Finally, as Mom served dessert—a simple plate of store-bought biscuits and a carafe of coffee—and the silence crackled between us, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I hadn’t spoken to my brother since I left Rosewood a month before, so I was missing him too, but this was ridiculous.
“We should put on some carols and get out the tree,” I said.
“No,” my mother said in a clipped tone.
“He’s not dead, Mom and it’s Christmas Eve.”
Mom opened her mouth to say something more, but before she got the chance, Dad beat her to it. “I think she’s right. Moping around like this isn’t helping. He can’t be here, but he would be unhappy knowing we aren’t celebrating Christmas at all.”
But instead of seeing reason—and my mother had always been the voice of reason—she pushed back her chair and without another word, left the room.
Dad exhaled loudly, scrubbing his face with his hands. “She’s not dealing well with him following in my footsteps,” he said through his hands.
“I hadn’t noticed,” I said humorlessly.
He looked up at me and I could see the guilt on his face.
“It’s okay, Dad,” I said. “Don’t feel bad.”
He gave me a whatever look. “This is because of me. My job. I’ve ruined Christmas for everyone. Your mother signed up to be married to an agency man, but she never wanted it for you kids. You didn’t sign up for this. I’m sure the last thing you want is to be stuck here in this apartment like a prisoner.”
He was right, but it’s not like we had a choice at this point. I shrugged, not sure what I could say to make him feel better.
“And now your brother.” He sighed and look down the hall toward their bedroom where she’d gone, slamming the door behind herself. “She’s pretty mad at me.”
That wasn’t news. “She’ll get over it,” I said, believing it to be true. Mom was a bit of a hard-head, but she was reasonable. “If he loves it, you couldn’t have stopped him. You wouldn't have, I know it and you do, too.”
He smiled. “No. You’re probably right. It’s not a great job for a family man, but it sure is exciting for a young buck like your brother.”
Young buck? That was a new one.
“He’s pretty smart,” I said. “It’s good to see him doing something that will let him use that big brain of his.”
Dad gave me one of his proud papa faces. “Both of my kids are very smart. But I tell you, if you decide to go agency, too, your mother is going to divorce me.”
I laughed. “No worry there. I want to be a writer...a journalist, I think.”
“You’ll be a great writer. You’re smart and observant, which would make you a great agent, too...”
“One kid at the agency is more than enough, thank you,” Mom interrupted in a clipped tone.
Dad and I both turned to where she stood in the doorway. Her arms were crossed and she still looked upset, but not like before; she didn’t quite look nuclear.
“Hon?” Dad said, pushing his chair back and standing. After a half-second hesitation, he stepped forward toward her so he could fold her into his arms.
She muttered something into his shoulder and he mumbled something back, making her laugh. After a minute, they parted and mom wiped at her eyes before she gave me a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m being unfair. We should decorate the tree.”
Dad smiled, looking relieved. “I’ll go dig it out of the storage locker in the basement.”
“I’ll help you,” Mom said, a weird twinkle in her eye as she looked at Dad. Ew.
I grabbed another cookie off the plate on the table and avoided making eye contact with either of them. “I’ll wait here,” I said to no one in particular, because they were already gone.
~ ♥ ~
We didn’t end up decorating the tree that night.
By the time my parents returned from the storage locker after going through all the packed boxes, they were both dusty and tired, so after Dad pulled the tree out of one of the boxes and put it together, we decided to start fresh after breakfast the next day.
Just as well, I figured, as I sat in my room and texted with Kaylee who had escaped to the bathroom at Declan’s family Christmas Eve party to chat with me.
Please tell me you’re having a good time, I sent. I need to live vicariously.
It’s okay, she sent back, but exhausting. I want to steal Declan and just sit in a closet with him.
To make out? I laughed as I typed. It was a joke. Sort of.
She sent a smilie. We don’t get a lot of time alone. Don’t get me wrong, I’m having a great time. It’s just so many people. Overwhelming.
A bit of an introvert myself, I totally got where she was coming from.
But how is your holiday? she asked.
It’s hardly a holiday. I sent back. I’m SO bored. I’m even knitting!
You are not!
It’s true, I nodded as I typed, even though she couldn’t see me. I have literally nothing going on in my life and knitting is the highlight. I sent a picture of my current project as proof.
That is pretty, she sent. But sad.
You got that right.
I wish you could have come to this party. It would have been so much more fun with you here. There are some cute guys here. Not that I’m looking for myself...
I sighed. I would have loved to have come. Believe me.
There’s no way you can get out?
I heard the toilet flush through the paper walls of my room and stuffed the phone under my pillow, just in case one of my parents decided to open my door to say goodnight. I picked up my knitting and started working at it, thinking Kaylee would look good in this blue and maybe I’d figure out a way to get the scarf to her when I finished it. After a couple of minutes, I heard my parents’ door close again and abandoned the wool and needles.
Sorry, I heard my parents.
Everything okay?
Yes. False alarm; just being paranoid.
So. Do you want me to send any messages to the girls?
