The next morning we pretended like nothing had happened. I didn’t know who had cleaned up the mess in the living room, but it was gone. The dirt and glass and broken pieces were wiped away as if they had never been there, and everything gleamed.
24
ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOU
It wasn’t until Christmas Eve that Jim and I finally began to decorate the tree. We were trying to decide on holiday music. We were getting good at not becoming overly sad. I tapped my finger against my chin, thinking. “Hmm, I know: let’s listen to the only good song to ever come from Mariah Carey’s lips.”
“As you wish,” Jim said, searching for it on the playlist.
After the incident with Dad, Jim and I had gone into a holiday frenzy, decking the halls like mad, as if this would help us forget or at least put a barrier between that night and the present.
“I don’t want a lot for Christmas / there is just one thing I need,” Jim sang off-key, grabbing an ornament. “I don’t care about the presents / underneath the Christmas tree!” he went on as he placed the sparkly orb high up on a branch I couldn’t reach.
“Your voice is awful,” I shouted over the music, laughing. “Did anyone bother to mention that you are not Mariah Carey?”
“Like your voice is any better,” he said, in between lyrics.
“Point taken,” I said, joining in and singing extra badly on purpose to make him smile. We discovered that the best antidote to sadness was singing every lyric loudly and out of tune. We knew them all by heart, much to Grandma’s dismay. “You’re hurting my ears,” she kept telling us, and at one point she even shouted, “You’re going to get coal in your stocking if you two keep on like that,” and put up her hands, stomping off to the kitchen.
“Did she really just say that?” Jim asked, shaking with laughter.
Any other year and in any other circumstance, Jim and I would never have acted this way, so unself-conscious about what we would normally consider embarrassing behavior. But if it took making idiots of ourselves and overdoing the holiday cheer to get through this Christmas then so be it. We put holly on the railings and across the shelves and mantel. We strung lights outside. Jim hung mistletoe in every doorway, which, aside from reminding me of Chris, I found amusing. “Are you hoping Kecia will visit?” I asked each time I saw him hanging another bunch.
“Maybe,” he responded cryptically. “So what if I was? You laugh now.”
And I did, right up until Will rang the front doorbell.
Grandma Madison answered, calling out, “Rose! The invisible truck driver is here to see you,” and walked away without inviting him in, leaving Will standing on the front porch in the snow and the cold.
“Grandma, you’re so rude sometimes,” I hissed on my way to the door.
“So that’s Grandma Madison,” Will said, looking past me until she disappeared into the kitchen.
“The one and only. Don’t mind her, she can’t help what she says,” I said, unable to hide the big smile on my face about this unexpected visit.
“Why did she call me the invisible truck driver?”
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s a long story.”
“So I brought the wreath you wanted,” Will said, holding it up.
“Thanks. Um, sorry, now I’m the one being rude, do you want to come in?” I asked, suddenly nervous.
He hesitated. “I would, but I really only have a sec. I’ve got to get home to Mom and my sisters. You know, Christmas Eve and all that stuff.”
“Of course. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Thank you for bringing this by,” I said, taking the wreath. “It was really nice of you.”
“I wanted to see how you were doing, too,” he said.
I gestured at the front of the house. “We’re doing our best, hence the crazy amount of decorations.” Every inch of the porch was strung with lights—the planters, the bushes along the front, even the furniture. Jim had spent hours out here getting everything perfect. Most of the lights were white, but when he ran out of those, he broke into the old-school, multicolored strands with the giant ugly bulbs. “I think we might be overcompensating.”
Will laughed and his eyes darted to the top of the door.
We were standing under mistletoe. I was going to kill Jim. “So, um, Merry Christmas, I guess,” I said awkwardly.
“You, too,” Will said, and I thought he was about to leave, but instead he asked, “You’re coming to the New Year’s tournament, right?”
“If you still want me to.”
He nodded.
