I liked being on my own, making my own decisions. To be honest, parties scared me; I never knew what to do at them. Still, for some reason, every Saturday night, I’d get antsy. I’d peer out the window and see people going places and realize that I was going nowhere.

To shake off the restlessness, I would open my word document and look at the pages I’d written the past week. I would then shut my laptop with a snap or, occasionally, put my head down and cry. Somehow, between the evenings after work and Saturday night, my stories would lose all their magic. The plots were so thin and full of holes they couldn’t strain spaghetti. The characters, who I had thought were complex and fascinating, turned out to be cut out of cardboard. They weren’t great and profound, they were just little parts of me, not especially clever or interesting, not even funny.

I had a particularly bad Saturday the weekend before Thanksgiving. I’d actually finished one story and thought it was pretty good. So, I’d sent it in to a couple of different publishing companies. I got the first rejection letter on Saturday. Ouch.

Still, by the middle of the week, things were looking up. While researching publishers, I’d found an advertisement for a job opening at one company and impetuously filled out the application. I didn’t really have anything much to recommend me besides my enthusiasm, but the position didn’t seem to need much experience. Surprisingly enough, they were interested and arranged a meeting on Thanksgiving morning. That should have been a sign…

Thanksgiving and I have always had a bad relationship. There was the Thanksgiving two of my older brothers bet me I couldn’t eat more than them. I made myself sick for the entire next week and I didn’t even win. Or the time Uncle Leo had taken all the cousins on a Thanksgiving morning hike, and I contracted a really bad case of poison oak. Or the time we decided to have a talent show. I’d practiced Now Thank We All Our God for a week on my flute and could play it in my sleep. Come showtime, I couldn’t get past the first bar. I just repeated that for two minutes until my father told me to sit down. And Aunt Eunice got it all on tape. Oh yes, and that time, when I was fifteen, and I tripped over nothing and sprawled face-first into the cream cheese jello, in front of all my older brother’s college friends.

Then there was last year’s Thanksgiving. The whole family was already gathered together, but not to celebrate. Last Thanksgiving had been the day after Dad’s funeral.

I told myself this year’s Thanksgiving was going to be different than the other years’. I hoped this year was going to be different.

The First Hour: 8 AM

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. It was one of those times when I knew it was going to be a bad day; I just didn’t feel up to being happy. My alarm, on days I can sleep in, is supposed to wake me up to soothing classical music. Instead it startled me with that obnoxious the-world-is-coming-to-an-end-run-for-cover beeping. It always gave me a headache, and that morning was no exception.

So, I got up, took a shower, ate breakfast. I tried putting on a little eyeliner. That went okay, so I put on a little more. My left eye looked good, and my right eye looked fine, but, together, they were like something out of a Picasso painting. I went to take a little off the right side and smudged it. As usual, I ended up chucking it and deciding, unprofessional as it might look, to go plain-faced.

I checked out my closet and sighed. I was always strapped for cash, what with student loans and a monthly rent to pay. (Mom had offered to help, but I couldn’t accept. She wasn’t too badly off, but she had to be more careful now that Dad was gone. There were still hospital bills to pay.) The one new piece of clothing I had was the white peacoat. I grabbed that and the only pencil skirt I had, a heavy, durable black one that didn’t show its age. Light grey blouse, mostly covered by the coat. I had trouble deciding between my black flats and more daring strappy white heels. I glanced in the mirror: nearly-curly brown hair pulled back into a loose bun; thin, pointed nose; wide mouth (a bit too wide in my opinion); light hazel eyes. Not ugly but nothing special. My five-six frame could use a couple inches. Heels it was.

Yes, I thought as I checked the mirror again, I looked like a professional, capable young woman. Or like I was trying too hard.

I was still contemplating this doubt when my cellphone rang.

“Hello?”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Sweety!” Mom, upbeat as always.

“Happy Thanksgiving to you, too!” I forced enthusiasm into my voice. I wasn’t very convincing, I’m sure, but I never was.

Mom, considerately, decided to ignore it. “An update on dinner: Josh and Clare can’t make it until seven, since they’re having an early luncheon at her parents’ place. So, dinner’s at seven now. But your other brothers and sisters are coming around five.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll try to make it by five.” I grabbed my black-and-white Gucci bag (thank you, Goodwill!) and headed out of the room. As I walked through the door, my coat caught on something and jerked me backwards. I lost my balance, nearly twisting my ankle, and sat down with a thump.

I’d forgotten about the nail that stuck out of my door post. The one I had been too lazy to pound back in.

“Helen? Are you there?” I could hear my mom’s tinny voice coming from where I’d dropped my phone.

