Thankless: Of Ruined Holidays and Changing Hearts
Canon-compliant, showverse, missing scene(s). Oneshot.
Thanksgiving 1960 and 1772 - Frank's POV, then Jamie's.
Two very different husbands, two very different family dynamics, the same unexpected wrench in the holiday plans.
1960 - Boston, Massachusetts
The phone rang just as Brianna was setting the table.
I shot Claire a warning look that went completely unheeded as she shouldered past me in a swish of silk and clacking heels. The instinct to call after her still rose to my lips after all these years; the knowledge that the breath would be wasted kept it there.
“Hello, this is Doctor Randall…”
Our daughter froze instantly, the last salad fork hovering inches over the placemat.
“How many? Nancy, slow down. How many wounded?”
Just like that, I watched the light drain from my twelve year old’s face. She masked it well, brave girl; unlike her mother, she had a talented poker face. Quietly and without fanfare, Brianna took the cutlery, plate and wine glass from the third place setting and returned them to the china cabinet.
I crossed the room slowly and laid a hand on her shoulder, heavy with unspoken understanding. It wasn’t the first holiday her mother had ruined with her selfishness, her pigheaded insistence upon putting career over family. Bree flashed me a wan smile and reached up to squeeze my fingers appreciatively.
“More mashed potatoes for us, huh?” She tried for levity, and would have pulled it off had she been trying to fool anyone but me.
“We won’t leave a single bite,” I promised sotto vocce.
Drawing in a breath through her nose and releasing it in a sharp sigh, Bree clasped her hands together as she turned back to the table. “Shall we? Or do we wait for her to come back in and—”
“Darling, I’m so sorry…” Right on cue, Claire appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, already slinging her purse over one shoulder, the car keys jangling in her opposite hand. “There’s been a terrible accident on the Longfellow Bridge—”
“Yeah, I’m sure there was. It’s always something, right?” Even I was surprised by the venom in Bree’s voice; day by day, the little girl eager to defend her mother’s choices was yielding to the dark cynicism of an adolescent. Normally, I would have chided her for taking a tone — it was unbecoming of a young lady — but I couldn’t deny that a part of me had been anticipating the day when Brianna finally learned to stand up for herself. It had been far too long that she’d dutifully shouldered the burden of her mother’s negligence.
Wounded, wide, golden eyes blinked twice before Claire took a half-step forward. “I understand,” she said with a physician’s practiced calm, “that it’s disappointing when I’m called away on the holidays. Trust me, this isn’t how I wanted to spend my Thanksgiving either.”
“So why are you?!” our daughter demanded, throwing her hands up and letting them flop back at her sides. “Why does it always have to be you? Why can’t the other surgeons take the call this time?”
