The Twelve Days of Dash & Lily

by Rachel Cohn

  “We’re seeing The Naughty and the Mice!” Boomer told Grandpa in the way Boomer had of delivering even the most basic information with an exclamation mark.

  To me, Dash said, “I didn’t think you’d want to come, so I didn’t ask if you wanted a ticket.” Dash was right. I didn’t want to see the movie because I’d already seen it. I thought The Naughty and the Mice was derivative, but Edgar Thibaud loved the Pixar movie about speed-demon attic mice who drag-race Matchbox cars when the house’s family is asleep.

  I didn’t tell Dash I’d already seen The Naughty and the Mice, because I had gone to the movie with Edgar Thibaud. It wasn’t like me hanging out with Edgar was a big secret—Dash knew that Edgar also volunteered (court-ordered) at Grandpa’s rehabilitation center—but I’d neglected to mention that occasionally he and I hung out after hours. Usually just for a coffee, but this was the first time he and I had gone anywhere beyond a café. I didn’t know why I went. I didn’t even like Edgar Thibaud that much. Well, I liked him fine enough for a scoundrel who was responsible for the death of my pet gerbil in kindergarten. I just didn’t trust him. Maybe Edgar was my stealth side-rehabilitation project, Grandpa being my primary and only truly important one. I wanted to help mold Edgar into a good guy, despite the odds, and if seeing a movie with a girl with the full knowledge that she had nothing beyond a platonic interest in him might evolve Edgar, I could make the effort. I told myself that I’d been so busy the last several months, I needed the relief of a dark time-out in a movie theater, even if it was a movie I didn’t care about with a person I barely cared about. If I’d seen the movie with Dash, I would have been preoccupied the whole time, wondering, Is he going to kiss me now? If not, why not? With Edgar, all I wondered was, Is he going to ask me to pay for his popcorn?

  “Have fun,” I said, and I managed to sound chipper, trying to be a good sport. I could never stay cold to Dash for long. But Dash’s leaving stung, like he’d given me the most fabulous gift only to prematurely snatch it away.

  “Oh, we will!” Boomer promised, so anxious to leave, he was hurriedly walking backward toward the door, which caused him to bump into a side table with enough force that the lamp on the table crashed to the floor. It was a minor crash—only the lightbulb broke—but the noise was enough to wake the beast that had been napping in my room. Boris, my dog, came racing into the living room and immediately pinned Boomer to the floor.

  “Heel!” I commanded Boris. As a breed, bullmastiffs are surprisingly good apartment dwellers for their size because they’re not very active. But they are essentially guard dogs, if compassionate ones—they pin intruders down instead of trying to hurt them. Boomer probably didn’t know that. I’d look as terrified as Boomer, too, if I had a 130-pound dog pinning me to the ground. “Heel!” I repeated.

  Boris got off Boomer and came and sat at my feet, satisfied that I was safe. But the commotion had also coaxed the smallest fur member of the family out of his own sleep, and, typically lazy, he arrived late into the living room to assess the situation and secure the area. Grandpa lives with us now that he can’t live on his own anymore, and his cat, Grunt, came along with him. True to his name, the cat grunted at Boris, who standing upright is the size of an adult woman but is abjectly terrified of Grandpa’s twelve-pound cat. Poor Boris went from a heeling posture to standing up and draping his front paws over my shoulders, whimpering, his dear, wrinkled face looking into mine like, Protect me, Mama! I gave Boris’s wet nose a kiss and said, “Down, boy. You’re fine.”

  Our apartment is really too small for all these people and animals. It’s a bloody zoo at my home. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I mean, maybe I’d like for Grandpa, who used to be so robust and such a man-about-town, not to be so confined to our third-floor apartment because he can’t do the stairs more than once per day, and some days not at all. But if having a stream of family members and health care workers come in and out to help him and visit with him averts Grandpa’s worst fear—being moved to a nursing home—I’m all for the zoo situation. The alternative scenario is bleak. Grandpa often proclaims that the only way he’ll allow himself to be moved out of his home is lying flat, in a box.