I reached for it with one hand while unstrapping my shoes with the other. “Yeah, I’m here. Just a wardrobe malfunction.” Forget the stupid heels. I had to walk to the metro station anyways, since my car was out of commission. Again. I stepped into my more comfortable flats.

“Going in for your interview soon?”

“Leaving now.”

“I’ll let you go then. I’ll say a prayer that it goes well.”

“Thank you.”

“One last thing. Could you get a few groceries for tonight? I’m swamped.”

“Sure, Mom. Text me a list.”

I hung up and shut the door to my apartment. Take a deep breath, I told myself. What’s the worst that could happen? You don’t get the job. That’s fine. You still have your old one.

I straightened my back, squared my shoulders, and smiled a bit. I didn’t even trip going down the front steps.

The Second Hour: 9 AM

It was cold outside but I didn’t mind. I liked the walk to the metro. Today, I felt strangely light, like one who has fulfilled the heavy burden of a promise made long ago. I enjoyed being out and about in the holiday bustle of the city.

I reached the station and rifled through my purse. I didn’t have any money (I always procrastinated about getting cash until the last possible moment) and I had misplaced my credit card the day before yesterday, so I’d taken a couple of tokens from the bowl on my dresser in which I stored my cheap earrings and other junk. But the tokens weren’t in my purse. That’s right, I’d put them in my coat pocket so that I wouldn’t have to go scrabbling around for them. 

I put my fingers into my pocket and froze. There were no tokens, only a large hole where my coat had caught on the nail. I desperately checked my other pocket and my purse once more. No tokens, no money, no way I’d make it to my interview on time if I had to go all the way back home.

I searched about for an ATM but didn’t spot one. I knew the bank was a block or two closer than my apartment, so I began to run. Good thing I’d changed into flats.

My heart thumped and my head banged as I sprinted down the sidewalk, swerving to avoid other pedestrians. 

Why did this always happen to me? I didn’t blame fate or the stars or anything like that. This was my fault, plain and simple; if I’d planned better, made sure I had some money like any normal, responsible person would have, my life wouldn’t have been the jumbled mess it was now.

I was breathing hard already, the air bursting sharply in and out of my lungs, and I was only half-way there. I promised myself (for the hundredth time) that I would get in shape.

“Need a lift?” A friendly, blessedly familiar voice called out.

I halted in my mad dash. A battered black Toyota had pulled to the curb just behind me.

“Nick!” I gasped in delight. I hurried over to the passenger side, leaned down to look through the open window. “I need to get to GB Publishing Company on Ralston by ten o’clock. Do you have any tokens on you?”

“No. I have a car, though.”

 “Are you going that way?” I asked, hoping beyond hope.

He smiled, his eyes crinkling. “I’ve got the time. Hop in.”

I did. As soon as I sat down, my limbs trembled in relief.

Nick let me catch my breath as he pulled back into traffic and turned west. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

Oh, right. “You too.” My bun was making it difficult to sit back; it kept hitting the headrest. Strands of hair curled wildly about my face, having come out as I ran. I’d need to redo it before the interview. 

I noticed how quiet it was in the car. “Thanks for doing this. I know you probably have other things you’d rather be doing.”

His eyebrow quirked up and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Why were you running?”

I groaned. “It’s my usual Thanksgiving Day curse! Nothing good ever happens to me on Thanksgiving.”

“A curse?” Nick was definitely laughing at me. “This sounds like one of your books.”

I shook my head. “It’s true! Like this morning, I really needed to get somewhere on time, I even left a bit early, but I ripped my coat and lost all my metro tokens. And I didn’t bring any money with me.”

Nick nodded. “Smart.”

“Yes,” I said airily, “I am known for being prepared for anything. ‘Girl Scout Helen’ they call me.” I winced. “Also, I lost my credit card.”

“You left it at the restaurant yesterday. Bobby stuck it in the junk drawer for you to find.”

“Gross.” Everything in the junk drawer, inevitably, acquired a layer of grease. It was, as far as I could tell, a law of nature. Still, at least that was one less thing to worry about. Things were looking up.

Feeling more optimistic, I flipped the sun visor down. Using the mirror on the back, I assessed the damage to my appearance. Funnily enough, I actually looked pretty good. My short run had turned my cheeks lightly pink. My hair was attractively windswept. Any other day I would have left it the way it was, but I had to display professionalism for this interview. With a sigh, I began to extract bobby pins.

I saw Nick glance sideways at me. “So,” he said, “why am I taking you to GB Publishing Company? You finally getting something published?”

