A Keeper's Truth

by Dee Willson

  All but one. BOB and I are going to get to know each other really well.

  The line is quiet for a moment. I’d guess Karen is grappling over her promise to sweep this under the proverbial carpet. Finally, she says, “This really sucks.”

  “Yes, yes it does.”

  The doorbell chimes and I jolt, almost knocking the curtain rod from the wall. It takes a moment to shake the nerves from my hands. I’ve lost the phone.

  “Who is it?” I say, clutching the deadbolt.

  “Karen, you dolt, and I’m getting soaked.”

  Tension subsides and I open the door, what the hell written on my face. Karen flashes her cell phone then thrusts her coat at me, rainwater soaking the floor. In Karen’s world, visiting hours don’t follow any clock. I lay her coat on the mat and follow her into the kitchen, flicking light switches on the way.

  “Do you want tea? I only have—”

  “Decaf, I know. When are you gonna give that up?”

  “I came close this morning. I’d have given a small fortune to have Abby back in school so I could take a nap. I’ve always been prone to nightmares, but since Meyer’s accident they’ve been brutal.” And real, too real. “I was butchered twice last night.”

  Karen hovers in my personal space, analyzing my face. “I can see that,” she says.

  Nice.

  “If you came to make me feel better, it’s not working.” I turn to fill the kettle.

  “I came to give you this.” She plops a large black garbage bag on the kitchen table.

  “What the hell is that?” I hadn’t even noticed she was carrying anything. “How did I miss a garbage bag the size of a toddler?”

  The bag is dripping rainwater all over the table, and now that the lights are on, I spot puddles down the hall.

  “Bitch about the mess,” Karen says, smiling. She’s a force of nature and knows it, no apologies necessary. I grab a tea towel to collect the water while Karen grapples with the knot at the top of the bag. “Am I great or what?” she says, lowering the plastic.

  It’s my paper-mache star from the pageant.

  “Oh, Karen.” I help her shimmy the star from the bag. “Thank you. Abby will be thrilled. I’m going to hang it in her room.” I oust the final remnants of irritation from my voice, grateful to have Karen as a friend. “You know me so well, huh?”

  “Ah, I shouldn’t tell you this, considering your man ban and all, but it was actually Bryce who told me you wanted the star.” She grins, sheepish. “But I made sure Irving took it down gently, and I recommended he put it in a bag so it wouldn’t get wet.”

  Irving is the superintendent at Saint Ann’s.

  “Such talent,” I tease, handing Karen a mug.

  I stare at the star, confused. How did Bryce know I wanted the star? I don’t remember saying anything to anyone about it.

  “Have you ever noticed anything weird about Bryce?” I say. “Anything at all?”

  “Other than the fact that he’s insanely gorgeous, obviously wealthy, and highly intelligent, which is too much scrumptiousness to squeeze into one man? Not really, why?”

  I peek over my mug at Karen. She’s got that look, the look a person gets when thinking about an attractive version of the opposite sex. A hmm, yum, kind of look.

  I fidget, slightly rattled by a pang of envy.

  “I never mentioned wanting the star,” I say. “I don’t see how Bryce would know to tell you.”

  Karen emits a low humming sound from her throat, clearly mulling over my statement. “Maybe you mentioned it to Thomas and he told Bryce. Or maybe Bryce assumed you’d want it, considering the work you put into making it. It is a cool star. Did you see it glow at the pageant?”

  “I don’t recall saying anything to Thomas . . .”

  Strange. I should just come out and say, What is so unusual about you, Bryce Waters? How is it you know things you shouldn’t, as if you are one step ahead of me when we chat? Why do my eyes do funny things when you are around? What is it about you that puts me on edge and at ease at the same time? Maybe he’ll confess to something really wild. Maybe he’s Batman or an alien from another planet. Maybe he was born with supernatural powers and can shoot laser beams from those silver eyes of his. I snicker. And maybe stress has me over the edge, short-circuiting my faculties.

  “What’s so funny?” Karen eyes me suspiciously.

  It is bad enough Karen witnessed my slip on reality at the café. I’m not about to fill her in on my deranged thoughts regarding Bryce.