  Langston came into the living room from the kitchen and asked, “What happened in here?” and that was Dash’s cue to finally leave.

  Dash told Langston, “Thanks for the tea and cookies you didn’t offer.”

  Langston said, “You’re welcome. Leaving so soon? Wonderful!” Langston stepped to the front door in the foyer to open it. Bewildered Boomer stood up to step out while Dash hesitated for a moment. He looked like he was about to kiss me goodbye, then thought better of it, and instead he patted Boris’s head. Boris the traitor licked Dash’s hand.

  I was sore, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t melt when this impossibly handsome guy in the peacoat was sweet to my dog. “We’ll have a tree lighting tomorrow night,” I said to Dash. “Will you come?” Tomorrow was the fourteenth of December! Tree-lighting day! How had I managed to completely ignore this most important date until Dash literally plopped a tree into my living room? Was it that maybe this year the ceremony felt more like a chore than a reason for cheer?

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” said Dash. Grunt couldn’t have cared less about Dash’s acceptance of my invitation. Grunt took chase of Boris again, causing Boris to run—directly into a tall pile of books propped up against the living room wall. This caused Grandpa to yell, “Grunt, come back here!” and Boris to start barking, and Langston to admonish Dash, “Go already!”

  Boomer and Dash left.

  I knew Dash was relieved to leave.

  My house is always busy. Loud. Boisterous. Pet hairy. Lots of people around.

  Dash likes quiet, and order, and would prefer to be alone with his books than hang out with his own family. He’s allergic to cats. Sometimes I wonder if he is to me, too.

  Sunday, December 14th

  A year ago my life was so different. My grandpa was in such good shape that he went back and forth to Florida, where he had a girlfriend in his senior citizen apartment complex. I had no pets and no boyfriend. I didn’t really understand sadness.

  Grandpa’s girlfriend died from cancer this past spring, and soon after that, his heart gave out. I knew Grandpa’s fall was serious, but in the panic of the moment I didn’t take it all in, because I was too preoccupied with the interminable wait for the ambulance, then the ride to the hospital, then calling all the family to let them know what had happened. It wasn’t until the next day, when he was stabilized, that I understood how bad it really had been. I’d gone to the hospital cafeteria to pick up some lunch, and when I returned, I saw through the window to his room that Mrs. Basil E., Grandpa’s sister and my favorite aunt, had arrived. She’s a tall lady and normally a larger-than-life presence, wearing impeccably tailored suits with expensive jewelry, and perfect makeup on her face. But in that moment before she saw me, she was sitting at sleeping Grandpa’s bedside, holding his hand, heavy tears causing mascara to streak down into her lipstick.

  I’ve never, ever seen Mrs. Basil E. cry. She looked so small. I felt a sharp gnawing in my stomach and a choking of my heart. I am a glass-half-full kind of gal—I try to always look on the bright side of things—but I couldn’t deny the sharp crest of sadness invading my body and soul at the sight of her grief and worry. Suddenly Grandpa’s mortality was too real, and how it would feel when he did eventually die felt too alive with possibility.

  Mrs. Basil E. placed Grandpa’s hand against her face and wept harder, and for a second, I feared Grandpa was dead. Then his hand came to life and gave her a gentle slap, and she laughed. I knew then everything would be okay, for now—but never the same.

  That was my entry into sadness, stage one.

  Stage two came the next day, and it was so much worse.

  How can such a simple kindness change everything?

  Dash came to visit me at the hospital. I had bought food at the cafeteria but wasn’t really eating it—I was too di
stracted by the situation and didn’t have an appetite for stale cheese sandwiches or kale chips, what the hospital offered in lieu of potato chips in a mean attempt at being health conscious. Dash must have heard the fatigue—and hunger—in my voice over the phone, because he arrived carrying a pizza from my favorite place, John’s. (The John’s location in the Village, not the one in midtown. Come on!) A John’s pizza is my ultimate comfort food, and even if the pie had gone cold during its trek from the restaurant to the hospital, my heart could not have been warmer at the sight of it—and of Dash carrying it to me.