I rocked back and forth on my heels, feeling the weight of the giant wreath I held against my body. “Can’t wait,” I said, my voice shrill, as thoughts flew through my mind about the fact that, at least theoretically, Will had an excuse to kiss me. If he wanted to. Or I could kiss him, if I wanted. Did I? We could kiss each other. It didn’t even have to mean anything. It was a tradition, just what people did when they were standing under mistletoe.
Will wore a funny look on his face. “Okay, well, Merry Christmas.”
“Bye,” I said, quickly closing the door right as Jim broke into hysterics. “Not funny, Jim!” I shouted, stomping after him, wreath and all, looking for something smaller with which to hit him.
“Oh, but it’s so funny, Rose,” he taunted, dodging me. “Though I was hoping it would be Kecia so I could shove you out of the way.”
“What are you, twelve?” I said, chasing him into the living room, where he proceeded to hide behind the tree.
“Voices,” Grandma called from the kitchen, sounding tired. “Please lower them.”
At one point we almost knocked over the tree, which sent Grandma into a rant, but all I could think was that if Mom were here, she would be smiling and laughing and running around with us.
Christmas morning arrived and we gathered around the tree. The branches were heavy with ornaments, and silver tinsel glittered from top to bottom. Dad managed to get up early with the rest of us and we sat with mugs of coffee in our hands, trying to wake up, and trying hard to forget the obvious, too. I was glad this day was finally here. It meant that soon the first Christmas without Mom would be behind us.
“Where’d you get that, Rose?” Dad asked me, standing up and coming over for a closer look. He smiled as he reached for the tiny crystal pendant dangling from my neck, taking the heart into his hands and pulling it into the light where it sparkled and sent little flecks of rainbow shining onto the ceiling.
This morning I’d decided I was ready for something new from my Survival Kit. Before the sun had a chance to peek above the horizon, I reached into the paper bag. My hand closed around the tiny crystal heart and I smiled. Surely the heart was supposed to be about love, and love seemed a good next step, especially on Christmas.
“Mom gave it to me,” I said, plain and simple, letting the word Mom roll off my tongue and take flight. I imagined her flitting around the room like a firefly, lighting up at different moments to remind us she was there, alighting on the very top of the Christmas tree like a star. “This is the first time I’ve worn it.”
“It’s pretty,” my father said, putting his arm around my back and pulling me into a hug. When he let go of the heart I caught it between my fingers and closed my eyes, almost believing that Mom had planned on giving it to me for Christmas, one last present to enjoy. This was close enough to the truth that I let myself have this wish, and on today of all days I felt I was allowed.
“I love you so much, Dad,” I said, and got up on my tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. It was wet with tears.
JANUARY & FEBRUARY
A Crystal Heart
25
THE HEART OF LIFE
On New Year’s Day, when Will picked me up for his hockey tournament, the sun was high and shining against the snow. Aside from the time we’d driven out to the farm, I’d only ever been in his truck at night, and the light that brightened the cab this afternoon seemed almost strange. Colors were sharp, and suddenly I worried ho
w I looked, so exposed in the glare. I pulled the seat belt across my body and turned to him. “It’s good to see you,” I said, and smiled, happy we were back in familiar territory.
But he seemed nervous and fidgety, in a black wool coat with the collar high around his neck as if he wanted to hide. “You, too,” he said.
“Are you ready for this game or what?”
“Sure. Um.” He wouldn’t look at me. “My mother is going to invite you to dinner tonight,” he said, and abruptly shifted into first, stepping on the gas. The truck lurched forward as we headed out of my neighborhood.
I waited for him to elaborate, the cab feeling smaller than usual with the two of us so close together yet unsure how to act. “And?”
“I wanted to give you a heads-up, that’s all,” he said.
House after house went by, Santa Claus statues, giant candy canes, and other assorted Christmas decorations still scattered across lawns. A few people were outside taking down lights from trees and bushes and dismantling their displays. “You only give someone a heads-up if you think there will be a problem, so when your mother asks, what do you want my answer to be?”
