I press against the mass of women to hold my place in line. Sharp elbows and quick feet, we've abandoned the lessons about order and taking turns we drill into the minds of our children. The blonde in front of me shifts her weight to peek around the line, and I catch a glimpse of the advertisement still hanging in the window. As long as it's still up, there's a chance.
On the sun-faded paper, a young mother presents a silver serving platter to her children. The traditional Heritage pluck glistens, a shade between red and brown that makes my mouth water. It's been thirty years since I've had the holiday delicacy, and I can still taste that incomparable flavor dripping down my throat as it melts in my mouth. The children have their backs to the camera, but I can tell from their posture that they're bursting with excitement. The mother has a coy, self-satisfied smile. A mother like her, with a pressed skirt and button-up shirt, would not wait until the last minute to buy supplements. She would have everything planned out months in advance. She wouldn't have to wait for payday.
I rise to my toes, trying to count how many mothers are between me and the door. Twenty? Twenty-five? It's hard to tell with us packed in so tight.
This is my third pharmacy today. The first had a sign, declaring they had sold out of Heritage supplements. I wasted an hour standing in line at the second before they replaced their advertisement with a sold-out sign. If this one's a bust, I'll have to drive three hours into the city and try my luck there. Mark will have to pick up the kids and make dinner, and that's a load of stress neither of us want.
The crowd surges backwards. I jump to see what's happening and my heel slams down on the toes of the woman behind me. I don't apologize. The crowd expands, as if it's a snake that just swallowed a mouse. Except the mouse is a pharmacist in a white lab coat, tearing sheets of green paper off a stack and doling them out, first come, first served.
She nears, and I hold my breath. That stack is looking mighty thin.
But then she's reaching out her hand to me. The tissue-thin paper crumples as I take it from her.
"That's it," she calls. "If you don't have a slip, you won't be able to get Heritage supplements from us today. We'll be getting more later this week."
Groans and murmurs ripple behind me, and I try not to grin.
Someone taps me on the shoulder. I tuck my hand with the paper in my pocket and turn.
"I'll give you five hundred dollars for your slip," a woman with graying hair and wrinkles whispers. I wonder how old her children are. Whether this is their last Heritage Day at home.
I shake my head.
"I'll give you seven," the woman next to her says louder.
There's a brief bidding war that ends at a thousand dollars. Three women sell their slips. The rest of us stand our ground.
When I reach the counter, the pharmacist doesn't bother asking if there's anything else, just takes the slip and hefts a box of supplements onto the counter. She charges me three hundred dollars, even though they were advertised at one-fifty. At this point, I don't care if the pharmacy's price-gouging me or she's pocketing the extra.
I pick up the box—heavy enough to make me hug it to my chest as I lug it to my car. As I put it in the trunk, that same happy family stares out at me. I run my finger over the picture and wonder if they used actual pluck and how much they paid for it.
I sigh and slam the trunk on that smug mother's face.
On Heritage Day the year I turned six, the clanging of pans woke me when it was still dark. I rubbed my sleepy eyes and padded to the kitchen where unexpected chaos jolted me awake. Every surface was covered with food products or dishes. My mother, who would scold us if we so much as left a spoon on the counter, stood in the middle of this mess with her curls still tied in rags.
"Mama?" I asked, my throat cracking with sleep.
"Did I wake you, Sapphire?"
I shook my head. She hadn't woken me, the pans had. "What are you doing?"
"I'm getting started on dinner." She opened the fridge and pulled the pan with the turkey out.
I looked at the yellow street lamp out the window, then back at my crazy mother.
"Turkeys take hours to cook, Saph, and then there are all the casseroles and fixings. It's a lot of work, and someone has to do it."
I wrapped my arms tight around myself. It was like being told there was no Santa. I knew Mama did the cooking, but I had never seen behind the curtain. Even so, there was still something almost magical about it. Like she was a wizard brewing potions.
"Can I help?"
She eyed me for a long while, and I thought she would send me back to bed. But in the end, she handed me a potato peeler with a casual, "I suppose you're old enough."
