by Rachel Cohn
Lily knew how I felt. She knew I kept a wide demilitarized zone between my parents. It was the only way to prevent constant warfare on my father’s end, and hurt on my mother’s.
Now she was hurt. Just seeing him, she was hurt.
“I had no idea,” I told her.
“I know,” she said. Then, after a clear moment of decision, she started walking forward, following my father.
“You don’t have to do this,” I told her. “Really. I’ll explain to Lily. She’ll understand.”
Mom smiled at me. “We can’t let the terrorists win, Dash. I’m going to this tree lighting whether your father is there or not.”
She even picked up her pace, so by the time we got to Lily’s block, we were only a few feet behind my father. Characteristically, he wasn’t looking back.
“Dad,” I said, finally, as we got to the front steps.
He turned and saw me first. Put on his Father Face. (It never quite fit.) Then he looked next to me and flashed some genuine surprise.
“Oh,” he said.
“Yeah,” my mom replied. “Oh.”
We stood there clucking for a minute, pleasantries without any feeling of pleasantness. Mom asked after Dad’s new-but-not-that-new wife. Dad asked after Mom’s new-but-not-that-new husband. It felt surreal—the names didn’t match the voices that usually said them. I was at a loss—and the loss was one I had grown up with. It was not something I wanted to get any closer to.
The present that Dad was holding was wrapped—maybe by the wife, maybe by the shop. Whatever the case, it showed more care than I’d received in years. I got checks—when I got anything at all. She always signed the birthday cards for him.
Even before Lily answered the door, Mom and Dad started to peck at each other—Dad saying, “I didn’t know you were going to be here,” and Mom saying, “Why wouldn’t I be here?”—until I pecked at both of them to be quiet. I knew Lily’s whole family would be here, and the last thing I wanted was for them to see how rocky the surface of my gene pool was.
Lily opened the door and I had to remind myself: She had no idea she had no idea she had no idea. So I didn’t scream. I just said, “Guess who I ran into?”
A different girlfriend would have answered my sarcastic salvo with one of her own. Krampus? Lily might have said. Or Scrooge. Or Judah Frickin’ Maccabee. But that wasn’t what Lily was going to answer. Instead, she asked, “Can I take your coats?” Only, none of us were wearing coats.
Instead of answering, my father held out his present. “For you, my dear,” he said to Lily.
“I would have brought something,” my mother quickly interjected, “but Dash told me it wasn’t that kind of party.”
My father laughed. “Typical!” he said to Lily, as if she knew as well as he how bad I was at figuring out what kind of party a party was.
“It really isn’t that kind of a party,” Lily said. “But thank you anyway.”
And my father, true to form, said, “Well, if it’s not that kind of party, I can always take the present back.” He lunged to take it from her, and then pulled away, laughing again. “God, it was just a joke, people,” he said once he realized he was the only one laughing.
“I’ll put this in my room,” Lily said. I understood from the way she said it that I was meant to follow. But there was no way I could leave my mom alone.
“We’ll go in and meet everyone,” I said.
“Oh. Okay. I’ll be right in.”
In most situations involving stress and strife, the last person you’d want to add into the mix is an ex. But in this case, when I walked into the living room and saw Sofia, all I felt was gratitude. She and my mother had always gotten along well.
“Come say hi to Sofia,” I said, leading my mother over. “I told you she came back from Barcelona, right? Why don’t you ask her if that cathedral is finished yet?”
“So good to see you!” Sofia’s smile was wide, and her eyes were reading my SOS. “I don’t really know anyone else here—Boomer’s late, and Lily’s been running around getting everything together. It’s great to see a familiar face.”
My mother smiled back. “You have no idea.”
“I’ll be right back,” I said. Because there was still the bomb-disposal task of managing my father.
He was starting to talk to Langston, and I didn’t have to hear what he was saying to know that every word out of his mouth was confirming Langston’s worst view of my lineage.
“…no reason to look so smug. I have every reason to be here. I was invited, for Christ’s sake.”
“I’m sure Lily invited you, sir,” Langston replied. “But I don’t think she did it for Christ.”
This flustered my father for a moment, and Langston used this pause to say “I have to go see a man about a reindeer” and bolt to another room. My father immediately started scouring the room for his next conversational hostage.
“Dad,” I said. “Over here.”
I knew that if there was anyone in this room who could handle my jackass father, it was Mrs. Basil E. I wouldn’t need to say a word of explanation to her—from her perch on Lily’s sofa, she would have already taken in the situation with a knowledge approaching omniscience. I knew she didn’t suffer fools gladly, but she’d gladly make a fool suffer.
“There’s someone I want you to meet,” I told my dad. “This is Lily’s aunt.”
My father eyed her, and paid her little more mind than he would an old lady trying to cross the street. He was prepared to walk right past.
“So,” Mrs. Basil E. said, eyeing him with both curiosity and a desire to kill a cat, “you’re this rapscallion’s father?”
My father straightened up a little at that. “Guilty as charged. Or at least that’s the story his mother told me.”
