The Sister Season

by Scott, Jennifer

  The sisters smiled and thanked their mom, one by one, and at some point Bradley got up and left the room, then came back with a trash bag and the four of them crawled around on their hands and knees, throwing away ripped gift wrap, careful not to accidentally toss a new toy. They drank their coffees and listened to the children play and pulled things out of boxes for the kids and helped install batteries, and for a few moments it might have begun to feel cozy, but then Claire spoke.

  She cleared her throat, her eyes getting teary before she even said a word. “Maya,” she said. Maya looked up at her sharply. She cleared her throat again. Bright red splotches appeared high up on her cheeks. “Bradley told me about—”

  But before she could finish the sentence, Maya pointed a manicured finger at her. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t you dare sit here in this room with my children on Christmas morning and tell me something that my husband told you during one of your nightly . . . trysts . . . or whatever they are.” Her finger was shaking as the rage coursed through her.

  Claire held out a hand. “No, I wasn’t . . . We’re not . . . Oh, my God . . . See? I told you,” she said, turning on Bradley. Though her voice remained steady, tears slipped down both cheeks, almost in tandem.

  Bradley looked startled. “Maya,” he said, “it’s not . . .” But he never got the chance to finish, as Maya swept herself up, gathered her robe around her tightly, and left the room without another word.

  The den practically ticked with silence in her wake. Even the kids were staring up at Bradley expectantly, their hands hovering in midair over their toys, their mouths open, their faces dotted with curiosity.

  Julia let out a sigh. Claire swiped angrily at her cheeks, her lips pressed tightly against each other. Bradley rubbed his palm up and down over his hair. “Jesus,” he muttered.

  After what seemed like forever, the kids went back to playing, not asking a single question or saying a word, which left Elise wondering how often they’d witnessed similar scenes between their parents. How many times had Maya fled the room on a wave of harsh words? And what was wrong with her daughter that she seemed on such a seesaw of emotions these days? It couldn’t be because of her father’s death. She had never been a daddy’s girl. Surely she wasn’t going to start now that he was gone.

  Molly had climbed back under the tree, and was worrying over the box tucked up on the branches again. Elise wondered what that gift was. At first she’d assumed it was one that Maya had left for her children last night, but she’d never said anything to them about it, and they’d been done opening gifts for a while now. Finally, Molly stretched and wrestled it out of the branches. A few strands of tinsel fell onto the floor. She pulled aside the bow and gazed at the tag under it.

  “It says ‘To Elise from Robert,’” she read. She looked up at Bradley. “Who is that?”

  Elise’s heart pounded. She had not gotten Robert anything. She never got him anything, and likewise, he never got her anything. Not in years. Robert didn’t believe in gifts. He didn’t believe in sentiment. Was this some sort of joke? Someone thinking it would be funny or amusing or poignant to make it look like her husband was sending her a gift from the beyond? After what had happened on the day he died? If so, it was a joke in the poorest taste.

  Or had Robert really gotten her something this year, tucked it away in the back branches of the tree for a surprise? And what did that mean?

  Bradley chuckled, gestured toward the hearth. “It’s your grandma Elise, goof,” he said.

  “Oh.” Molly laughed breathily, knee-walking toward Elise, and once again Elise felt sorry for the girl. She felt the tension. It was obvious from her laugh.

  Swallowing back the strain that was creeping up her neck, Elise reached forward and took the gift from her granddaughter. “Thank you, honey,” she said.

  “Is it from Grandpa?” Molly asked, and Elise nodded. “How?”

  “Well, he must have bought it and wrapped it up before he died,” Elise said, rubbing her thumb along the side of the small gift. She couldn’t for the life of her figure out why, but she felt a lump in her throat.

  “Are you gonna open it?” Molly asked.

  “Molly,” Bradley warned right away.

  Elise took a deep breath and let it out on a smile. “Sure I am,” she said, and, knowing that all eyes were on her every move, she peeled back a corner of the paper, then more and more, and finally let the paper fall away.