“Whatever you want,” he said, and pulled onto the highway.
“Will, come on.” I needed more direction. “Seriously, yes or no?”
We merged onto the interstate and picked up speed, passing two exits before he responded. “Yes. Tell her yes and come to dinner,” he said, but still refused to look at me.
The heat was making me feel stifled and prickly all over so I shut the vent on my side and loosened my scarf. “Okay, so it’s settled,” I said. “I’ll go to your house.”
He nodded, his face front, staring at the road.
Neither of us spoke the rest of the ride and I hoped it was simply because we had an entire night ahead of us and for once could have our conversation elsewhere. When we arrived at the rink and I got out into the cold, snowy air, I couldn’t help but wonder where elsewhere might take us.
Lewis won both of their games easily and by early evening Will and I were at his house. He went upstairs to change and his younger sisters, Emily and Jennifer, claimed one hand each and led me into the family room toward the tall sparkling tree by the windows, taking it upon themselves to entertain me. There was a doll-strewn place on the floor next to it, and the two girls began proudly showing off their spoils from Christmas.
“This is the Barbie Santa brought me,” Emily explained.
Before I could respond, Jennifer was shoving Emily aside to show me her Barbie, which she assured me was better than her sister’s. “Don’t let Emily fool you. She doesn’t believe in Santa anymore,” she said, plopping down on my other side after Emily presented me with yet another doll courtesy of Santa. “In fact, she’s known that for, like, three years, but she keeps pretending because she’s afraid she won’t get presents anymore if she admits she knows the truth.” Jennifer crossed her arms, confident that she’d had the final word.
“That’s not true. Dad said—”
“It doesn’t matter anymore what Dad said—” Jennifer’s mouth mimicked Emily’s, and with the mention of their father suddenly we were in tricky territory.
“Mom!” Emily yelled.
“Rose,” Mrs. Doniger appeared in the doorway. “Why don’t you come spend some time with me in the kitchen?”
“Sure,” I said, grateful to extricate myself from what looked to be a painful fight brewing between the sisters. Mrs. Doniger crouched down next to them and began to whisper, her voice too low for me to overhear what advice she was giving her daughters on such a touchy subject. This gave me a chance to peruse the shelves of family photos in the foyer near the kitchen. Unlike at our house, there was no dust clinging to the portraits. A number of them were of Will’s mom, dad, and the kids from year to year, a few were old wedding pictures; there were photographs of Emily and Jennifer—separate ones—posed in various dance costumes, some of Will on the ice, and Will and his dad in a hockey rink, Will still in uniform, his mask off so you could see his face. I was interested to see how much Will looked like his father and that he was smiling in all of them. I studied that smile for a while—I’d never seen this version. It was big and broad and almost cocky, revealing genuine happiness and ease, the kind that’s only possible when you’ve never known heartache or loss. I remembered what it was like to smile like that, and I wondered if Will noticed there was a difference between his before and after smiles.
“Rose, can I get you something to drink?” Mrs. Doniger asked, brushing by me into the kitchen. She opened the fridge, studying the contents inside the door. “We have just about anything you might want: water, juice, seltzer, soda—”
“Just soda, thanks.”
She pulled a bottle from the shelf and reached for a glass from the cabinet. “Sorry about that with the girls. Their father’s death is tied up in the holidays—it’s so complicated. Emily has been hanging on to her belief in Santa ever since. Jennifer has done the opposite of Emily, of course, and wishes Christmas didn’t exist at all.” She sighed, handing me the glass, the soda fizzing as tiny bubbles rose to the top and burst. “How was your Christmas?”
“As good as it could be, I guess,” I said, and could tell from the look in Mrs. Doniger’s eyes that she understood. “It’s been nice to have my brother home from college, and my grandmother has been staying with us since Thanksgiving, though she can get pretty difficult.” I laughed and took a sip of my Coke. “To be honest, the weirdest part was getting through New Year’s Eve. We all stayed home and went to bed early, like maybe we could just ignore it. But waking up this morning, I realized I can finally say that my mom died last year. Somehow it helps. It makes it feel further away.” I gulped down more soda, surprised that I would reveal so much to her.
