A Memoir
Just Us Girls
A Memoir of Coercive Control, Motherhood, and Survival
Chapter Eighteen
Turkey, Stuffing and Raw Meat
I carried Megan through the doorway of the home we had left eight months before. It didn’t feel real, as if we were stepping into someone else’s life. Room by room, I inspected it all. Everything was exactly as we had left it, saved from the storage units Marcus had tried to force it all into. The air held tiny specks of dust suspended in the afternoon light, along with the faint stale smell of a home deprived of circulation. I kicked on the air conditioner, nodding in approval when it hummed to life after nearly a year of dormancy. Megan began reacquainting herself with a bin of toys neatly stored in the corner of the living room. As I watched her gather plastic fruit in her hands and carefully place them into her play kitchen, I felt a sudden, quiet gratitude for trusting my instincts. Even our arrival to California a few hours earlier had brought a reassuring calm. Rebecca had met us at the airport. We picked up right where we left off, which softened the landing.
Watching Megan fill her tiny fridge, I knew I needed to stock the real one. My car keys were waiting perfectly placed on the kitchen counter. Kelsey had stopped by once a week just to turn the ignition, and when I twisted the key, the engine fired right up. After a quick run to the grocery store we began the strange process of settling back into our own walls.
The next morning, the reality of military life returned. I followed my instructions to meet Marcus at the hangar. Driving through the residential side of the base toward operations, I noticed garage doors decorated with vibrant welcome-home banners. I must have missed the memo.
Five minutes later, I parked outside the crowded hangar. Families clustered near the entrance holding homemade signs, buzzing with excitement. I sat gripping the wheel for a long moment, feeling out of place, before deciding to get out. I unbuckled Megan, positioned myself in front of the hood, and leaned back against the warm metal to wait.
When the plane landed, the sailors poured out, rushing into the arms of their loved ones. A sharp tightness hit my chest watching it—a beautiful collective moment that I felt entirely outside of.
When my eyes found Marcus, I set Megan down and let her run to him. Tears streamed down his face as he scooped her up into his arms. I waved from the car. I wasn’t going to perform a cinematic reunion. It was different this time—I had changed. I had outgrown the complacent woman he left behind. But we were married, we were a family, and we all went home together.
Within two weeks we were re-acclimated to base life. Marcus went back to day shift, and Megan and I slipped back into our comforting routine with our navy family. For a while, life felt stable; normal even. Marcus was relieved to be back on land and less irritable. One Saturday morning, he even joined Megan at a “Donuts with Daddy” event at our mommy and me class.
When November arrived, the calm encouraged me to volunteer to host Thanksgiving. I wanted to give our little community the taste of home we were all longing for. Rebecca, Anna, and I planned together. Marcus invited a few single sailors from the barracks who otherwise would have had nowhere to go, and I welcomed that.
Everything was meticulously timed. Dinner would be served at four. The aroma of garlic and rosemary filled our home as guests arrived with pies and bottles of wine. At three-thirty, I pulled the turkey out of the oven to rest, sliding the traditional sides I had prepared the day before into the heat. A large pot of marinara sauce simmered on the stove with meatballs—my Italian touch.
I paused in the kitchen to take it all in. The house was warm and alive. Children chased each other from the living room out the kitchen doors to the patio. Our friends mingled, drinks in hand. A deep sense of accomplishment washed over me.
Reaching for my glass to quietly toast myself, Marcus approached the counter. A shipmate and his wife followed closely behind, carrying a massive, nine-pound slab of raw beef.
Marcus introduced us. I greeted them warmly, and then, before I could say anything else, Marcus dropped the cold, plastic-covered, brick of meat into my hands.
“Look what they brought,” he said proudly. “Can we get this cooked before we eat?”
He sent them out to the patio to grab drinks from the cooler. I looked at him, and then down at the red roast in my hands. Heat rose to my face; the kitchen felt instantly suffocating. I dropped the slab onto the counter with a thud.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” I said to Marcus as I started toward the laundry room.
He followed me in. I shut the door behind us.
“Marcus, we told everyone we were eating at four. Everything is ready. That is going to take hours to cook. We can put it in now and serve it later; everyone will still be here. We can make sandwiches with it.”
His face tightened. His eyes emptied.
“Sophie, you are so spoiled,” he snapped. “Do you know how ungrateful you sound? That meat is getting served with the turkey. Figure it out.”
I clenched my hands into fists at my sides, digging my fingernails into my palms, as he yanked the door open and stormed out, leaving it swinging between me and our full home.
I walked back into the kitchen with my head down, straight to the stove, hiding my face. The turkey sat on the counter, perfectly golden. Laughter drifted in from the living room. My bottom lip started to quiver, and my eyes filled. I turned and walked out the front door before they could spill over.
As I reached for the doorknob to close it discreetly, Anna was behind me. Her face fell when her eyes met mine.
“What’s going on?” she asked, placing her hand on my shoulder.
I explained.
“That is absolutely ridiculous,” she said sharply. Then, without missing a beat, she pushed the front door open. “Come, show me who brought it.”
I followed her back inside and pointed them out.
Anna walked straight over to them, with a bright smile. “Hi! Sophie has her hands full in here. I understand we have some more cooking to do. I live right next door. Let’s go put your roast in my oven.”
She turned to me with a supportive wink. “Turn the oven off and put the turkey back in to keep it warm. I’ll be right back.”
Then she guided the woman out, raw slab of meat in her hands.
A few minutes later, she slipped back into the kitchen to whisper in my ear. “Give it a little time, she’s not going to stay over there for long. We’ll get your dinner served before that thing is anywhere near done.”
We rotated dishes in and out of the oven, trying to keep everything warm without drying it out. Then the woman returned.
“We should probably just save the meat for later,” she said sheepishly.
“I agree,” Anna smiled, clocking her win. She raised her voice, calling out to the living room. “Tim, come carve this turkey.”
When Marcus saw us moving ahead without him, he stepped in. “Where’s the meat?” he muttered through his teeth. “Is it ready?”
“It’s not,” I said.
“And we’re hungry,” Anna added, stepping between us with a platter. “So we’re eating now.”
He sucked his teeth in disapproval, but there was nothing he could do. Together, Anna and I served Thanksgiving dinner, raised our glasses, and toasted the room.
Eventually, the night wound down. Everyone went home full and grateful, carrying with them the version of the holiday that I had worked so hard to create.
The house quieted. Megan was down. The smell of turkey and garlic still hung in the air as the door closed behind Marcus’s last lingering shipmate.
Then it was just us.
He looked at me and said, “Sophie, you are such an embarrassment.” He turned and marched up the stairs, leaving me with a stack of dirty dishes at the sink.
That Thanksgiving, more than anything else, I was thankful for Anna.
— Sophie Marino
