by Dee Willson
This Christmas wasn’t remotely similar.
After a second glance at the clock, I sprang from the bed in a panic. I bounded down the hall, haphazardly tugging my housecoat, only to find Abby sound asleep, head where her feet should be, and toes on the pillow. Her sheets were strewn about as if a brawl had taken place in the night, leaving her quilt abandoned on the floor. I stepped closer, relocating sweaty strands to peer into her face. It was blotched and puffy. My baby girl’s Christmas Eve hadn’t been spent in blissful anything.
I rescued the quilt from the floor and tucked Abby’s headless bunny under her arm. Abby slept another forty minutes, well past daybreak, while I cried.
As hard as we all tried, this was pretty much the theme for the entire day. Abby’s unenthusiastic attempts at joy were almost more than I could handle, and it took every ounce of willpower I had not to drop to my knees and bawl.
After opening the gifts we made our rounds, lingering in each other’s arms, letting love defrost our extremities. We cooked breakfast but lacked the appetite to eat, so it sat, barely picked at, until Grams surrendered with a huff and threw it into Tupperware. Abby showed no interest in her toys. No one turned the music on. No one suggested we watch Meyer’s movie, the movie he’d watched every Christmas since his parents passed.
By noon I’d read Abby every Dr. Seuss book ever published and my ass was numb. So was my brain. If it wasn’t for Grams and her not-so-subtle reminder, I’d have forgotten to implement my plan.
The plan was to allow Abby her usual Christmas morning routine before presenting the gift capable of resurrection. This wasn’t only for Abby’s sake, but for the dog’s as well. Her name is Magpie and her previous family called her Magsie. During her short stay with Grams and Gramps, everyone kept calling her Maxi by mistake. She reminded us of Meyer’s dog, Taxi, and our mouths would start the m in Magsie then naturally switch to Taxi. Magsie / Maxi, both seemed to spur the usual responses, so Maxi it was. She was everything I was hoping for and much more needed than I’d originally imagined. The dog was the savior of Christmas in our house.
Grams made a commotion at the front door, announcing Maxi’s presence in a grand voice. The dog trotted, dodging furniture as though she’d lived here her entire life, directly into Abby’s waving arms. Maxi’s tail swung in full force, knocking a cup from the coffee table. Abby laughed. Not an artificial rehearsed laugh, but a true deep from the belly laugh. Tears soaked her cheeks until they dripped from her chin, leaving dark circles on her fleece pajamas.
Overwhelmed with emotion, I covered my face, body quaking, relief flooding my senses. I looked at Grams and Gramps crouched in the doorway. Gramps was in his chair, arms stretched around Grams’s shoulders, her face buried in his neck.
This is how the death of one man can turn a holiday meant for merriment into a sad testament of his absence.
Tears sting as they follow the contours of my face and neck, down to a shallow puddle nestled within my left collarbone. I wipe my cheeks in the dark. Dawn peeks around the blind’s edges. I’m tired but I think I’ll get up, maybe head to the studio. My skin feels itchy in this bed.
Needless to say, other than the addition of our dear Maxi, this Christmas will be tossed with the tree.
And not enshrined in any photo album.
We’re rolling shortbread at the kitchen table when, for the third time in two days, Abby demands to be entertained.
“The shelter had the perfect dog just waiting for us,” my story begins. I’m animated, the rolling pin cutting air as I speak. “The first dog to join me in the petting room was a one-year-old Weimaraner named Peppy. Sleek and powerful, if looks were enough he’d have been our winner. Unfortunately, his exuberance had me doing tailspins of my own. Even the shelter staff couldn’t get Peppy to calm, which was frustrating because I needed to see his eyes.” I lean across the table and stare into Abby’s eyes, nose to nose. Abby giggles.
“It was a crazy theory,” I say. “I thought if I could peer into a dog’s eyes, search their depths, a connection would spark, and I’d know that this dog, the one whose essence could be seen, was the one.” I laugh. “Peppy was a bust.”
I stick my fingers in flour and splatter Abby with white dust. Her laugh ignites her face, making my heart dance. “More,” she pleads.