  It was a small white box, the type that would have jewelry in it.

  She opened it, and pulled out the cotton. Inside was a necklace, gold, delicate, with a small heart pendant hanging from it. There was no note, no nothing. No explanation. Was this his attempt at an apology for the life he’d given her? Had he been planning to try to be a better husband before he’d died?

  Elise swallowed and swallowed, holding up the necklace. She felt dizzy and sick to her stomach.

  “Pretty,” Molly breathed, touching the heart with the tip of her finger and making it spin.

  Elise couldn’t take it. She dropped the necklace back in the box and set it on the bricks of the hearth. “I’m going to make breakfast,” she choked out, and stood on shaky legs, marching out as normally as she could and praying that she wouldn’t pass out along the way.

  Fourteen

  Bacon and eggs. Cinnamon rolls. Skillet potatoes. Fresh-squeezed orange juice. French toast. Sausage links. Pies. Cakes. Pastries wrapped around fruit curd. Ham.

  This was the same Christmas breakfast that had been made in the McClure Farm kitchen since Elise could remember. When she was growing up, it had been her job to collect the eggs early in the morning, some of them steaming in the basket as she raced through the cold yard back to the kitchen. She’d learned how to roll out cinnamon rolls from her mom, who had learned it from her mom. She’d watched as Aunt Nannie peeled potatoes, always wearing a red and green stocking cap, even though it was so warm in the kitchen the ladies would use dish towels to sop away sweat as they cooked.

  When she was a child, there had been singing. Christmas carols and hymns, led by whoever had one in her heart and taken up by everyone who knew the lyrics. The kitchen was always a hub of activity—chopping and peeling and sizzling and shouted greetings and laughter and children racing through and good smells—the meal almost a gift in its own right.

  She had tried her best to keep up the tradition as the farm deteriorated and the family dispersed. She had tried to make it her own tradition as the girls grew up.

  But Robert had always resented the large meal. He’d felt it gluttonous, counter to biblical teachings about want. He’d always been hungover and sour, and he’d always punished the girls more freely during that meal than at any other, as if to make a point.

  Her hands shook as she tried to crack the eggs into a bowl for the French toast. The image of that pendant flashed in the back of her mind over and over again. A heart. For God’s sake, why? Why a heart, of all things? Why a gift at all? Her stomach lurched with guilt. What if he’d been ready to try anew? Would that have changed things the night he died?

  She finally got all the eggs cracked and poured in a dollop of vanilla, a dash of cinnamon. She whisked, her arms stiff and tense as she felt anger rise up in her.

  The man had beaten her. Hit her. With his fists. Broken ribs, twice. He’d berated her. A lifetime of being called worthless and lazy and stupid and ugly. He’d fought against her parenting sensibilities, and she’d gone along with him, always along with him, hoping her acquiescence would create harmony, hoping he would see she was on his side, and he never did see, it never did get any easier, and she’d ended up being a shitty mom in the process. Her girls, her poor girls. How she’d made them suffer his injustices. How she’d watched him punish them too harshly, abuse them as well. How she’d kept her mouth shut year after year after year until poor little Claire, with all her bravado, had finally done what she did
that awful night at the Chuck Wagon. Oh, how Elise never blamed Claire for that night. How could she?

  Who the hell did he think he was, to abuse her for decades, to change from the sweet, intense man who’d wooed her into a monster who’d made her cry out in fear and shame and sadness and bitterness and loneliness and hatred, only to leave her a gift after he’d died?

  How dare he take her hatred away from her?

  How dare he make her feel so guilty, as if she didn’t already feel guilty enough?

  How dare he?

  She finished beating the eggs and dropped the whisk into the sink, and suddenly it was as if someone had drained the very life out of all of her muscles. Her back to the cabinets, she sank to the floor slowly and rested her forehead on her knees as the bacon began to sizzle in the pan.

  She sat there, images of her husband racing through her mind. His hands, big and brutal, lunging toward her. His eyes, cold and hard, mocking her.