  “I’m just being superstitious and foolish,” I say, opting for a quick change in topic. I suppose I’m hoping there is something wrong with Bryce so I don’t have to face what’s wrong with me. “Other than delivery of my star, why are you out in this crappy weather so late?”

  Karen answers with her hands. “I had to grab Eric from work. Alicia forgot her allergy pills, so I had to drop them off at her girlfriend’s where she’s staying the night. I ran out of bread for lunches, so I had to make a pit stop at the grocery store. And of course I had to stop at the . . .” Karen gives me a look. “Just you wait. You’ll blink and Abby will be a teenager. You’ll see—you become taxi driver and errand boy!”

  We laugh. The woman speaks the truth and we both know it.

  Suddenly Karen is serious. “Regarding your moratorium on men. I should warn you, I ran into Thomas this morning. He said you’re not returning his calls. I assumed you’d had a lover’s quarrel.” I roll my eyes. “He’s considering a siege on your barracks.” She chuckles. “Had it been anyone other than you, I’d have supported the lunatic. I could use a juicy scandal. Unfortunately, I’m loyal to the bone. I advised him to keep his distance or I’d make his life a living hell.”

  Karen smiles and I ooze gratitude.

  “You’re diabolical, Karen.”

  Karen shrugs. “Christmas will be hard enough this year. The last thing you need is men fighting over you.” She is quiet for a moment, waiting for a reaction. I stare into my empty mug. “They could fight over me if they want to,” she says, grinning.

  Laughter erupts from my belly. Not because the idea of two men fighting over Karen is absurd. On the contrary, she’s smart and funny with a profusion of style. I just can’t imagine why anyone would want grown men brawling and slugging it out around them, never mind over them.

  Karen grasps my meaning. “I guess it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, huh?”

  “Not even slightly entertaining.”

  “You should throw all these troubles to the curbside and focus on Christmas with Abby,” says Karen, placing a hand on mine.

  “That’s my game plan.”

  That and a dog.

  Relevance

  There is a bias that supports accepted dogma while rejecting evidence that does not support convention. As a result, archeological evidence proving man is far more ancient than originally theorized has gathered dust, suppressed because it conflicts with an entrenched belief system that refuses to consider it might be wrong.

  Forgotten History Magazine: Archeological Finds Baffle Scientists

  The sun is shining, but debris and scattered foliage divulge proof in the wake of yesterday’s storm. In spite of the desolation, I feel pretty upbeat. Grams and Gramps are home, their return providing something I’m desperate for. Hugs.

  “What’s happening with you and this Bryce fellow?” asks Grams.

  We’re folding laundry, and the overwhelming scent of lavender dryer sheets crams the limited space in my laundry room.

  “Happening? Nothing is happening.”

  Sharing with Karen is bad enough. Grams will worry incessantly. And I can’t stand the thought of giving her more to fret about. She’s got Gramps to take care of.

  “You can’t fool an old pro, Tess. I see it in your eyes. They sparkle at the mere mention of his name.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, settling for evasion.

  “Guess it was all in this old head of
mine,” she says, twirling a L’Oreal Golden Brown #36 curl around her index finger.

  I can’t get used to the color change.

  “You lit up like a lighthouse when he dropped by after Halloween.”

  I toss underwear at her head. “You’re delusional.”

  “I might be, but I haven’t heard you laugh like that in a long time.”

  She’s right. Bryce has a way of making me feel alive.

  “It’s irrelevant,” I say. Right now, I’m too confused and cross to feel anything for him.

  “Really.”

  Eventually she’ll pull the story from me, if only one aggravating detail at a time, so I submit to a partial confession. “Bryce asked me out on a date and I said I’d think about it.”

  “Hmm,” she mumbles.

  This is it. This is all she gives me.

  “He’s intriguing and intelligent and I like his taste in clothing,” I say, picturing Bryce in nothing but his scarf. “Like me, he’s fascinated with art and history, so we have lots to talk about but . . .” I don’t really know how to complete this train of thought. Why won’t I go out with him?

  Oh wait, he’s trouble. And Thomas’s brother!

  “I see.”

  She’s killing me with these one-liners.

