Chapter 1 - The Toast That Was Not A Toast
The turkey was still steaming when my sister lifted her glass. The skin crackled under the chandelier light, greens tucked around the platter, the bowls of cranberry sauce and stuffing crowded down the middle of the tan tablecloth. My dad was cutting into his plate in his suit and tie in the foreground, the football game muttering from the TV in the living room, and everyone was chewing and passing and half-listening. She stood just enough at the far end in that dark sleeveless dress to make us all look up, her red wine raised, her shoulder-length blonde hair catching the light.
"I have some exciting news to share," she said, confident and bright, the way she sounded at open houses. I was on the left side of the table in my navy satin button shirt, my white mug warm between my hands, looking down at my plate. I didn't know yet that the night would split around that glass.
My name is Maya Collins, and I was thirty-four and trying to keep Thanksgiving normal.
She waited until my dad paused his fork. "I handled the listing for you," she said, looking straight at me. The room kept its soft clink and murmur for a second, then went quieter. My phone had buzzed an hour earlier in my purse by the door. Title office. Flag on signatures. I hadn't opened it because I didn't want to do paperwork on a holiday.
I turned to meet her gaze. The camera of my memory is still stuck there, the push down that long table toward her smiling face. "You listed my condo?" I asked. My voice sounded restrained even to me, both hands still around that mug.
She lowered her wineglass just a little. "I signed where you would have signed," she said, with a small gesture of her right hand, like she was brushing crumbs off the table. She let her hand rest near my plate. My dad stopped chewing. Somebody's chair creaked.
I felt the heat of the mug go through my palms. I thought of the unread preview on my phone screen: Please call regarding documents. Unauthorized signatures noted. I hadn't told anyone because I told myself it could wait until morning, it had to be a mistake.
"You signed my name?" I said.
She smiled again. "Don't make it a thing before pie."
I set my white mug down slowly beside my plate. The ceramic made a soft sound against the table. I looked from her hand near my food up to her eyes, and then I held her stare because I needed witnesses to remember this exactly as it happened.
May you like
"Then you should read this before dessert," I said.
Nobody reached for the turkey after that. My dad set his knife down. In the living room the crowd on TV cheered for something no one in our dining room saw, and the chandelier buzzed faintly overhead while her wineglass stayed in the air between us, and my phone sat unopened in my purse with the whole night about to turn on it.