I thought about that while my fingers hovered over the letters on my phone. Did I want her to send messages to my other friends? Of course I did. Especially Emmie. But it was stupid, not to mention dangerous. And what would I even say? Robert had stayed behind on campus after I’d left, so I really didn’t know what he might have said to anyone and being caught in multiple lies was probably worse than just disappearing.
Better not, I sent reluctantly. At least not yet.
They miss you. They’re worried.
Tears pricked at my eyes as I read her words over and over again. I know. I can’t risk it.
I saw her typing, but before she could finish, I sent, You’d better get back, they’re going to think you have a weak American stomach or something.
I do—the food at this party is awful. I might end up back in the bathroom for a different reason.
I smiled at that. Text me tomorrow, I sent.
I will. xoxo
Voyeur
The next morning after breakfast, we decorated the tree. Though I’m sure we all had thoughts of Robert at the backs of our minds, we still managed to dredge up a bit of holiday cheer as Mom put on some Christmas tunes and we belatedly hung the decorations on the tree and handed out gifts.
Since I didn’t have the ability to go shopping for them, my gifts to my parents were pretty lame—one of my homemade scarves for Dad and a very asymmetrical tea cozy for Mom—but they acted like they were the best gifts they’d ever received, which was kind of sweet. I received two knitted sweaters and mittens, an iPod for music (now that I didn’t have a phone—at least one that they knew about), a really nice Moleskine notebook and some of the good gel pens I like along with a new laptop loaded with writing software. Dad didn’t have to warn me not to go online and do stuff that could be traceable, but he did anyway. It was easier just to take it and agree than tell him I didn’t need the reminder.
After we were done and the l
ast of the wrapping was put into the recycling, Mom glanced at the clock and announced that she wanted to go to church for Christmas Day service. Dad refrained from rolling his eyes, knowing he might just send her off the deep end again. He called his agency and arranged for a security detail to accompany them to the church. I was off the hook thanks to the whole media thing still being a concern, and promised to do the dishes while they were out.
When they were gone, I played around with my new computer a bit, but thought it best to do my chores before I got caught up in doing any actual writing (and anyway, I didn’t have any good ideas yet) so I went into the kitchen to start in on the breakfast dishes. There weren’t a lot, but Mom had made one of her cheesy frittatas, which meant at least one pan would need a good soak. As I filled up the sink, I happened to look out the window into the courtyard.
He was back. My courtyard guy was coming out of a door on the far side of the building and walking toward the bench, his back ramrod straight, shoulders back and his chin high in the air, making me think one thing: military. Being around my dad and his agency and military colleagues my entire life, I could spot a military guy a mile away.
He wore jeans and a leather jacket, and sunglasses under a baseball cap with the New York Yankees logo on it. He looked awfully casual to be part of the security detail, especially with the earbuds in. Though I guess his appearance could be a decoy.
Remembering my task, I turned back to the sink and squeezed some soap into the hot water and slid the dishes in, turning the tap off before turning back to the window.
He was sitting on the bench again, facing my side of the building, so I got a good look at him. He had sculpted features, but he was still a ways away, making me want to get out Dad’s binoculars. I laughed at that thought, feeling kind of stalkerish and creepy. But, I reasoned, what harm would I be doing? Guys checked out cute girls all the time, and it’s not like I was looking in his window to catch him naked in his flat or anything.
I blushed at that, even as my eyes drifted up to the flat windows across the courtyard and I wondered which ones were his.
“Perv,” I said to myself, though I still turned to get the binoculars. When I returned to the window, I lifted the specs to my eyes and turned the rings to focus.
“Whoa,” I said aloud. Because as good-looking as I thought this guy was, so much more was revealed through the lenses of the binoculars. While I was right about the chiseled jaw and the sexy stubble, what I couldn’t have seen with my naked eyes was the scarring. Most of the left side of his face (what I could see outside his sunglasses) was covered in pink and puckered scars that looked like burns. Even his mouth was slightly disfigured, making him look like he had a bit of a harelip on the one side of what were otherwise nice, full lips.
The scars paired with the way he moved made me realize I was likely looking at a returned veteran. This man had been to war. And hadn’t returned unscathed.
My heart fluttered as I watched him, silently wishing he would take off his glasses; I was desperate to see his eyes. I wanted to know what color they were to complete the picture, but more than that, I needed to see what was in them. I’d met returned vets before and so often they were damaged, sometimes in small ways and others were profoundly changed. I knew depression and suicide were serious side-effects of active duty, and that this guy had those scars meant he’d probably seen a lot, been through a lot.
“Come on,” I whispered. “Take them off; just for a minute.”
But he didn’t remove the glasses, instead sitting there still as a statue on the bench. He had the earbuds in again and I wondered what he was listening to. Rock? Rap? Classical? No way to tell from where I was, sheltered behind a thick pane of glass.
And as he sat there alone, I wondered if he had no one to spend his Christmas with, which made my heart ache for him. No one should be alone on Christmas, especially someone who had fought for his country.
After several minutes, he hadn’t moved and my arms were getting tired from holding up the binoculars. Putting them down on the end table next to the couch, I watched him for a little longer, sure that the second I took the binoculars away, he’d take off the glasses. When he didn’t, I tore myself away to return to the dishes that—as Mom loved to say—weren’t going to do themselves.