  Impulsively, I blurted out, “I love you so much.” I wrapped my arms around his back and buried my head in his neck, covering it in kisses. He laughed, and said, “If I’d known a pizza would get this response, I’d have brought it a lot earlier.”

  He didn’t say I love you back.

  I hadn’t realized I felt it until I said it. I hadn’t been talking just about him bringing me the pizza.

  When I told Dash I love you so much, I meant: I love you for your kindness and your snarliness. I love you for grossly over-tipping waitstaff when using your dad’s credit card to “pay it forward.” I love the way you look when reading a book—content and dreamy, off in another world. I love how you suggested I never read a Nicholas Sparks book, and when I did read one because I was curious, and then read some more, I love you for how confused and offended and downright angry you were. Not that I’d read them, but that I adored them. I love debating literary snobbery with you, and that you can at least recognize that even if you don’t like “pandering, insincere, faux romantic garbage,” that lots of other people—including your girlfriend—do. I love you for loving my great-aunt almost as much as I do. I love how much brighter and sweeter and more interesting my life has been since you’ve been a part of it. I love you for answering the call of a red notebook once upon a time.

  Grandpa lived, but a piece of me felt like it died that day, for having the joy of realizing I truly loved somebody so quickly deflated by experiencing the feeling alone.

  Dash still hasn’t said it back.

  I never said it to Dash again.

  I don’t hold it against him—really, I don’t. He’s lovely and attentive to me, and I know he likes me. A lot. Sometimes I wish he wouldn’t seem so surprised about that.

  I said I love you so much, and in that instant I meant it with every fiber of my being, but since the moment passed unreciprocated, I’ve tried to have a little more distance from Dash. I can’t make him feel something he doesn’t feel, and I don’t want to get hurt trying, so I decided to let my love for him simmer on the back burner of my heart, to allow me to be more casual and undemanding of him up front.

  It’s helped that I’ve been so busy. I’ve spent so little time with Dash lately that it’s almost stopped hurting. I haven’t been actively trying to fall out of love; it’s just happened by default. When I’m not in school, I have schoolwork or SAT-prep classes, soccer practice and soccer games, taking Grandpa to physical therapy and doctor’s appointments and to visit with his friends. There’s the grocery shopping and cooking that Mom and Dad are too busy to do lately because they have new academic jobs. They’re not working in another country anymore, but they might as well be; the closest job Mom could get on such short notice was a part-time English teacher gig at a community college in Way Outsville, Long Island, and Dad commutes to a headmaster job at a boarding school in God Only Knows Where, Connecticut. Langston shares the Grandpa responsibilities, but when it comes to housework, he helps only in the half-assed way dudes do. (Obviously that peeves me if I feel compelled to curse.) There’s my dog-walking business. My services have become so in demand that Mrs. Basil E. calls me Lily Mogul instead of Lily Bear now. With everything else going on, trying to find time with Dash can feel more like an obligation than a joy.

  I’m overwhelmed.

  Childish Lily Bear is a distant memory. I feel like in the last year I went from a very young sixteen to a very old seventeen.

  —

  I’ve been so busy, I royally screwed up the hasty present I made to give Dash at my small tree-lighting party. I’d been working on it since the beginning of the year but set it aside when Grandpa’s troubles began. I sighed, looking at its resurrection so many months later. My brother laughed.

  “It’s not that bad, is it, Langston?” I said.

  “It’s…” He hesitated too long. “Sweet.” Langston pulled the emerald green sweater over his head and then tugged on its looseness. “But Dash is probably close to the same size as me, and this sweater is way too big. Should we presume you’ll be resuming your annual holiday cookie drive to fatten Dash up?”

  The sweater had been a Christmas gift to our dad several years ago, from the Big & Tall store. Never worn, still in the box. I was repurposing the sweater, but the snowflake-patterned red fabric insert I’d sewn onto the front was original artwork. On it, I’d needlepointed two turtledoves perched together on a tree branch. The left turtledove’s belly had DASH sewn on it, and the right’s said LILY.