“Oh—and you’re rakish as well! I’ve often found it helpful to have a shovel around when you’re dealing with a rake.”
“I’m not sure I follow….”
“And I, sir, am not very sure you lead. But no matter. Why don’t you sit down next to me? As little as I expect I’ll enjoy your company, it will gratify me greatly to see you out of the way. Lily takes these celebrations very seriously, and in my estimation, you are currently the person in the room with the highest likelihood of ruining this one. Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Mrs. Basil E. didn’t exactly pat the seat next to her. Instead, she seemed to cast a spell on the cushion so it wouldn’t be tainted when my father sat down.
“I didn’t have to be here, you know,” he mumbled. I almost felt sorry for him. But not quite.
“That reflects well on you,” Mrs. Basil E. conceded. “Now don’t alter that reflection with further speech. Let’s sit and watch the others.”
Powerless, my father obliged.
“Get your father some cider,” Mrs. Basil E. ordered.
“Make it a double,” Dad said.
“The cider is entirely devoid of alcohol,” Mrs. Basil E. disclaimed.
“But still—it’s cider,” my father replied, finally earning a slight glimmer of her respect.
I performed this errand with haste—handing my father two mugs, neither of which read WORLD’S GREATEST FATHER. Then I went in search of Lily, who had yet to return.
First I checked the kitchen, but only found her father there, looking as if he was trying to remember which appliance was the stove. Then I ventured down the hall to see if the bathroom door was closed; it wasn’t.
It was quiet as I got near her room—so quiet, I assumed she wouldn’t be there. But when I peeked in, there she was, all alone. She wasn’t looking for anything. Wasn’t checking her phone. Wasn’t making a last-minute change to her holiday playlist. Instead, she was sitting on the edge of her bed, staring out at the edge of the world. Lost in thought, or thinking thoughts that would be lost the minute I said her name and she snapped to attention, fugue-state fugitive. It was disturbing to see her like this, but I still wasn’t sure I should disturb her. There
’s an alone that calls out for rescue—but this appeared to be an alone that wanted to be left alone.
I was going to quietly head back to the party, but at the moment of my first retreat, she slipped out of wherever it was she had been and turned to see me in the doorway. Maybe she’d known I was there all along. Maybe I had no idea what she was thinking.
“Dash,” she said, as if we both needed to be reminded who I was.
“The party?” I replied. “Is there anything I can do?”
Lily shook her head. “I think everything’s ready. It’s not really a party. It’s just a tree lighting.”
I saw my father’s present unopened on her desk. I picked it up and shook it. Something rolled around inside.
“Well, at least it’s not a check,” I said. “It required at least some thought. His or someone else’s.” I shook it more furiously. “I hope it’s not breakable.”
“Stop,” Lily said.
I stopped.
“I have something for you,” she said. “You don’t have to open it now. And you don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to. Ever. I just—well, it’s just something I thought I’d give to you. But you’re under no obligation.”
“It’s a leather miniskirt, isn’t it?” I asked. “You killed me a cow and turned it into a miniskirt for me!”
From the horror on her face, you would have thought I’d guessed correctly. Which, I’m sure, led to some horror on my face. Which lightened Lily up a little.
“No cows were hurt in the making of this sweater,” she assured me.
And I thought, Oh, boy. Sweater.
It’s not that I didn’t think Lily could knit a sweater. I thought Lily could make anything she set her mind on making, whether it be a five-tier cake or a macramé Madonna. But sweaters…living in New York City, I had a very complicated relationship to sweaters. When you were outside, they were fine, even preferable, keeping away the big chill. But inside? When the temperature suddenly skyrocketed to ninety degrees? Sweagatory—sweaty purgatory.
Lily went to the base of her bookshelf and picked up a tissue paper–wrapped package. “Here,” she said, handing it over.
I stopped to ponder what kind of wild night between a Kleenex and a piece of 8-by-11 had led to the birth of tissue paper. Then I ripped it to shreds and opened up the sweater within.
The first thing I noticed was how huge it was—at least two X’s past XL, with room for an extra reindeer if it happened to need shelter underneath. Then I noticed how Christmas it was—even though Lily was giving me a sweater for Christmas, it hadn’t occurred to me that it might be a Christmas sweater. The snowflake on the front looked like it had been woven by a spider who’d gotten a little too fly-drunk the night before. And then there were the birds. Doves, I thought. With our names on them. Lily’s dove had a sprig of olive tree in its mouth. Mine was just kind of lurking.
“Oh, Lily,” I said. “I mean, wow.”
I knew she must have spent a lot of time on it, so I said, “You must have spent so much time on it!”
I knew it matched her own Santa-positive outfit. So I said, “We match!”
I knew it had been a hard year for her, so I mustered full-blast cheer to say, “I’m going to put it on right now!”
She started to tell me I didn’t need to do that, but I blocked out all her protestations with the miles of sacrificial yarn that passed over my ears. When I finally found the head hole, I surfaced and took a breath. From far away, I must have looked like a deranged mitten.
“I love it!” I said, rolling up the sleeves so that my knuckles could get some air.
