Even Sarah, who can usually be counted on to enliven a gathering, is muted. “This is good chicken, Mom,” she says gravely.
“Thanks. I figure no one likes turkey anyhow.”
With difficulty, Yolanda lifts her dinner roll from a pool of gravy on her untouched plate and inspects it. She is slouched in her chair, head tilted. For nearly a minute, as she stares at the roll, gravy drips onto her dress, and they all watch in silence. Finally she drops the roll. It tumbles down her front, bounces off her lap to the floor, the stillness broken.
Around the table, exhalations. Yolanda works her lips. When Tíve cuts himself a bite of chicken, the knife squeals against his plate.
Valerie clears her throat. “Angel said you got your license reinstated, brother.”
“Yeah.”
Ordinarily Angel might point out that he’s still on probation, but she doesn’t.
“Good.” Valerie’s voice is loud. “Mom’s not able to tell you this anymore, so I have to. She depends on you, Angel depends on you, that baby depends on you.”
Angel flashes an alarmed look at her father, but he just pushes his fork into his uneaten potatoes. “You think I don’t know that?”
“Mom,” says Lily. “Leave him alone. You’re just sad.”
“Yeah.” Valerie’s eyes redden. “I’m not wrong, but yeah.”
They are all relieved when Yolanda nods off. Angel and Valerie help her into bed, turn the blinds to cut off the sunlight. Soon after, Valerie and the girls leave, and all around, the hugs are long and quiet.
THAT EVENING, Ryan shows up in a puffer coat. “Hey!” he calls, cheerful, and then he catches sight of Yolanda listing in the chair, despite the cushions Angel has shoved around her. “Hey,” he says, hushed. He’s come bearing gifts: a chocolate Advent calendar each for Connor and Angel, with $1.99 stickers still affixed, and a box of Get Well Wellness tea. “For your grandma.” He reddens.
Angel doesn’t even have the heart to rip into him. “Gramma, remember Ryan, Connor’s dad?”
Yolanda brightens; this is more interest than she’s shown in weeks.
“Nice to see you, Mrs. Padilla,” Ryan says, hand extended. “Happy Thanksgiving.” When it’s clear that Yolanda won’t lift her hand to his, he places the tea on the slope of her lap. “Just a little something.”
She’s not speaking well today, but she smiles, turns the box of tea in her hands, cellophane crinkling.
“I hope you feel better.”
With embarrassment, Angel notes that her grandmother’s sweatpants are bunched and puffy at the crotch, and there’s yogurt crusted on her chin that Angel failed to wipe away. It’s intolerable that Ryan should see them like this, should stand before them, pleased with his meager, useless gifts.
“Thanks for coming,” Angel says. “We’re kind of busy.”
Yolanda gazes at the door long after Angel has shut it behind him. “Nice boy,” she says.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, during Connor’s nap, Angel lies beside her grandmother on the small hospital bed, careful not to crush her limbs. The bed creaks, but holds them both.
The television is on, some manic game show, with dramatic music and flashing lights and stricken faces. Some days, Angel tries to engage with the television, cracking jokes, making guesses of her own, an energetic performance for her grandmother. But today, she is quiet, her head on the edge of her grandmother’s pillow.
As if her body is turning into something else already, Yolanda doesn’t smell like herself. The ghost of that old powdery scent is there, but it’s morphed into something waxy and sweet that goes to the back of the throat.