“The next dog sauntered in, not a care in the world. Her name was Magpie. At first glance she looked like any golden Lab, but as I watched her sit for the shelter attendant, I could see the resemblance to Taxi.”
Abby slides from the chair, running her flour laced fingers through Maxi’s fur. “This dog lost her family,” she says, stealing my thunder.
I smile, agree. “She’d been loved.” I place a dough ball onto the mat and ready the rolling pin, coating it with flour.
Apparently my tale is in need of more gusto. A blind man could detect Abby’s keep going expression. I laugh, picking up the pace.
“I patted my knees and Magpie sauntered to where I was sitting on the bench. Her tail swayed, giving flight to the mix of dog hair in its path. The six-by-six room held the aroma of animal pee and bleach. She nudged my hands with her wet nose, her tongue lazily hanging over yellow-white teeth. I obliged, rubbing the soft spot behind her ear.”
“This is the part! The part I like the mostest!” Abby says, climbing back onto her chair.
“The most, baby, there is no such word as mostest.”
Abby sticks her tongue out at me.
“It was time to put my theory to the test,” I say with a wink. “I placed my fingertips under Magpie’s furry chin and gazed straight into those big brown eyes.” I pause for effect. Even Maxi looks up in anticipation. “Love rolled in waves from her body, the universe floating within her milky stare. Her eyes said it all. She was the one.”
“Ha, ha!” Abby claps and a plume of fairy dust coats everything in sight.
The doorbell rings.
“In short,” I mutter, concluding today’s two o’clock performance, “Magpie unfurled her long, gooey tongue, licking me from chin to hairline, sealing the deal.”
Abby skips down the hall. “Love that story.”
Maxi follows, torn between seeing who has come to visit and staying close to the sweet smelling cookies. I peek in the oven, two steps behind my mini clan.
“Good evening, ma’am,” says a voice as I step around the corner.
I stop short.
Abby is holding the door for a man in uniform. He is tall, slim. A faded rim of purple surrounds his eyes. My heart plummets to the balls of my feet.
“Officers Smith and Becale here,” he says. The second officer, a woman, steps out from behind him. They flash their badges. “Could we speak with you for a moment?”
“Alone,” she adds, her stare shifting to Abby.
Lunch has lodged somewhere between my stomach and tonsils, thickening my throat. The last time the police came to my door it was to tell me Meyer had been in a car accident and hadn’t survived.
I’m about to vomit. Please no, no more.
The officers step inside and I turn to Abby, my movements coming in slow motion. “Roll more cookies in the kitchen.” I tuck Abby’s fingers under Maxi’s collar. “Take Maxi with you. Do not touch the oven.”
I try to focus on Abby and Maxi waddling down the hallway. In my head I skim a list of loved ones I haven’t seen or spoken to today. Panic sets in when I realize I haven’t heard from my brother Stephen since Christmas day.
Officer Smith inches forward. “We’re sorry to interrupt, but this is rather important,” he says. “The body of a local woman has been found close by.”
Oh no, Sonia, Karen’s neighbor. It must be. A wave of relief crashes through me. My family is safe. The euphoria dissipates instantly, replaced by remorse. My heart aches for the parents and family who must be beside themselves with grief. It’s an emotion I’m all too familiar with, and I don’t wish it on anyone.
“Who? Close by where?” The thought of a body being found c
lose to home makes me tremble.
“We cannot discuss the crime scene, ma’am. I’m sure you can appreciate the sensitivity—”
“Of course.”
A chill makes me think of a recurring vision, of lying naked in the snow, alone.
“Ma’am, did you know Sonia MacKinnen?”
So it is her.
“Oh, my, no, I never met her. I didn’t even know her last name. I assume you mean the Sonia that went missing a few months ago?”
“Sonia MacKinnen was reported missing October 18th. Could you tell us how you came to hear about Miss MacKinnen?”
“A friend of mine lives on the property around the bend to Sonia and her mother. She mentioned that Sonia had disappeared and her mother was worried.”
“And since then?”