“You do not love it,” Lily said. “I told you not to wear it. It was the thought that was supposed to count.”
“No,” I said. “This is much more than the thought. I have never, ever had anyone knit me a sweater before. Not my parents. Not my grandparents. Not the great-aunts in Florida who have way, way too much time on their hands. Certainly none of my friends. This is special to me.”
“I didn’t knit it all. I just…repurposed.”
“Even better! Less of a wool footprint left on the environment! That’s brilliant!”
I was in danger of putting the clamato in exclamation—not even remotely palatable—so I dialed it down.
“Really,” I told her, reaching over for her hand, making her look at me to see my sincerity. “This is one of the best things I’ve ever gotten. I’ll wear it with pride. Dash-and-Lily pride.”
Once upon a time, this would have made her smile. Once upon a time, this would have made her happy.
I wanted us to be upon that time.
“You really don’t have to wear it,” she said once again.
“I know.”
Before she could say it another time, before the sweat line moved below my forehead, where I could feel it gathering, I walked to the door. Turning back, I asked, “You coming?” Then I added, “I’m sure my mom would love to talk to you. And your father’s looking a little lost in the kitchen.”
Now Lily’s attention seemed to focus. “My father? In the kitchen? That’s not—I mean, he only goes in there when he needs a snack.” She stood up, stepped forward. “If he’s trying to help, we need to stop him. And was my mother in there? She’s even worse.”
“I didn’t see your mom,” I assured her.
We walked down the hallway. When we got to the kitchen, we found it empty.
“I don’t think he did any damage,” Lily concluded after a quick scan. Then she looked at me. “And speaking of damage—I’m sorry about your parents. I was caught up in the spirit of inviting people, I guess. I honestly don’t know what I was thinking. I got confused between what I wanted to happen and what I should have known would happen. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. I know it’s not helpful.”
“It’s fine,” I promised her—but that didn’t land well, because we both knew it wasn’t particularly true. So I rephrased. “I’m sure it will be fine now that the initial shock has worn off. They’ll stay on separate sides of the room. Mrs. Basil E. will keep my dad in check. If anyone can do it, she can.”
This appeared to be the case when we returned to the living room. Boomer had arrived and was talking animatedly with Sofia and my mom. His hand was on her back (Sofia’s, not my mom’s) in that I-must-show-everyone-we’re-linked-by-taking-it-beyond-metaphor way that people in new couples have. If I’d done that to Sofia when we were courting, she probably would have swatted it away, called it condescending. But with Boomer, she seemed to like it. Or at least to not think about it. Somehow, his touch had become natural to her.
My mom noticed this. I saw her see it. I had no doubt she would have liked my stepfather to be here to back her up in the same way, instead of on some business trip.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Basil E. was tsking my father into submission. I hated that he seemed to be enjoying her company nonetheless.
I was aware of the way the room shifted to accommodate my sweater. There were looks, for sure. But as soon as the laughter came into a person’s eyes, another knowledge would counterbalance—the big contextual clue that I was standing next to Lily, and therefore this sweater must be something Lily had done. Because of that—and solely because of that—the laughter died before Lily could hear it. Nobody in the room wanted her to feel anything but right, anything but loved. Although, in fairness, I could tell from his eyes that Grandpa found the whole thing hysterical.
I don’t think Lily noticed any of this. She was considering the tree instead, adjusting a candle holder she’d hung from a middle branch. “I guess it’s time,” she said, more to herself than to me. She sought out Langston in the crowd, and the two of them exchanged a wordless go-ahead. Langston’s boyfriend Benny gave him a little squeeze, and Langston stepped forward.
“Can I have everyone’s attention?” he yelled. All the animals in the manger fell quiet. There had to be at least twenty people in the room now—cousins and distant cousins and family friends who’d attained cousin status�
�a kind of middle-class knighthood. It was only the people I’d brought into Lily’s life—my parents, Boomer, Sofia—who were new to this ritual. The rest of them were family. We were guests.
Langston continued. “As you all know, we’ve had a bit of a rough year.”
“Speak for yourself!” Grandpa roared.
Langston smiled. “But we’re all here, which is the most important thing we can hope for every year. So, without further ado, I hand it off to Lily.”
I expected Lily to feel the warmth in the room, the power of having her family gathered together. But instead, she still seemed a little lost. “You didn’t have to say all that, Langston,” she began. “I mean, about the year. That’s not why we’re here.”
An awkward silence followed. Then Boomer yelled, “We’re here to light a tree on FIRE!”
This got some titters. Sofia leaned over to explain the tree-lighting concept to him.
“If everyone could get into a circle around the tree, we can get started,” Lily said. “For those of you who haven’t been a part of this before, we each get a candle, and one person lights the next person’s candle. When it gets to Gramps, he’ll light the candle on the tree, and I’ll turn on all the electric lights. Oh, and thank you to Dash and Boomer for the tree.”
“Go, Oscar!” one of the two of us cheered.
People looked around the room for Oscar. He did not take a bow.
I looked over at my mom, who had summoned up her best fake smile.