  His hands, shaking, clutching at his chest, reaching for her, for help. His eyes, the pleading in them, the pleading, oh, God, the pleading.

  Around and around the images chased, until there was a beeping in her brain, incessant and loud. Bleating. Bleating. Voices, alarmed.

  And then there were feet racing toward her and hands clutching at her robe, her shoulders, underneath her arms, lifting, lifting, scraping her back against the trim of the cabinets she was resting against.

  “Mom!” someone was shouting. She looked up, thought she saw the face of one of her daughters—Which one was it? Was that Claire?—but the face was as if on the other side of a cloud. Was she in heaven? Had she been the one to die instead of Robert? No, couldn’t be. Surely if she’d died, she’d have gone to hell after what she’d done.

  But then things began to snap into place. The beeping, the cloud, they weren’t in her head. They were real. Smoke. An alarm. Claire pulling her up, yelling something about getting outside for some fresh air.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Claire kept saying. “Just a little grease fire. Bradley’s got it.”

  And her son-in-law. She couldn’t decide if he was misunderstood or a son of a bitch. Given her daughter Maya’s reaction to him this morning, she guessed something really was wrong, but who would intervene in the plights of someone else’s marriage? Who would she be to get involved, after the marriage she’d been through, after the way she’d let it end? Her son-in-law, ripping the old fire extinguisher out from under the sink and racing over to the stove with it. Blasting white foam all over the food. Ruining the eggs, the French toast batter, the cinnamon rolls.

  The Christmas Day breakfast, which had been a tradition at McClure Farm since before Elise was born, was, for the first time ever, not going to happen.

  Attempts—IV

  This place was such a freak show.

  Seriously, all the sneaking out at night and the crying and stomping off and the two aunts not speaking to each other and the uncle who skulked around like a thief. Makes a guy not want to even bother getting out of bed.

  Not that he very often wanted to get out of bed anyway.

  And then, of course, when he finally talked himself into getting up—it was Christmas Day, after all, and his mom had already been to his door once and was going to start flipping out if he didn’t get up soon—and forced himself to go out to the den where everyone was, only the kids and Uncle Bradley were there. And then his grandmother had some sort of meltdown in the kitchen and nearly burned the whole place down.

  By the time they’d gotten back in the house and all the smoke cleared out, everyone was in a bad mood and they all went their separate ways. Even his mom went to take a shower, and there he was, sitting by himself in the den, opening gifts with nobody to thank. Story of his freaking life.

  He’d called his dad later in the day.

  “Hey, buddy! I didn’t think you’d call today. You were pretty mad last time we talked.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I just wanted to say . . . you know . . . Merry Christmas and everything.” That was a lie. He’d wanted to talk to his dad because he knew his dad would be there. Totally there. Not the there-in-body-but-in-mind-far-away kind of there that his mom always was. But there there.

  His dad paused. “So how are you feeling today? Things better?”

  He shifted uneasily on his cot. “I got some aftershave from Grandma Elise.” He involuntarily palmed the side of his face. He hadn’t even started shaving yet. He hadn’t even begun to grow hair on his legs, much less on his face. All the other guys at school had. Just not him. Another way he was different. Another thing for them to jerk his chain about.

  His dad laughed. “Well, you can save it,” he said. “Hey, listen, Sharon and I have a few things over here for you. You think you might come by when you get back up to KC?”

  He grunted. It was meant to sound like an affirmative. But he knew that he hoped to never make it back to KC. If he had his way, he wouldn’t. But he couldn’t tell his dad that.

  “Tell your mom to call me, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure, Dad.”

  There were some uncomfortable silences then, punctuated by even more uncomfortable small talk. His stepsister had gotten straight A’s last semester. Sharon pulled a ligament in her knee. They’d made custard pies, extra nutmeg. Two of them, because they knew how much he loved them. But soon there was no more left to talk about, and his dad started to say, “Okay, well . . .” a lot, which was his way of saying he was out of small talk and ready to get off the phone.