“I heard Sonia was still missing, but authorities thought she’d run off with a man.”
“When and where did you hear that Sonia was still missing?”
“I don’t really recall. Just before Christmas maybe. Probably at the church. I was involved in the Christmas pageant at Saint Ann’s and I overheard tidbits. Most thought she’d fallen for some guy, someone her mother wouldn’t approve of.”
Officer Smith nods, his face expressionless. “Have you seen anything or anyone unusual around town lately?”
I stifle a nervous chuckle. Have I seen unusual? I’m an unusual magnet. But fast, telepathic men, naked lovers, and loopy old neighbors aren’t what this cop is searching for, I’m sure.
“Nothing I can think of.” Or speak of, I muse.
“We appreciate your assistance, Mrs. . . .”
Why hadn’t I inquired about Sonia? Was it because I didn’t want to be nosy or because I was so utterly wrapped in my own problems that I’d forgotten all about her? I should have called her mother, offered to help in some way. I look up to see Officer Smith watching me, eyebrows raised.
“Morgan. Tess Morgan,” I finally mutter.
Officer Becale jots something on a pad of paper, my name I presume. Apparently Smith is the designated interrogator and Becale is the note taker.
“Is your husband home?” says Officer Smith. “We’d like to ask him a few questions as well.”
“My husband passed away in April.” Saying that never gets easier. “Only my daughter and I live here.” The officers glance at each other. “Should I be worried?”
Smith smiles. It’s not a friendly smile. “We see no reason to think this isn’t an isolated case but suggest you keep your doors and windows locked and stay in contact with friends and family until we find the perpetrator. It’s always best to err on the side of caution.”
I fiddle with the deadbolt on the door.
Officer Smith steps onto the porch. “Enjoy the rest of your evening,” he says, pausing so his sidekick can pass me a business card. “And call if you see or hear anything that might be of assistance.”
The police make their way down the steps.
“Extend my condolences to the MacKinnen family,” I yell after them.
I shut the door and lean against it, eyes closed, praying to some unknown god that Sonia was killed quickly and without pain. Somehow, deep inside, I know this is not the case. Nightmares have given me more than enough experience in the brutal death department to know what Sonia might have gone through. I shudder at the thought.
The sound of muffled voices catches my attention and I open the door.
Officer Smith stands a few feet from Bryce on my walkway, nodding as Bryce speaks. Officer Becale scribbles in her notebook then reaches out, a card between two fingers. “Much appreciated, Mr. Waters, we’ll see you soon,” she says, grinning.
Not having heard her speak much, I’m caught off guard by her mouse-like voice. Bryce takes the card. No smile, no charm, all business. Officer Becale scurries down the walkway on the heels of Officer Smith, back to the cruiser parked in the driveway. Halfway there she hesitates to sneak a peek at the man in black, suddenly crowding my doorway with his presence.
“This is bad timing,” Bryce says. He’s standing in a strange position, hands behind his back. He has an uncomfortable, almost tortured expression on his face. This is the first I’ve seen him since his fight with Thomas. I scrutinize his eyes and cheekbones, searching for telltale signs of bruising.
“I’m fine,” he mumbles. He is. I see nothing. “I wanted to . . . I thought . . .” His breath billows, cloudlike, hovering mid air. He looks like he’d prefer to be anywhere other than my porch.
This Bryce baffles me. I’m accustomed to seeing him ooze confidence.
“I can’t really deal with this right now, Bryce.” I’m not sure where this is headed, but it’s irrelevant since I’m not in a place to go there with him. My Christmas wounds are too fresh. “Is something wrong, something more important than a young woman found dead?”
“Like I said, this is really bad timing,” he says. “I should go.” He fidgets but doesn’t move to leave.
“Look, Bryce—”
“These are for you.” The movement is instantaneous. One second his hands are tightly tucked, the next they’re before me, displaying a bouquet of white daisies. I stare at my favorite flowers. “This feels wrong but I can’t leave without you seeing them,” he says, extending farther, suggesting I take the flowers.