I grunted, pins between my teeth. “No. I wish.” I twisted my hair into another bun. “I’m going in for an interview. It would be a pretty low-level job but at least I’d be on the right track.”

Why wouldn’t my hair lie flat? Frustrated, I pulled the pins out and started over. Nick didn’t respond. He had his eyes on the road, a slight frown between his brows. Oops. I hadn’t told anyone except Mom about the interview, in case I didn’t get the job.

“I suppose that would be a step up,” he said at last. “When are you planning on telling Mr. McGregor?”

Not quite the approbatory reaction I might have hoped for. “Well, not until I’ve got the job, of course. And the way this day is going, I probably won’t get it.” I gave up on the bun and went instead for a high ponytail. It made me look about fifteen, but maybe I could pass it off as energetic. Focused.

I was startled when Nick pulled over. We were there.

The GB Publishing Company was a six-story grey building. A banner hung over the door announcing its latest published bestsellers. Not a bad list.

I licked my lips, a little breathless. My stomach was knotting itself nervously.

“How are you planning on getting home?” Nick asked.

I blinked. Stupidly, I hadn’t thought about that. “Is there an ATM nearby? I can walk to the nearest metro station. It’s not too far from here, I think.”

Nick scratched his nose, inspecting the swanky building. He looked a little doubtful. “I could wait, if you like.”

I hesitated. It would be nice to have a sure ride, but there was no reason for Nick to be wasting time waiting for me, especially on Thanksgiving. “I’m sure you have more important things to do.”

Nick looked over at me. His nicer smile, the slow, genuine one, crept onto his face. “It’s no problem. Really it’s not. The only thing I should be doing is studying, and I carry my books everywhere, so I’m prepared for a long haul. I’ll park, then go read in that Starbucks. Come get me when you’re done.”

For some reason I found myself blushing as I got out. “That’s so nice of you! But you really don’t have to–”

Nick pulled my door shut behind me. “I know. You should get going. Good luck!”

“Thanks,” I mumbled as he drove away. Why was I so awkward?

The Third Hour: 10 AM

Glass double doors led me into a modish lobby; it was all huge glass windows, polished floors and sleek metal. As I walked in, I tried to imagine what it would be like coming in everyday, what it would be like to be one of the well-dressed, snooty employees busily at work even on Thanksgiving. I couldn’t picture myself fitting in, but, I told myself, that’s how every new kid felt. I would get used to it.

I approached the receptionist (“JoHanna,” her name card read), who was holed up in a glistening fortress of a desk.

“Hello,” I smiled brightly (I had flossed very carefully after breakfast that morning). “My name is Helen Merlo. I’m here to interview for the editorial assistant position.”

The receptionist wasn’t chewing gum, but she looked like that type. She gave my outfit a once-over and raised an eyebrow. She smiled without showing her teeth, probably to hide her fangs. “Let me check on that.”

Annoyance surged through me, reddening my cheeks once more (this time, I was sure, much less attractively). Check on what? To see if the publisher was ready to meet with me or if I was telling the truth about having an interview?

I smiled back at her as she leaned towards her computer, pushing her chic glasses further up the bridge of her nose. I wondered when glasses had become chic. They certainly hadn’t been when I was in middle school.

Apparently she found my appointment, because her lips went back to their natural pout, and she said, “You can go up now. I’ll let Ms. Lovell know you’re here. Second floor, office seven.”

I thanked her politely and marched off to the elevator. Waiting for it to reach the ground floor, I felt my brief irritation draining away and my confidence with it. I didn’t belong here. 

There was a ding. The doors stood open, awaiting my entry.

I nearly turned back then. Why put myself through all this nervousness and discomfort when I, with no experience and no recommendations from those in the business, wasn’t likely to get the position? I didn’t need it: my job at McGregor’s was easy and my coworkers were nice. If JoHanna at the desk was anything to go by, I wouldn’t find easy and nice here.

Stubbornness told me to stay, to show these snobs that I could (most likely) do their jobs better than they did. Complacency told me to hold fast to the good things I already had. 

I thought of my father, who had always encouraged me in my writing.

The doors began to close. I shot a hand out, stopping them. I stepped in and pressed the button for the second floor. I had to try.

~

The publisher’s office was at the end of the hall. The name on the door was “Marjorie Lovell”. I felt a little relieved. All the Marjories I had ever met were kind, motherly women. Definitely not the type to throw a poor girl out on her rear.

The secretary’s desk in the anteroom was empty, so I knocked gently on the inner office’s door.

“Come in!” a voice ordered from within.

I took a deep breath and entered.

