A  C B A Thanksgiving

 

A "Captured by Aliens" story

 

By Thelma Mary Caroline

 

 

It will be funny when you shove Sheila out the door on Thanksgiving Day.  You'll tell her to go to Small Mart, take advantage of the sales and you'll cook the dinner.

 

"As a thanks for letting us stay here," you'll tell her.

 

And she'll say, "You really don't have to, really.  I can cook dinner."

 

But you'll want to do it.  The first Thanksgiving in six years that you'll have a chance to celebrate.

 

No one will really know why you want to do it.  No one will know if it's because you want to cook, or if you feel that you have to, or if you just want to be in control of something.

 

And that's what it will be, Blaise, isn't it?  You just want control.

 

You must feel as though you're losing it, slowly and surely.  Maybe because things are different on Earth.  Maybe because of Sheila.  Maybe because of me.

 

The nightmares happen more frequently now.  It didn't use to be you that woke up crying every night.  You miss being there more than anybody else.

 

The table is set with the most brilliant plates and silverware, a lovely tablecloth and placemats.  They aren't really Thanksgiving themed, they're dark greens and light blues.

 

"Where did you get these?" Sheila will ask, entering the house with large bags full of unwrapped presents.

 

You'll shrug.  "Bought them."

 

"Where did you get the money?"

 

Where did you get the money, Blaise?  Will you tell her?

 

Because, you see, she thinks that you're unemployed.  That you spend the day wandering the streets, hanging out with your friends.  You don't actually work.

 

You won't tell her that the aliens give us money, sort of an apology for what happened.  One hundred dollars per person every day.  Except you don't just take your own, do you?

 

"Here and there," will be your answer.  "Don't worry, Sheila, I'm not dealing drugs or anything."

 

Suddenly she'll sniff.  "That doesn't smell like turkey."

 

"Oh, I don't like turkey.  I made hamburger instead."

 

"Oh."

 

She won't really be disappointed.  She'll look as though she is, trying to make you believe that, but in reality, she'll have already known that you don't like turkey.  After all, when she cooks, you hardly ever touch turkey, or chicken, or even fish or ham.  But hamburger?  That you inhale and have seconds or thirds.

 

But Kale will freak out.  "Hamburger?  For Thanksgiving?  That's not going to go with the stuffing!"

 

"Oh, I didn't make stuffing.  I got some potato chips instead."

 

"What?!"

 

"Yeah, and instead of mashed potatos I made fruit salad.  And instead of pumpkin pie, I made apple!"

 

"You're kidding!" Kale will cry.  And she'll run out the door, drive back to Small Mart and pick up one of their ready made Thanksgiving dinners.

 

"Wow.  The All American Thanksgiving dinner."

 

Everyone will sit at the table, except Kale, and we'll eat slowly.  Then, afterwards, you'll make us all say what we're thankful for.  You used to do that, back when we were on the alien homeworld.  Everytime it got cold, you'd pretend it was Thanksgiving and ask what we were thankful for.

 

"I'm thankful that ... well, that we're here and not somewhere else."  That's what Kale will say, short and sweet, digging into her turkey.

 

"I'm thankful that I didn't have to cook Thanksgiving dinner, for once," Shelia will say.  "I'm thankful that all of us are here, an extended family."

 

"I'm thankful for second chances."

 

"I don't know what I'm thankful for this year," you'll say, and plop down onto the couch and turn on some parade.

 

No one else will see it -- no one else will know that you're holding back tears.

 

"I don't want to be dramatic," you'll say later, smoking your caffine on the porch where no one else can hear.  "But what have I really got to be thankful for?  That I'm home, back on Earth -- but I'm not.  I should be thankful, but I really hate it here."

 

No, you're not really thankful for this -- home is not home anymore.  Never once on that alien planet did you ever long to be home.  Maybe it was more nuturing there -- maybe the enviroment was one you appreciated more.  It was your one true place, where you could be who you were and no one even looked twice. 

 

"I suppose I'm thankful I have a source of income," you'll say, taking a drag.  "Then again, I've certainly earned it.  How can you be thankful for something you earned?"

 

Earned indeed.  What did you ever do, Blaise?  You dug holes for six years.  You didn't have a choice.  You dug or you died.  No one really wants to die.

 

Maybe you really did go out of the way to entertain people.  The way you'd play the piano and sing, dance and act every evening no matter how tired you were, reminding people that life was still something to be cheerful about.  You certainly weren't the only one who felt it was their duty to raise moral, but you did as good a job as anyone.  You were sucessful anyway.

 

And you took care of people who needed it.  Yes, you did, even if it was in your own way.  And that's what you liked most -- no one would tell you you're way was wrong.  No one thought that beating someone up and taking advantage of their weakness was wrong.

 

Maybe that's why you thought you deserved twice the money you really earned.  Maybe that's why you took advantage of the system.

 

Or maybe you just know something about managing money that only people like you know.

 

"I should be thankful for Hai," you'll say, as though you're the only one sitting on the porch.  "Except that I hate you and you hate me -- even if we do love each other.  What's stronger, do you think?  Love or hate?"

 

There won't be an answer.

 

"Love, I expect.  You're still here after all."

 

You don't want to be alone.  You make sure it's clear, even though your words suggest there's a choice.

 

"I suppose I'm thankful that there's a roof over my head.  We could be living on the streets.  Or not really.  We've got more than enough money to rent a place.  Or stay in a hotel if you'd rather."

 

But you enjoy living here, Sheila and all.  A sense that you're not hiding away from this world.  No matter how homesick you are, you can't lock yourself away from the world.  There will always be Sheila to remind you where you are.

 

Sheila won't let you live with her forever, you know that.  What are you going to do, Blaise?  You don't think that day will come, the day when you've overstayed your welcome.

 

Probably you think -- though you never say -- that you're going to go home.  Home, back to the aliens.  You think this is just a test, and you aren't the only one.  But surely you'll get to go home.

 

But Blaise, you won't!  Don't you see that?  You're stuck here.  This is Earth, your home.  Where you were born and raised, a culture that's not unknown!  And yet you act like a stranger, a foreigner in the strangest place.  Your used to holding silverwear made for alien hands, not human.  It's awkward for you.  The food is strange.  And not only you, that's unfair to say.  To everyone, all your friends the world seems strange.

 

Only Kale seems to fit right back in.  She has a little bit of culture shock, but only a little.  She lived with you for six months on the alien homeworld, but you never really let her become one of the gang, did you?  Sure, you pretended, but Blaise, you're the master of pretending.  You never let Kale become part of the group, but why?  You knew, didn't you?  You knew that they were going to let us go.

 

Didn't you?

 

 

You'll go back inside later, and stand in front of the heater to warm up.

 

"I've decided what I'm thankful for," you'll say.  Sheila and Kale will listen carefully.

 

"I'm thankful that no matter how bad things can be, something good, no matter how small, always comes out of it."

 

You won't explain.  Everyone will wait for you to, but you won't.  And maybe you don't really understand.

 

"Do you mean because you were captured by aliens?" Sheila will ask, still stumbling over those words.  "Because if you'd never been there, you'd have never known how happy you could be?"

 

As if she knows.

 

But you'll only nod.  "And if I'd never have come back, I wouldn't have realized how happy I was."