  I couldn’t deny the visual once my brother was wearing the sweater. I needed to remove the turtledoves insert and sew it on something else, like a hat or scarf. They don’t really deserve a sweater, even if you call them something fake adorable like turtledoves. It had been a big disappointment to me to learn that turtledoves are basically pigeons who emit gentle purring sounds. I want to think that’s cute because I love all animals, but I am a New Yorker and I know: Pigeons are not cute. They’re nuisances.

  I’m really not feeling Christmas if I’m taking my grump out on noisy birds who symbolize the season. I told Langston, “You’re right, it looks awful. I can’t give it to Dash.”

  “Please give it to Dash,” Langston said.

  The doorbell rang. I said, “Take off the sweater, Langston. Our guests are arriving.”

  I checked myself in the foyer mirror and smoothed down my hair, hoping I looked presentable. I was wearing my favorite Christmas outfit, a green felt skirt with reindeer figures sewn on the front, and a red T-shirt with the words DON’T STOP BELIEVIN’ circling a picture of Santa Claus. The food was here, the lights had been strung around Oscar’s ample branches, the animals were confined to my bedroom as a courtesy to our guests. Christmas could begin. Magic could happen.

  I wondered if it would be Dash’s father at the door. I really thought that if Dash and his dad spent more time together, they’d like each other more, and a small, unassuming party to launch Christmas could be just the occasion to help them along. I’d sent an invite last night to his mom first, but she declined, saying she had a client meeting at the same time. So this morning I had the thought to invite Dash’s dad instead.

  It was a surprise, then, to open the door and see Dash standing between his mother and father. “Guess who I ran into?” he said.

  I don’t think his parents have been in the same room together since Dash was a child and had to testify in court during their divorce.

  Dash did not have a party face. Neither did his parents.

  Finally, cold had arrived for Christmas.

  Sunday, December 14th

  I knew that if you put Lily into the most elaborate X-ray machine ever devised, and if you scoured the resulting X-ray with the most powerful microscope available in all the universe, you wouldn’t find a single bad intention in any bone in her body. I knew the matter at hand was a mistake born of ignorance, not cruelty or mischief. I knew there was no way for her to understand the cosmic scale of her failure.

  But, holy shit, I was pissed.

  Bad enough that as I was leaving my mother’s apartment, Mom called out, “Where are you going? I’m coming with you!” Okay, I thought. Mom and Lily have always gotten along. I’ve always been happy about that. And it’s great that Lily wants to share her tree lighting with a wide range of people. Go with it.

  I even chose not to mind when my mother said, “Are you really going to wear that?” and made me put on a tie. This
was probably the first mother-son outing we’d had since puberty had ousted mother-son outings from my to-do list. Still, I tried to rise to the occasion. We chitchatted on the subway about what her reading group had chosen that month. After I professed a complete ignorance about the works of Ann Patchett, we found our way to other subject matter, like the fact that I was going to stay around for New Year’s while she and my stepfather were heading out of town. It was fine.

  But then we got to Lily’s subway stop, and at the top of the stairs, Mom gripped my arm and said, “No. That can’t be—no.”

  At first I thought, What a coincidence. Of all the places Dad chose to be this afternoon, he happens to be here, in our way.

  Then I saw he was holding a present…and it dawned on me that the afternoon was exquisitely fucked.

  This registered with my mother, too.

  “Lily couldn’t possibly have…?” she asked.

  The problem was, I didn’t have to answer. We both knew it was possible.

  “Oh no,” Mom said. Then, punctuating each word with a deep breath, “No. No. No.”

  I know plenty of children of divorce who are sad about the turn of events that turned their family into rubble. But I have never been one of them. Even a casual observer could see that my parents brought out the worst in each other—and I was hardly a casual observer. When things fell apart—I was nine—it felt like a full-time job to observe the way my parents acted around each other. They both thought they were arming themselves with their strengths, but really they were just grabbing for amplified versions of their weaknesses. A seesaw of panic and rage from my mother. A swirl of arrogance and righteous indignation from my father. I tried not to take sides, but ultimately my father’s meanness was far worse than my mother’s need. He’d done little to disrupt the pattern since.