06. Eye
The table is set neatly, it feels wrong.
Margot places the big green pumpkins on the table in our respective seats. It’s early spring and it feels too warm and bright for this kind of activity.
“Well? Sit down, it’s tradition, isn’t it?” she encourages us sweetly.
My sister, Olivia, obliges. Sitting at her usual spot at the dining table she turns her nose up at the jap pumpkin in front of her.
“These aren’t for carving,” she frowns, “They’re supposed to be orange.”
Margot shrugs, “They don’t sell Jack-O-Lanterns at Woolies, Livy, this is your best bet.”
I try not to roll my eyes or correct her, we’re already off to a bad start. Olivia gives me a pleading look, she hates being called Livy.
I sit down next to her, “We can do something with these,” I do my best to sound enthusiastic.
“When is Dad home?” Olivia demands.
Margot inspects the carving tools mindlessly, “Late, past your bedtime. What do you use this for?” she asks holding the neon green plastic paddle.
“Scooping out the innards,” I reply.
“Ew,” she places the paddle back on the table, “So, have you got everything that you need?”
“No,” I say, inspecting the table, “We need bowls for the insides of the pumpkins.”
“And a big knife to cut the tops off,” Olivia adds.
“Aren’t you just going to throw the insides out? I have bags for that,” Margot replies, pointing at the plastic shopping bags she’s strewn across the table.
Olivia glares at her, “We keep the pumpkin seeds.”
“Why?” Margot chuckles, burying herself in her phone.
“Our Mom used to roast them,” I say quietly.
Margot puts her phone down, “Oh…Do you know how to do that?” she trepidly asks me.
“Yeah,” I reply, avoiding her gaze. Every year it was my job to wash the seeds and help Mom roast them.
Margot nods, then gets up and heads to the kitchen. Olivia sticks her tongue out when her back is turned.
“You should start planning your design,” I tell her. She glares at me.
“It’s not the same,” she huffs, careful to avoid Margot hearing.
“It’s too sunny, and we’re not sitting on the floor, or watching Over the Garden Wall,” she moans. The date on the calendar might be right, but everything about this activity feels wrong.
“I know, but we have to do it, she’s being very nice.” Olivia rolls her eyes.
When Margot returns to the table, she places our biggest mixing bowl in the middle of the table and a box of Cadbury Favourites.
“I figured we deserve a treat, seeing as this is one of your favourite traditions,” she smiles.
For all her efforts, her actions make things feel lonelier. Carving pumpkins and eating snacks is messy, plus, Olivia is fussy about chocolate. Mom would never make such errors.
“Thanks,” I say weakly.
Olivia and I start drawing our designs on the pumpkins in silence. Their wide rinds and dark skin make it harder than usual. Meanwhile, Margot talks and talks and talks. She puts on songs from The Nightmare Before Christmas, which Olivia hates, and shows us pictures on Pinterest of designs she wants to do.
When I finish my drawing, I start hacking at the top of the pumpkin. Olivia pushes hers towards me to do next. While these pumpkins might be stouter, the process feels familiar. Scooping out all of the guts and seeds is actually kind of fun. Olivia and I watch as Margot’s face spreads into sheer horror at the texture.
“Yuck!” she yelps with every scoop. Olivia is positively beaming at Margot’s displeasure in our annual tradition.
When the pumpkins are finally ready to be carved, Olivia insists I do hers first.
“I can help with that,” Margot offers.
“No,” Olivia replies firmly.
“It’s okay, I don’t mind,” I tell Margot.
“Just the eyes!” Olivia stipulates, “I can do the rest. The curves are too hard.”
The eyes on Olivia’s pumpkin are a sharp glower. Every year, my sister tries to make the pumpkin look more sinister than the last. The fangs on the mouth look easy enough for her to manage, but the eyes do need more precision.
I take my time, using the small saw to ensure the tops of the eyes have a smooth downward curve. I try not to think about the last time I carved the eyes on Olivia’s pumpkin, the time when Mom told me it would have to be my job from now on.
When I’m done, Margot looks at me surprised.
“Whoa! He looks really bloody mean!” she chuckles.
Olivia grins at the results, “Perfect!”
I return my attention to my own pumpkin, with its boring triangle eyes and nose, at least one part of our tradition this year was right.