  “You see what? Enlighten me, please, because I don’t see what you see.”

  Really, I don’t. So what she says next throws me for a loop.

  “I think you have feelings for Thomas.”

  “Thomas? What makes you think I feel anything for Thomas?”

  She eyes me suspiciously. “You’ve talked about him quite a bit lately, and spent a lot of time together at the church and such. I thought you might have found something more than friendship.”

  Her words flicker a bulb in my head. This is why I’m so angry with Thomas. We were friends, good friends on the verge of discovering something more. I’d finally opened my mind to the possibility of a relationship after Meyer, and that I could someday, maybe, create a family for Abby. Thomas made me think I had a chance at happiness again. But now . . . now that’s gone. I can’t trust him. He threw our relationship, our closeness, in Bryce’s face . . . and over brotherly competition. I was a game, a calculation, a prize to be won, and Thomas thought he could bully Bryce out of the equation.

  “That time has passed,” I say, bitterness rolling from my tongue. “Thomas and I are friends, if that, but nothing more.”

  Grams leans close, inspecting, evaluating. “If he hurt you, I’ll—”

  “Relax, Grams. Thomas would never hurt me.”

  Even knowing Thomas struck Bryce, I don’t believe he’d ever physically hurt me.

  “Then why are you so upset?”

  I take a deep breath. So much for a partial confession.

  “Thomas told me his family live in Europe and he seldom speaks with them. He failed to mention his brother lives down the street. And that his brother, Sofia’s uncle, is Bryce Waters.”

  The silence is deafening.

  “Bryce,” Grams finally murmurs.

  “Before Bryce came into the picture, Thomas hadn’t shown the slightest bit of interest in me. He never let me peek at who he really was, and he never suggested a physical connection. Not until Bryce did. Then he put his game face on, giving just enough to lure me into thinking he could be trusted. He wanted to win something over Bryce. But that’s all I am, a trophy.”

  “Brothers,” Grams repeats, evidently as disturbed with the concept as I am. “Where is Bryce’s responsibility in all this?”

  Good question. Bryce didn’t tell me Thomas was his brother either. He mentioned he had a niece he was close to, and that he’d moved to Carlisle to be close to family, but not that his family included Thomas and Sofia. Was that intentional?

  “I don’t think Bryce knew that Thomas and I were close. Not before the fall fair, anyway. And Thomas, Thomas wanted me because Bryce did.” I take shallow breaths, lost in my own statement. “I’m not ready for all this Grams.”

  Grams steps close, inviting me to fall into her embrace, which is exactly what I do. There is nothing I need more at this moment than a hug.

  “I was looking forward to watching you find love again,” she says. “Unfortunately, love doesn’t always come wrapped in pretty paper. Sometimes it’s wrapped in garbage.”

  “I’m done thinking about it,” I say, resting my forehead on her shoulder. Her sweater smells like mothballs. “I need to focus on getting Abby through Christmas.”

  She rubs my back with both hands. “Yes, Abby needs you to be strong.”

  “Speaking of Abby,” I say, deciding to spill the details of my plan. “I could use your help with something . . .”

  Hours later, Abby is curled on her great grandpa’s lap watching an episode of Franklin, and pots and pans are banging in the kitchen—Grams preparing dinner. I take the opportunity to creep out the back door and slide my sneaky rear behind the wheel, tossing my purse onto the passenger seat where it normally lands with a thump but today smacks into place, knocking a small red box to the floor. I fetch the box. It’s wrapped in crimson foil paper, a thick satin ribbon of the same color tied in a dainty bow. Where did this come from? I turn the box and notice a miniature card that simply reads, Tess.

  Am I supposed to open it now or save it for Christmas morning? Curiosity consumes me and I claw the paper with vigor.

  Inside, wrapped in tissue, rests a glass bauble on an elegant gold ribbon. I gently lift it from the box and hold it to the light, illuminating the vibrant bubbles in various shades of red. It’s beautiful. On the bottom is a tiny black button, begging to be pressed.