“These are stunning, Bryce.” I take the bouquet into my arms. “But I don’t—”
He raises a hand. “Please,” he says. “I only wanted to say merry Christmas.” He has a way about him, a talent for melting me. I form a natural, easy smile, and struggle to recall why I’m upset.
“Thank you for the flowers,” I say, fingertips dancing over velvet petals. “They’ll look perfect in the vase Grams gave me.”
Bryce nods. “I should let you get back to your baking.”
“How do you know I was baking?”
“Look, I—I was hoping we could talk soon, possibly over dinner.”
I’m willing to listen to what Bryce has to say, just not at this moment. “I’m not sure a date is in my near future, but I will talk to you. You and Thomas. I just need—”
“I should’ve given you more time,” he mumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Seriously, I’m all right. We’ll talk another time. Christmas was rough and this local girl has been found dead and I—”
“Say no more.” A forced smile clouds his features. “Another day.” He turns to leave.
“Yes,” I say. I have questions that need answers. “Another day.”
Breathless
December 31st
Darwinism, which is rooted in the assumption that all existence is matter-based, cannot account for the most human characteristic of all, consciousness. The human mind is capable of far more than necessary for mere survival. Why?
Forgotten History Magazine: Archeological Finds Baffle Scientists
Abby sucks on the curved end of a candy cane patiently waiting for a chance to snatch another hot chocolate from one of the perky elves in bright red stockings. I lean on the red and white striped metal pole that claims this very spot as The North Pole. Kids squeal, on sugar highs. Our boots make sloshing sounds in the slush while we stand in line, the bus six line. There are a lot of us here and it’s quite chaotic.
The teachers of Carlisle Elementary, Ms. Rainer included, were nice enough to plan this field trip to Elves Village over the holidays, providing good reason to implement one of my New Year’s resolutions a few hours early. Resolution: refrain from all mental jabs pertaining Ms. Rainer. I’ve devised this pledge for two reasons, the first being that the lady really doesn’t deserve my attitude. She’s chosen a career that requires her to be in the company of twenty children, seven hours a day, five days a week, and I suppose one would either need a whole lot of drugs or an upbeat personality to handle that kind of environment. The second reason is quite simple: Abby adores her.
Somewhere in this mass of students and parents are Sofia and Bryce, although we haven’t seen them
since this morning when we were placed in separate groups for the day, sorted by surnames in alphabetical order. We’re shoulder to shoulder, M through P, exhausted and clammy, awaiting our yellow submarine rides back to the school. Hot liquid burns my insides and I flap my coat in the cool air. Abby’s scarf hangs from my coat pocket, rescued from a botched expedition. The day has been chilly, but beautiful, the sun setting the snow to glimmer. Today we built snowmen, decorated cookies, doused popsicle-stick ornaments with sparkle glue, pet the fake reindeer, and climbed the Winter Wonderland jungle gym. Before calling it a day we visited Mr. and Mrs. Claus, who did a great job feigning interest in Abby’s dismal recount of Christmas. I was most grateful.
We file onto the buses, Abby plopping beside a plump boy with white-blond curls and ice-blue eyes. Abby stares at him, enthralled. The boy blushes, adding another dimension of color to his face. We’re bundled in snowsuits, boots, scarves, hats, and mittens—great for a cold day, but not for an overpopulated bus. I loosen my scarf and scan the crowd for familiar faces. I notice Bryce is on the bus to the left of us, nestled beside a heavy-set woman in a bright-orange parka. Sofia is sitting on Bryce’s lap. For the first time I notice how alike Bryce and Sofia look. Same dark hair, same shaped eyes and lips. They are more alike than Thomas and Sofia. How did I not realize they were related before?
Thomas called this morning. He and Sofia had just returned from Belize and he wanted to talk, but I was running out the door and hadn’t figured out what I wanted to say to him, so I said we’d talk later. He got snippy when I said we were on our way to the school for the field trip. He was mad that I’d changed my mind and decided to go. Once I got to the school and saw Bryce with Sofia, the pieces fit and I knew why Thomas had given me attitude. He must have agreed to let Bryce bring Sofia because he thought I wouldn’t be here.