Thirty years later, I eye the vial of sludge in my hand with similar judgment. I flip the plastic tube upside down and watch the oily goo drip to the other end. It looks similar to the pluck's glaze, but it doesn't have that sweet, slightly fermented flavor. The first row of vials are gone—swallowed into the abyss of my intestines each morning for the past week. But there are twenty-five left, and I'm not sure I can do this. It isn't just getting it down—it's the way it hangs heavy in my stomach and mind. An hour after taking it, fog rolls over my brain, and I can't remember where I put my keys, what I was planning for dinner, or—a new symptom yesterday—what my name is. Overnight it gets better, but then in the morning I face another vial and another missed day, and I'm starting to be afraid that all of me might disappear.
My belly gurgles. It's best to take the supplements on an empty stomach, and I've put it off so long that I missed my usual breakfast time.
"You going to stare at that all morning?"
I jump even though Mark's teasing is familiar. I shoot him a wry smile then return to staring at the supplement. "You don't understand how awful they are."
"I'd offer to take it for you, but it wouldn't do much good." He opens the fridge and pulls out Tabitha's lunch box. "We all have our sacrifices to make."
I don't mean to roll my eyes. It just happens. Men can take the supplements. It's been tested. Proven as safe for them as it is for women. But tradition says it's the mother's role. A grandmother or aunt if the mother can't. Fathers read from the Book of Gifts. Sometimes they memorize the passage for greater dramatic effect. I choke all these points down—somehow bitterness is easier to swallow than the tangy supplements.
Mark probably doesn't mean to set his jaw and take Tabitha to the car without her goodbye kiss. But he does.
I flick the tube against my jeans a couple of times to mix the sludge as well as possible, then I unscrew the yellow cap. The viscous fluid is nearly odorless. It's not the smell or even the taste. It's the texture that makes me gag. It coats every crevice of my mouth, sticking between my teeth and under my tongue. I swallow three thick gulps, then stick my tongue out as I retch. But I keep the liquid down. I have to. In half an hour I'll have a slice of wholegrain bread to soak up the leftovers.
The mass of root vegetables my family consumed each holiday probably weighed as much as I did, but that Heritage Day I sat at the table and peeled potatoes and parsnips without complaint. As the pile beside me grew, so did my fascination with the early morning peace. Back then it was a novelty. Food sizzled on the stove, and Mama occasionally banged a pan. She ran the mixer twice. But other than that, it was that still kind of quiet that only a blanket of dark can create.
I reveled in it. I was helping with the most important meal of the year. Toby couldn't claim that, and he was three years older than me.
When the pile of potatoes had switched from one side to the other, I set the peeler down and looked at my dirt-covered hands. The tips of my fingernails were black. I pushed my chair back, and nearly ran into my mother. Now she looked like my mother always did: a calf-length pink skirt and a pastel green top, her soft curls pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, a kiss of rouge and a hint of lipstick.
"Why, Sapphire, you look like you've seen a ghost!" She laughed with that bubbling amusement that always elicited a smile from me. "Why don't you get cleaned up and dressed? The men will be up soon, and no sense in them seeing us a mess, right?"
I nodded and hid my hands behind me before scurrying out of the room. I didn't dress as nicely as Mama. I put on jeans and a T-shirt, certain I'd get stains on my dress if I put it on now. But when I returned to the kitchen, something had changed. It wasn't just that the potatoes were washed and stacked on the rack next to the sink. The sunrise was turning the room copper and, in its light, the secret camaraderie I shared with my mother vanished.
For the next hour or so there was "stir this" or "watch that pot" or "cut me up some basil," but her attention was on the feast, and I began to feel less helpful and more underfoot. In a five-minute lull, I retreated to the living room.
Da, Toby, and Emilian weren't dressed in their worship clothes. If Mama came out of the kitchen long enough to notice them, she would have yelled about respect and whatnot, but I was glad for the more casual company.