“I remember that very same moment,” she said. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How a change of one day on the calendar can make such a difference in how we feel.”
I nodded. “The seven-month anniversary is coming up on January fourth. Seven months sounds like a long time and I think it should feel like a long time, but it might as well be yesterday.”
“Don’t push yourself. Seven months is barely a blink, take my word for it.” Mrs. Doniger opened and shut drawers, taking out cooking utensils. “It must have been hard to share your mom with so many people in our town. I bet everyone has some special memory of her they want to tell you about.”
“Yes. It felt as though the entire world showed up at her wake. I almost don’t even remember that day.” An image of the long, endless line snaking out the door at the funeral home flashed through my mind. “Let’s change the subject. I’m sorry to bring up this stuff. It’s so depressing—”
“Rose,” she interrupted. “Don’t worry. It’s fine. It’s more than fine actually. You need to talk about it. It’s part of how you move through the grief.”
“Thanks. Really. I appreciate it,” I said. She stirred a pot on the stove and set a cutting board onto the counter. “Can I help?”
“That’s all right, I’ve got everything under control. You relax. Besides, I’m sure my son will come down soon to steal you away until dinner’s ready.” She glanced behind me into the hall. “Speaking of Will.”
“Hey,” he said, and I turned around.
“Hey.”
“Why don’t you kids go upstairs—”
“Kids?” Will interrupted. “Mom, seriously?” he protested.
“Sorry, sweetie.” She smiled and shrugged. “Why don’t you and Rose go upstairs since Jennifer and Emily will drive you crazy if you stay down here. I’ll yell when it’s time for dinner.”
“Okay,” he said, and started back up to the second floor. “Are you coming?” he asked, turning to me.
“Ah, sure I am,” I said, following him upstairs, my hand gripping the banister as if at any moment I might lose my balance. “It kind of smells like a locker room in here,” Will warned when we reached the door to his room.
“Nah,”
I said once I was inside. I was used to Jim’s room, which was filled with his football stuff. No matter how much you scrubbed everything it still had the odor of sweat. But Will’s smelled like his soap, a scent I’d grown to like.
“It’s the hockey gear,” he explained, gesturing to his bag in the corner.
“Don’t worry about it.”
He looked at me with skepticism.
“Hey, if you were so worried about your room, then why’d you invite me up here?” He shrugged but didn’t say anything else, so I took this as an invitation to look around and see if anything would give me further insight into what made Will, Will. The walls were painted blue and there were a few sports posters scattered across them. A calendar with baby animals hung in a corner, almost hidden from view, and the second my eyes landed on it, he quickly explained. “My sisters.”
“I never would have guessed,” I said, laughing.
The top of his dresser was packed with hockey trophies, and the plaque inscriptions said things like Most Valuable Player, Youth Hockey Association and Most Goals Scored, Division A, Lewis Junior Hockey, and on the biggest one, All State Team, Will Doniger, for the season when he was a freshman at Lewis. A hook next to the dresser was heavy with medals and looked as though the slightest nudge would send them crashing to the floor. “Pretty impressive,” I said, after discovering yet another MVP award, the honor etched into a medal hanging from thick blue and white ribbon.
“Not really,” he said.
The light in the room made it difficult to tell if Will was actually blushing. “You can’t really expect to be modest with all this on display.”
He put his hands in his pockets. “I don’t normally have guests.”
“Oh,” I said. For a moment I let this sink in, that Will was giving me access to a part of himself he didn’t usually share. Not sure what else to do, I returned to studying the trophies and medals, and noticed they all stopped after Will’s first year of high school. “So what happened?” I asked him.
SURVIVAL KIT Page 13
