Penelope in Retrograde: A Novel by Brooke Abrams

Author:Brooke Abrams [Abrams, Brooke]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lake Union Publishing
Published: 2023-10-01T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

Thanksgiving 2009:

The One with Irene

I balance my ancient laptop on my knees, praying to all things holy that my battery doesn’t die, while Smith navigates through the sludge that is the 5 on Thanksgiving Day. The Berkeley Gazette doesn’t loan laptops to low-level journalists, and as the official curator of the obituaries, there truly isn’t anyone less important. This means I’m forced to use my old college laptop, which likes to play a fun game of roulette whenever it’s time to save a document. To save the file or to completely obliterate it along with three other files is the question my laptop asks every time it runs out of battery, and I can’t stomach the idea of one more thing letting Irene Steadman down.

“Poor Irene.” I bite at my cuticles nervously. “I think I might’ve found someone whose family is worse than mine.”

Smith takes a drink of his third gas station coffee in the last eight hours. “I’m intrigued. Go on.”

“Irene Steadman died alone in her home. The official date of her death is unknown, but her body was discovered on November 13 by her downstairs neighbor. Irene is survived by her six cats. No memorial or funeral services are to be expected. Irene was seventy-four years old.”

“Is that what her family sent over or one of the six cats?”

“Family. She actually has two kids and a few grandkids, but her son, Eddie, asked that personal family information not be included.”

“What an asshole.” Smith drops his hand from the gearshift of his old Mustang and squeezes my hand. “You know that’s never going to be you, right?”

The midday sun catches the moonstone on my engagement ring, setting off a shower of iridescent lights across Smith’s face. He’s too busy dodging traffic to notice the colorful display, but I can’t stop staring and thinking to myself, I get to marry Smith Mackenzie. I get to marry my best friend. I get to be a Mackenzie.

And because I get to be a Mackenzie, I will never end up like Irene Steadman.

“I know.” I tilt my head onto his shoulder. “I’m allergic to cats.”

“Do you think they ate her?”

“Her cats? No. Her family? Possibly.”

We pull onto the bridge and my stomach churns. Not because of the bridge itself, but because of what the bridge means. In less than ten minutes, I’ll be home for the first time since I dropped out of Princeton and moved to Berkeley to be with Smith. It’s our first holiday as an engaged couple, which means today should be an exciting day. There should be a champagne toast before my father carves the turkey, and my mother should have a stack of bridal magazines that she insists I look over with her. Everyone should be happy and excited, and Smith’s family should be joining us too because being engaged is something to be celebrated.

But none of that is happening.

My parents don’t even know that we’re engaged, and even if they did, my parents would rather spend Thanksgiving deworming livestock than with Smith’s parents.

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