"Hey, scooch," I told Emelian, who was laying across the entire loveseat. He was only four at the time, so he didn't take up the whole sofa. But it was the principle. Him sticking his little pink tongue out at me just made things worse. I jumped and landed next to him, close enough to bounce him a bit.
For a split second, I thought I might have hurt him, but then he was a flurry of sputtering, kicking, and hitting. That much I deserved. What I didn't deserve were his sharp baby teeth sinking deep into the flesh of my arm.
I screamed.
Da muted the game, Toby groaned, and Mama sprinted in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.
I held my arm up for everyone to see the perfect outline of Emelian's teeth, the deepest pockets filling with pinpricks of blood. "He bit me!"
"Did not!" Emelian wailed.
I wanted to wail, too, but I was a big girl, so I swallowed it in sniffles.
"Come here," Mama commanded. "We'll get that cleaned up."
She led me to the bathroom and I sat on the closed toilet while she rummaged through a drawer. She found the alcohol, not the peroxide, and I shied away from the cotton ball.
"You should know better than to provoke your brother."
"He should know better than to bite me," I said, pulling in a sharp breath as the sting sunk into the crevices he had created.
"He's just a little boy," she said. I must have rolled my eyes, because she continued with a different tact. "You're going to be a mother someday. You have to learn to take care of the family, especially on holidays. It's up to us to set the tone for the day and make sure it's magical."
"Maybe I don't want to be a mother," I grumbled.
She laughed low and soft. "You'll change your mind when you're older."
I sighed, the fight going out of me as she dabbed antibiotic ointment on my arm.
Mama went back to the kitchen and Da returned to the game. I went to my room and heard the usual sounds of the house—none of which was them telling Emilian not to bite.
A mother now, I tell Tabitha not to bite. Not to scratch. Not to kick the other kids in preschool. I never got the hang of positive parenting. Or parenting at all. Mark had to beg me to get pregnant. It was his dream to be a father. He didn't seem to realize that dream was incompatible with his free-love, no-responsibilities college girlfriend until after he asked me to marry him. I was girlish enough to say yes, and so, later than our friends but sooner than I would have liked, we got pregnant. I say we, but I was the one puking in the middle of the night for nine months. Just like I'm the one taking these supplements.
They continue to get worse each day. Or perhaps they are whittling away at my tolerance. Three weeks ago, I was plugging my nose and putting on a brave face. Now there's only five vials left, but the thought of picking one up, cracking its seal, and bringing it to my lips makes my limbs weak.
Mark catches me in one of these spells, leaning heavy on the kitchen counter, my chest rolling like the ocean.
"Hey, hey, Saph, what's wrong?"
I lean my elbows on the fake wood grain, bend at the waist, and cup my hands over my face. "I'm fine."
He rubs my back, like he did during those final weeks of pregnancy and first hours of birth—like he hasn't in years. "You're obviously not fine."
He nudges me upright and leads me to the table. I sink into a chair and take a deep breath.
"I can't keep taking them." Tears fill my eyes and my cheeks burn hot with shame.
He furrows his brow, looks from me to the counter. His eyes go wide, as if he hasn't seen me forcing the supplements down for the past month. "You can't quit now! It's almost Heritage Day."
"Tabitha's only three. She's not even going to remember this year," I say.
That muscle in the back of his jaw twitches, but he swallows his anger with the same grace I swallow my supplements. "The other kids in her class had their first pluck last year. She's the only one who has never had it. Do you want her to be that kid?"
No, I don't want her to be that kid.
As if our conversation conjured her, Tabitha appears in the archway, waving her sippy cup. "Mama, I want juice."
"I'll get it." Mark pats my hand and gives me a lingering gaze, as if we've agreed on some conspiracy—he'll get the juice, I'll take the supplements.
"Come here." I scoop Tabitha into my lap. Her hair is still baby-blonde, just starting to turn brown. But she's somehow bigger than I remember her, as if I've missed an entire month. I kiss her chubby cheek. "Are you excited for Heritage Day?"
Her eyes go stormy with concentration. Then she smiles. "Ms. Walker says we get treats."
My stomach curls in on itself. "Yeah, sweetie. You get a treat."