  “So have your mom call me, okay?” he repeated.

  “Okay.”

  Another pause, then, “Are you sure you’re doing okay, Eli?”

  “I’m great, Dad,” he lied. “I’m happy.”

  “Well, it doesn’t sound like you’re very happy. I used to have to peel you off the ceiling on Christmas morning.”

  “It’s been a long day here. There was a fire in the kitchen and it kind of threw everyone’s mood off.”

  “A fire? You sure you’re okay? I can come get you.”

  “I’m good, Dad. It was bacon grease. No big deal, really.”

  But it had been a big deal. Nobody seemed to want to be in the same room together anymore. Nobody wanted to speak. Even the cousins seemed subdued, playing with their new toys in the den or in their bedroom, quietly bickering every so often. It was as if everyone was trying not to wake someone, even though nobody was asleep. Maybe it was more like everyone was trying not to wake some . . . thing.

  He didn’t even need to wait for nightfall this time. His mom was on the phone with his stepdad, his aunts were God knew where, his grandmother was sitting on the floor by the Christmas tree, clutching some necklace and staring into the fire. His uncle had gone to the store with a grocery list. His cousins were, last he checked, taking turns diving into a drift of snow by the garage door. He was—typically, he noted—alone, even in a houseful of people.

  He put on his shoes and a coat and headed outside. The snowfall had finally died off and the sun was shining. It was still cold as hell, but it was warm enough for some of the snow to begin melting. The result was a world glistening and gleaming so bright it made his eyes water to look around.

  He took a walk this time. He felt like he had all the time in the world.

  He climbed over the pasture gate, the metal cold under his hands, and hopped down on the other side. Then he walked through the pasture, leaving a trail of footprints in the snow that snaked toward the creek where his grandmother and Aunt Maya had left birdseed a couple of days ago. He doubled back toward the barn, which was empty, save for a few bales of hay and some twine snaking haphazardly across the floor. A few barrels were lined up by one wall and he opened them. The first stank of mildew, but was empty. The second was about a quarter filled with what looked like moldy corn; a mouse scurried down into it as soon as he opened the cover.

&n
bsp; He walked the entire length of the pasture, then ducked under the barbed-wire fence into the derelict garden, dead stalks barely poking out through the snow. From there, his pace grew less meandering, more steady, more determined.

  He noticed a couple of trails of footprints in the snow. They were leading to and coming back from exactly where he was headed: the tree line and the pond beyond it. He knew exactly whose footprints they were, but why Aunt Claire and Uncle Bradley had kept trudging to the pond in the middle of the winter nights was beyond him. Maybe Aunt Maya was right. Maybe they were screwing each other’s brains out. The thought grossed him out. He hoped he didn’t stumble across any lovers’ dens on his way to the pond.

  To the pond. The very thought made his pulse quicken.

  If Christmas Eve was a shitty day to commit suicide, Christmas Day was even shittier. He wasn’t sure if he could do it, quite honestly. But he wasn’t going to be offered solitary moments like this much more often, was he? In two days, they would go to his grandfather’s funeral and then they would go back home, and if he was still alive at that point, he knew exactly what would happen to him. His mom would be all up in his grill, asking him those idiotic questions she was always asking now. Probably make him go to therapy. That was if his dad didn’t make good on his promise and wrestle him away in a court battle. As bad as his mom would be, his dad would be worse. He’d never have a moment alone again. His dad wouldn’t rest until he was cartoon-character A-OK.

  Today might be his only day. The family was so fractured his absence wouldn’t be noticed for a while. Maybe not until tomorrow.

  Even if today was Christmas Day.

  He plunged into the tree line, noting how much colder it was with the sun blocked by the branches, even though there were no leaves on them. He shivered, zipped his coat higher. He wondered if he would be uncomfortable in the freezing water. If he’d shiver down under the ice. Or if he’d just go numb immediately. He hoped for numbness. He didn’t want to suffer. He pretty much felt as if he’d done enough suffering for one lifetime, thank you very much.