  “Merry Christmas! We miss you! Merry Christmas! We miss you! Merry Christmas! We miss you!” repeats the mechanical voice of Thomas and Sofia. It’s not the same ornament as the one Thomas bought at the tree farm, but I can’t help but smile at the memory. In the bottom of the box, there is folded paper, a letter.

  Dearest Tess,

  Sofia and I were hoping to spend Christmas with you and Abby, but it’s been suggested you need space over the holidays so we’re spending Christmas in Belize.

  Please let me talk to you when I get back. I’m very sorry I didn’t tell you about Bryce earlier and that you had to find out the way you did. I screwed up.

  Bryce wants to be an uncle to Sofia, and I can’t deny her family, but there are parts of my past I don’t like to talk about, and I wasn’t lying when I said my family and I aren’t close.

  Don’t be upset with me. I apologize for being an ass.

  I miss you,

  Thomas

  Loneliness wanders into my psyche, and fury jumps ship. We hadn’t made plans, Thomas and I, but I assumed we’d spend time together over the holidays, while the girls were out of school. I guess this isn’t happening now that they’re in Belize. Now I feel bad. They’ve abandoned their first Christmas tree and new holiday traditions because I wouldn’t answer the phone. I hadn’t paused to listen to Thomas’s perspective and maybe I should have. Maybe the bile spewing from Thomas that night, the hatred toward Bryce, is the result of a lifelong chasm between the two. Jealousy is a nasty emotion and when marinated for years . . .

  Yes, Thomas blatantly lied to me, but why? What could keep a man from communicating with his own brother in a town the size of a baseball league? And what does that say about Bryce? What has Bryce and his family done to warrant Thomas and his daughter moving to another country for a fresh start?

  Either way, I can’t dismiss the scene that played out that night at the church. Knowing Thomas let his anger lead to physical abuse . . . After years of witnessing my mother lose control, the thought sickens me. And yet, how many times have I seen sibling’s battle over a toy and the parents plead indifference: Boys will be boys.

  I guess the question is, can I forgive and forget?

  I chuckle at a thought, Pocahontas and her pet raccoon in the wooden canoe, stopped at a fork in the river. Which path to take? The steady, calm
route leading to . . . or the rapids that promise excitement? Even with a risk of drowning my body steers toward the rapids.

  “Enough of the Disney movies,” I mumble, shoving the keys in the ignition.

  The fluorescent green of the clock makes a point of warning me ten minutes has passed, limiting my time at the animal shelter. I’ve got to get moving. I’m determined to put a smile on my baby girl’s face Christmas morning, and crowning Abby’s wish list is a dog.

  Top of my wish list? I wish, more than anything in this world, that the last eight months were an awful dream from which I only need to roll over and wake to see Meyer lying next to me asleep.

  Good luck with that one, Santa.

  Grim Reminder

  December End

  I’m in bed, it’s four in the morning, and my eyes are locked in an unnatural stare that wouldn’t be focused on anything in particular, even if there were a shred of light. I’m thinking about Christmas.

  In the past, Christmas in the Morgan household was a time of joy and jubilation. Christmas morning was a six a.m. wakening spawned by Abby, brimming with excitement. It included an adrenalin-fueled rush that undoubtedly rendered at least one of us injured as we skipped steps to make it down the stairway at breakneck speed. Nothing was more important than finding out what old Saint Nick snuck into our stockings while we slept. Abby would squeal over the half-eaten cookies and empty glass with milk-stained smudges then investigate every dollar store gift that Santa had stuffed into her oversized red velvet stocking. It would take her all of fifteen minutes to rip open the gifts that took me three hours to wrap and countless hours to source, and Meyer and I would watch, riveted, cell phone’s documenting a show worthy of an Oscar.

  When the sun was actually awake, Meyer’s grandparents would wander over for a feast. While Grams and I whipped together a royal breakfast, Meyer and Gramps poured themselves over Abby and her gifts, hacking into packaging capable of housing a nuclear warhead, skimming instructions, and inserting umpteen batteries. Festive music would blare from the radio and each and every one of us would float about the kitchen with a dance in our step. We’d stuff ourselves silly, leave the mess for house elves, and huddle on the couch to watch Meyer’s favorite Christmas classic, It’s A Wonderful Life.