The game was over, dinner was late, and Da was grumpy. Toby had retreated to his room, and I had no idea where Emilian was hiding. For all I cared, the little brat could miss dinner.
Mama had dropped the pretense of letting me help and banished me from the kitchen altogether, and I had been stumbling through a chapbook in my bedroom. But the scent of turkey and a growling tummy pulled me from my solitude. I could snag something off the pickle tray. Mama wouldn't miss a single deviled egg. But my parents' voices, locked in hushed intensity, stopped me while I was still in the hallway.
"You have to do it." That was Mama in her low, commanding voice. The one she used to make us take our medicine. The one that said, I'll tell your father. Except she was using it on Da.
"You can't be serious." Da's voice rumbled so deep I could barely make out the words. I inched closer.
"I just … can't this year." Her voice cracked, and I had to strain to hear her admission, "I need your help."
I peeked around the corner. Mama sat at the table, bare down to her bra, her apron spread over her skirt. Her stomach was purple and swollen on one side. The skin was stretched so tight it glistened. Da stood across from her, sweating like he did after a bottle of brandy.
"Please, Bryan. If you don't, the kids won't have a Heritage this year."
Da's Adam's apple bobbed.
Not sure why, I held my breath.
Da nodded. He approached Mama and knelt in front of her. She breathed a sigh of relief, took a porcelain serving dish from the table, and held it on her lap. Da reached over her shoulder for the paring knife. Such a little knife for such a big blister. He held the tip where Mama's white skin turned purple, then carefully sliced down.
Juice oozed out, a familiar reddish brown, and a morsel the size of my fist plopped onto the serving dish.
My chest knotted and I backed away, my heart pounding.
Now I look down at my own deformed stomach. The blister doesn't feel like I imagined it would. It etches deep into me, cramping my organs and making it hard to breathe. I don't want to cut myself, but I can't wait to get this thing out of me. I want to call Mark into the kitchen. I want him to have a part in this grotesque tradition. But I know he couldn't stomach it. Besides, I can hear him in the bedroom, rehearsing his lines from the Book of Gifts. He stumbles and curses and starts over again, and it's all too sweet to interrupt.
My serving platter is silver—a birthing gift from my mother. The knife is the same one I used to slice pickles.
Mama called the three of us to the living room before dinner. The pluck sat on the coffee table, Mama behind it. For the first time, I noticed her ever-present smile was strained. No Santa Claus, Easter bunny, or tooth fairy—just a weary mother.
Da recited from the Book of Gifts. He hadn't bothered memorizing it, and he never ventured from his usual passage. The one about being good to each other, taking care of the less fortunate, and loving those who wrong us. I glared at Emilian through the whole passage, but he was too young to understand a word of it.
When Da finished, Mama picked up a serving knife and sliced the pluck into three equal pieces. My first thought was that the pieces were so small now that Emilian got one. My second was absolute revulsion at having thought such a thing.
I watched Mama's face—that stoic smile that didn't flinch—as Toby took his piece first.
The tray swung toward me and the pluck was within reach. My mouth filled with saliva, and I could taste that perfect blend of acidic and sweet. My throat opened, begging me to lift the morsel from the plate, but my hand refused to move. I shook my head.
"Go ahead, Sapphire," Da said.
My fingers flinched, and I balled the traitorous digits into fists.
Mama held my gaze, then nodded slightly. "Emilian can have her piece."
I kneel on the living room carpet. I've spent hours here, reading stories and playing games. But only now do my knees wish we had gone for the more luxurious option—or that we could practice the modern tradition of holding the pluck gathering at the table instead of around a non-existent hearth. But Mark recites my favorite passage from the Book of Gifts, not glancing at the open pages once and my anger eases.
My stomach is raw, curved in near the belly button, and my blue linen shirt grazes the tender spot, shooting needles up my breastbone. I fasten my grin in place and try not to grit my teeth. When Mark finishes, I lift the plate and swing it towards Tabitha. Her eyes light up, and she reaches for the pluck.
