There are some things that can never be replicated outside of the United States: the confused atmosphere of a county fair, the bored excitement of a baseball game, and the aching contentment of laying around in a pile of extended family just after a Thanksgiving meal. And, as the last of October’s colors faded into the similar ones of November, the last of those three came like an infestation to our kitchen.
As someone who has mastered foods from every country we have been stationed in, you wouldn’t think my mom would be intimidated by a turkey dinner, but the first day of the new month already saw her practicing her pumpkin and cherry pies even as she experimented with different types of stuffing on the stove. Generally, I’d say that more people would be more cautious around my six-foot-three air force father than they would my four-foot-eleven Indian mother, but we have both learned you don’t mess with mom’s side of the family when they’re in the kitchen. Just ask my Nani.
Which is why, not surprisingly, the Thursday before Thanksgiving sees Henry and I on the back porch with our homework rather than at the kitchen table, our recent afternoon ritual. “I don’t get what she’s so excited about,” he admits, plopping down on the porch swing. “It’s just a meal, after all. It isn’t like it’s Christmas or something.”
“It isn’t about the meal, Henry,” I reply, shaking my head as I scratch behind Mac’s furry, black ears. “This will be the first time we’ve spent a holiday with my dad’s extended family since we moved overseas.”
“But they do know about the… uh…” he hesitates, running his fingers through his outgrown hair.
Unable to resist, I transform my face to reflect his blushing expression. “Shapeshifting?”
“Right.”
“Yes.” I grin, resuming my usual features. “They do.”
Even so, he continues staring at me, his brow furrowed. “But if that’s the case…”
“What?”
“Well, if they already know your secret, you could wear your original form for the day.”
The suggestion makes me freeze. I never had anything against my original form. As a six-year-old, I doubt I even realized how mixed my gene-pool was. Yet, by the time the novelty of my powers had worn out, there never seemed to be the right time or place to try on that old skin again. Maybe, just maybe, the family reunion could be that place. Though I don’t respond to Henry’s suggestion, all week my mind keeps playing it over and over, feeding it until it is all I can think about. If there is any place where I can truly be myself, I already know it will be there.
By the time we make it to the old, southern house a few hours away on Thanksgiving day, I am almost twitching with anticipation. My heart racing, I help my parents unload my mother’s many half-created dishes, weaving my way through the already assembled mass of vehicles to the front door.
As we step across the thresh-hold, it’s as though we have stepped back in time. All at once, the entire swarm of extended family inside turns to look at us, their faces cracking into uncontainable smiles. “Welcome home!” I’m almost squashed by the amount of arms that reach out to hug and squeeze me all at once. Everything is exactly like I remember it: the white powder on Grandma Martha’s apron, the hearty laugh that ripples Grandpa Hermine’s stomach, even the cheeky grin on Uncle Dave’s sidelong expression. It’s like nothing ever changed. In that single glorious moment, the familiar sensation washes over me as I let my form shift.
“There’s my little Addie!” cries Grandma Martha, wrapping her arms tightly around me. As she pulls away, her words run through my mind jerkily. I’d almost forgotten my old nickname. Before I can stop it, I can feel my form shift automatically, my figure regressing slightly to mimic my younger features.
“It’s good to see you again, sport,” echoes Uncle Dave, clapping me on the back. Again, before I can help it, my body shifts at his words, rearranging itself towards athleticism. Gritting my teeth, I try to force myself back into my old skin, but my memory of the form falters, and I shift again to match my grandfather’s greeting before I can grasp it again. All afternoon it goes on… and on… and on. Though the adults in the group seem not to notice my stammering features, I can see my cousins glancing sidelong at me, their brows furrowed. When we finally leave for home, I collapse into the back seat, drained of any and all emotion. Rather than continuing the lively conversations we had participated in only minutes before, my parents don’t press me but turn on the radio, letting good old Frank Sinatra drive us home.
That night, I forego my still sparsely decorated bedroom for the swing on our back porch, spreading myself out on the unforgiving wood.
“Mind if I join you?”
Though no one else in the world could have gotten me to give up my foot rest, I pull my feet around instantly for mom, turning so we can sit side by side on the bench. In spite of the company, I don’t feel much like talking. For the last decade I’d perfected the art of being what people expected me to be, and I never really minded it. I’d always been an easy going kid, but today of all days really should have been… different. Letting out a long breath, I lean my head on her shoulder, my expression still numb. “Is it always going to be like this?”
Putting an arm around me, she sighs, her outstretched hand squeezing my opposite shoulder. “I’m really not the person to ask.” Hesitating, I twist to look at her, my expression questioning. She laughs. “You don’t think I did all that cooking for the fun of it, do you?” Her words hit me like a truck. In all my years afraid I might stand out, I never considered that my mom, my courageous champion, might fear the same things. Here, in her husband’s country, with her husband’s family, celebrating a holiday she’d probably never even heard of until him, she was even more alone than I was.
Determination suddenly taking hold of me, I stand up with a flourish, holding out my hand out to her. “Let’s clear out all of that junk with some real food.”
With the lights in our kitchen staying lit long after most of the base has gone to bed, mom and I cook khaja, her childhood favorite, late into the night, deep frying the sweet layers of dough until they are gold and crispy. After all this time, I may never be able to shift back into my original form, and my relatives might not recognize me even if I do, but even so I know there are two people I will never need to shift for. And that, along with some syrup-coated khaja, is something that I will always give thanks for.