Marjorie Lovell stood facing me, searching through one of the many stacks of papers strewn about her desktop. There was absolutely nothing motherly about her. She appeared to be in her late twenties. She was pale and skinny (her friends would probably say “slim”), though not in a sickly way. Her hair was very dark and pulled back into a high chignon. (I should have stuck with the bun.) She wore an emerald pencil dress with black heels. I really didn’t want to think about how much either cost.

She glanced up at me, green eyes under thin black eyebrows. “May I help you?” She asked, her tone a bit short.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I faltered. “The receptionist said I might come up.”

“All right,” she frowned. “Please sit down.”

I did as I was told, putting my purse down tensely.

Ms. Lovell was still standing. “What do you want?”

“I applied for the editorial assistant position and was told to come in for an interview,” I said, weak under her stony stare.

“Oh.” Ms. Lovell tapped a manicured nail on her desk. “I’m afraid that opening has already been filled.”

I sat in stunned silence. Ms. Lovell returned her attention to her papers, clearly wishing to be rid of me. 

“I’m sorry?” My voice was surprisingly sharp. “I understood that I was being considered for this job.”

Ms. Lovell spoke testily. “I can’t really answer for what you were given to understand. I’ve only recently taken over this position, and there has been some miscommunications during the transfer. As I said, the spot is no longer open. Thank you for your interest.” Her words were final.

I nodded mechanically, stood up, snatched my purse from the edge of her desk, and walked out.

I was down the elevator, past the reception desk, and out on the street before I thought again. I let out a long, pent up breath. 

There was nothing to cry about. If she didn’t want to hire me, that was her prerogative. I’d worked myself up over nothing. It was just another Thanksgiving disappointment. I should have been used to those by now.

I found the coffee shop Nick had pointed out and made my way there. I spied him at a corner table. He had a textbook on marketing propped against the window, his chin propped on his hand, and his eyes closed.

I flopped into a chair beside him.

He started awake and yawned, rubbing his eyes. He took in my expression. “Didn’t go well, huh?”

I put my head in my hands. “There was nothing to ‘go well’. They’d already found someone for the job.”

“Ah, well. That’s sad, but at least you can say you weren’t rejected.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, that makes me feel a lot better. They didn’t even think I was worth a look.”

“You don’t know that.” Nick shut his book. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself. There will be other opportunities. And it’s not like you tried that hard for this one.”

I frowned. It was true of course, but I didn’t like that he could tell. 

“You ready to go? Or do you want to order a drink?”

“No, no.” I stood. “I should get some cash as soon as possible. Any chance we could swing by the bank?”

~

I sprinted up the three steps to the bank and opened my purse; I needed to access the banking app on my phone. The clasp came undone unusually easily; normally, I had to wrestle it open. I flipped through the contents of the purse, then flipped through them again more slowly: a planner and address book, a compact, a keychain with a small photo, a wallet.

I stared idiotically. I was holding someone’s black-and-white Gucci purse, but it most certainly wasn’t mine.

“Something wrong?” Nick called from the car.

I plucked up the keychain. It pictured a young couple gazing lovingly into one another’s eyes, the woman’s left hand prominently featuring a sparkling diamond ring. The woman was Marjorie Lovell.

I rushed back to the car. “Nick! We need to go back to GB Publishing! I accidentally switched bags with the publisher. I remember now: I put mine on the floor, but I picked this one off the desk.”

Nick whistled through his teeth. “You really do have bad Thanksgivings. You’d better give the office a call and let them know what happened.” He glanced over his shoulder then made a u-turn.

“Right.” I nodded. “Umm… my phone was in my purse.”

“Use mine.” Nick pulled his out of his pocket.

It took me a few minutes to get the right number from the website. I had to try twice before someone picked up.

“GB Publishing, how may I help you?” JoHanna’s voice asked perkily over the line.

I explained quickly about the mix up. “Could you let Ms. Lovell know that I’m bringing her purse back?”

“Ms. Lovell isn’t here. She’s just gone out to lunch and is taking the rest of the day off.”

I checked the clock, noting unhelpfully: “It’s early for lunch.”

“It’s Thanksgiving. Maybe she wants to eat early and save a lot of room for dinner.” She didn’t say “duh” but her tone implied it.

“Do you know where she went to lunch? I really need my purse.”

JoHanna thought about it. “I think I heard her fiancé say something about The River Café.”

It was my turn to whistle. Fancy. “Thank you very much.” I ended the call and turned to Nick, biting my lip.

“Okay, what now?”

“She’s at The River Café. I know it’s kind of far, but I’ll be able to pay you gas money,” I promised cheerily, “once I’ve got my purse and gone to the bank.”

PART TWO
PART THREE

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