But people had to eat. Feeding them . . . Wasn’t that important, too?

I couldn’t fix whatever was wrong with our mother. But at least I could be her hands in the kitchen.

She shifted her weight, leaning against the counter. “Do you have the onions?”

I scanned the glistening pile on her cutting board. “Do you need more?”

She shook her head. “The crispy ones. For the casserole.”

Right. That would be the traditional casserole made with canned green beans, canned cream of mushroom soup, and canned crispy fried onions on top. Not exactly the locally sourced, seasonal ingredients I was used to at Gusto. I could just picture Chef’s quizzical look as he surveyed my work space. No cans, March, I imagined him saying. Not for green beans.

I patted the red-and-white container. “Right here.”

The front door opened. Our mother glanced toward the living room. “Is that Meg already?”

“It’s Amy!” Beth cried, darting from the kitchen.

“She must have got an early start.” Mom shuffled toward the living room, delivering a pat on my shoulder as she passed.

I wiped my hands on a dish towel and followed her.

“Jokies!” Amy disentangled herself and grabbed me, her smooth cheek pressing mine. That’s what she called me, what she’d always called me since she was old enough to think the nickname was funny.

I patted her back awkwardly. “Hey, Ames.” I didn’t call her Princess, the way Daddy did. Even though she looked the part: deep-blue eyes, tiny waist, funny snub nose. Like the princess in Disney’s Tangled, with a choppy blond haircut that would have looked at home in New York’s Fashion District.

“Can I get your stuff from the car?” Beth offered.

“Not yet.” Amy stretched luxuriously, her crop top sliding up to reveal her pale, flat stomach. “I want to enjoy being home for a while.”

“Come into the kitchen, then,” our mother said. “Plenty of work to go around.”

Amy pouted. “But I just got here. Aren’t we going to watch the parade?”

Momma smiled. “Turn on the TV. And then you can set the table.”

Under our mother’s direction, we executed her Day of Thanksgiving Plan, scrubbing, chopping, grating, and arranging to the muffled sound of the Macy’s parade. Amy was in the dining room, setting the table the way our mother liked, with the good china that had belonged to her grandmother and the pinecone turkeys Amy made in second grade.

“The minute I walk into this house, I feel like I’m twelve,” she observed.

I grinned. “You act like you’re twelve.”

She stuck out her tongue.

“Proving my point,” I said, and she laughed.

Beth paused in her straightening of the living room to turn up the volume on the television. “Momma, come quick! The Rockettes are on!”

Amy dropped a handful of silverware. “Chorus line!”

I watched, bemused, as our mother left her work in the kitchen. My sisters positioned themselves on either side of her, lining up in front of the TV, giggling and grabbing each other for balance. Momma couldn’t kick, but she laughed and lurched along with them.