I tried not to feel too sad that the highlight of my day was being a peeping Tom, trying instead to figure out the courtyard guy. Just because I couldn’t possibly know anything of his back story, didn’t mean I could make one up. Huh, I thought, maybe journalism isn’t the only kind of writing I should pursue. Maybe I could try my hand at fiction. Maybe some fiction about a hot soldier who’d returned to London after a harrowing tour of duty.
Still, no matter how much I tried to piece together a story for him, something was missing, making me still want to know him.
I turned on the tap to add more hot water to the sink and couldn’t help it when I looked up again toward the window. It was like my eyes and attention were drawn there unconsciously.
For some reason, I suddenly felt brave. I wanted to talk to him and find out his story. I needed to know who he was and what he’d been through. I needed to see those eyes.
My heart began to pound and before I could stop myself, I turned off the water and dried my hands. Grabbing my keys, I stuffed them into the pocket of my coat as I threw it over my shoulders and ran out of the flat, shoving my arms into the sleeves as I jogged toward the stairwell. I hurried down the stairs to the fire door that led out into the courtyard, stopping for a second to catch my breath and not look like a deranged maniac, erupting out like I was being chased by a horror film villain.
I forced myself to count to twenty, which allowed my breathing to almost return to normal. Though I knew no matter how much time I gave it, my heart was not going to stop thudding in my chest.
“You can do this,” I whispered to myself, trying to be convincing, “You are badass.”
With one final deep breath, I pushed the bar on the door, making a loud ker-chunk as it opened into the crisp dreariness that was Christmas Day in London.
Only to find myself alone in the courtyard.
The guy was gone.
Dish(es)
I looked around the courtyard, but sure enough, he must have made his escape as I was coming down the stairs. I suddenly wished I had a heat-seeking camera so I could detect a heat trail and follow where he’d gone. But on second thought, no, that was totally creepy. When had I turned into a stalker? And over a guy I’d never even met? I really needed to get out of the house.
At the moment, though, I wanted to turn back around and go inside, but had a weird feeling that he might be watching. Not wanting him to think I was some sort of lunatic, I walked over to the bench like it was exactly as I had planned, and sat down. Two seconds later, I wished I’d brought a book. Two seconds after that, I sighed and focused on the world around me, because what else could I do? I began to hear all the noises: muffled traffic outside the building walls, voices on the street, the muted sounds of television and laughter coming from the flats facing the courtyard. I exhaled, taking it all in and letting myself relax, thinking that these were the kind of details a writer needed to notice. Maybe this was a good exercise for me.
Anyway, probably just as well that I hadn’t met the guy; it had been a stupid idea and my dad would have a coronary if he ever caught me introducing myself to a stranger. Looking down at myself, I realized I hadn’t even grabbed my hat and scarf, so my face would have been completely exposed. Nice going, Brooklyn, I said to myself. So much for staying safe. So yeah, just as well he’d disappeared.
I gave myself five more minutes before I made a show of looking at my watch and jumped up like I had somewhere to be before I jogged back into the building and up the stairs to our floor.
Peeking down the hallway, I made sure I was alone before hurrying to the door of the flat. I heard the groan of the old elevator coming up the shaft, so I rushed to unlock the door and get inside,
not wanting any neighbors to see me, or worse, my parents, just in case they had come home early.
I ducked inside and went to push the door closed behind me, when it met with resistance.
Damn!
Startled, I jumped out of the way of the door and opened my mouth to rattle off a hopefully believable story to my parents, but it wasn’t them coming in behind me.
“Hey, B,” my brother said, a sleepy grin on his face, looking as though he was just casually returning from a night out at the pub.
He had time to drop his duffel to the floor with a thud before I squeaked and threw myself at him, hugging him hard, even with the backpack over his shoulders.
“What are you doing here?” I said into his shoulder, thoughts of my illicit escape all but forgotten. “I thought you weren’t coming home!”
With a grunt, he pulled away from me and moved out of the way of the door, closing it behind himself. He motioned me forward into the flat. “Jeez, it sounds like you don’t even want me here,” he said with a giant mock frown, his eyes dancing.
I smacked his arm as I inconspicuously toed off my shoes and nudged them onto the doormat. “Shut up.”
Either he didn’t notice me removing my shoes or he didn’t think it was worth mentioning, something for which I was thankful. “Dad said Mom is freaking out a little,” he said as he moved his duffel out of the way and followed me into the living room where we sat on the couch.
I snorted. “A little might be an understatement. She will lose her freaking mind when she sees you.”
“Where are they?” he looked around the room, his eyes landing on the lit Christmas tree. “And wait, Dad said she wouldn’t let you guys decorate for Christmas?”
“There is no holiday without you, the first born, big brother,” I said. At his withering look, I continued. “We finally convinced her, but only late last night. This was all done this morning. I can’t believe Dad didn’t tell us you were coming home—he could have saved us all a lot of grief. Himself included.”
Robert shook his head. “He didn’t know for sure. I didn’t even know until like an hour before I got on that plane. He had to pull some strings and didn’t want to disappoint her if it didn’t work out.”
Making Ripples Page 4
