If the Fates Allow

by Zoe Kane

  “That’s okay,” said Sophia without looking up, and carried Dolphin out of the room.

  Annie leaned back in the desk chair and sighed wearily.

  Of course. Of course there were special cookies Grace bought every Christmas, and of course Sophia had no idea what they were called or how they were obtained. They were the Christmas cookies. They just magically appeared in the house, because that was the kind of mother that Grace Walter had been. Annie could not ask the children for more than the children knew, and she could not dig for further information without, apparently, inadvertently bullying them into tears.

  A tiny disloyal part of her thought that maybe it might not be entirely horrible having Marcus here, and not having to carry the entire burden of this herself. But that was ridiculous. How could Marcus help with this? Marcus knew less than she did. She did try Michael and Vera, but they were as baffled as she was. (“Saint Agatha? Is that the brand?”) The internet was useless, and there was nothing helpful in any of the kitchen cupboards or the boxes of holiday ornaments she had finally hauled down from the attic.

  No, this was something she would have to figure out herself.

  Dinner was quiet that night. From the freezer stuffed with casseroles Annie had arbitrarily selected a frozen lasagna, which Lucy mistrusted; she suspected there were hidden vegetables. No grownup would feed you something covered in that much cheese if it wasn't hiding something.

  Annie made bright and cheerful conversation, praying that no one would ask about the cookies. With every passing hour, they increased in importance. They had suddenly become a symbol of every maternal trait she lacked, every battle she would fight over the endless, yawning, weariness-inducing vista of years in which she would be the only woman taking care of these children. But she was a woman who was not a mother. She didn't know what the special Christmas cookies were. She had already failed.

  Oddly, in the end it was Marcus who (indirectly) pointed her to the solution of the mystery – an unexpected side benefit of his Super-Secret Grand Master Plan.

  All the information Annie had been given was that she and the children needed to be out of the house until 6 p.m. for what Vera described as “a surprise for the kids.”

  “What am I supposed to do with them?”

  “Take them over to Helen’s house,” said Vera. “Have you met the Arbors yet?”

  “No.”

  “They live in the green house on the corner, the one with the black shutters and the balcony,” she said. “She has three kids too. They all play together. Take the children out to lunch after Mass, and then bring them to Helen’s. I’ll call you when it’s time to come home.”

  “This all seems like a very elaborate scheme to get me out of the house,” Annie observed.

  “Or, alternately,” offered Vera, “it’s a very elaborate scheme to force you to make a friend.”

  Annie knew better than to argue with her aunt when she was trying to get in the last word, so she wisely let the conversation end there.

  They stopped for burgers on the way home from Mass, Annie attempting to place a drive-through order while Lucy sang a made-up song about French fries and Isaac couldn’t remember if he liked pickles and Sophia tapped Annie on the shoulder over and over to ask her questions about the Advent wreath at church. By the time the teenager in the drive-through window handed the bags out to them, Annie felt like she had aged twenty years, and pulled into Helen’s driveway already exhausted.

  Annie lifted her hand to knock on the door, but Isaac stopped her.

  “We don’t regular knock,” he said.

  “You what?”

  “We have a special thing,” he said. “Watch. Sophia will do it.” And Annie stared in bafflement as Sophia got down on her hands and knees, lifted up the flap of the cat door, and yelled “KNOCK KNOCK!”

  “WHO’S THERE?” came a small voice from inside the living room, and the scurrying footsteps of what sounded like a dog and at least two children came racing over.

  “SPACE STATION, THIS IS ROCKET SHIP,” bellowed Sophia. “COME IN, SPACE STATION.”

  “ROCKET SHIP, YOU ARE CLEARED FOR LANDING,” a child’s voice shouted.

  “What in God’s name is happening right now?” said Annie.

  “Shhhhhhhh,” said Lucy, and the front door opened.

  “Hi hi hi hi hi hi!” shouted Sophia and she flung her arms around the little boy – probably right around her age – who stood in the doorway next to a smaller girl with dark serious eyes.

  “Hi Alexa,” said Lucy to the little girl.

  “Hi Lucy,” said Alexa.

  “Can they come inside now?” came the very welcome voice of an adult, as a tall, striking woman came out of the kitchen. She was so effortlessly elegant, with her bright yellow Jackie O sheath dress that glowed against her ebony skin and her living room full of bold contemporary art, that Annie felt instantly intimidated. The woman was followed, shortly after, by a girl who looked about twelve or thirteen and was already rolling her eyes at the noise.

  “Did you guys do the thing?” the woman asked dryly.

  “We did the thing,” said the boy, “they can come in.”

  “Helen Arbor,” said the woman to Annie, as the children all scurried inside. “This is Abe, and Alexa, and the one over here making faces is Anya.”

  “Mom!”

  “Anya!”

  “I’m Annie,” said Annie, shaking Helen’s hand. “I had no idea this house was also a space station. Totally can’t tell from the outside.”

  "Yours is too," said Helen, smiling. “I don’t know how it started, but now we’re no longer allowed to knock on each other’s doors like civilized humans, apparently. Nia – she’s that big white house on the corner – came over last week to borrow my rake and Alexa made her talk through the cat door too. We finally had to lay down a rule that they can't actually make the adults do it. I have a bad back and you guys have a very low mail slot. Come on in."

  The children disappeared immediately – the five smaller ones to the TV room where Annie could hear the opening score of Sleeping Beauty (“It’s their favorite Disney movie,” Helen informed Annie, to whom this was new information. “Lucy gets scared when Maleficent’s eyes come out of the fire, but Isaac always tells her when it’s safe to look. They’ve got a good system”), and exasperated Anya up the back staircase, presumably to get away from the annoying babies. Helen motioned Annie over to the sofa.

  “I was told to keep you occupied until 6 p.m. so the Christmas surprise could get set up,” she said, “which I figured gave us a reasonable window for this.” And she set two crystal tumblers on the coffee table in front of them alongside a bottle of bourbon.

  “Helen,” said Annie sincerely, “You might be my new favorite person.”

  “I’m not usually this nice,” Helen allowed, “but these are extenuating circumstances.” She handed her a glass. “Drink,” she said. “And tell me everything.”

  * * *

  “So are you drowning in casseroles yet?” Helen asked, topping off their glasses, as Annie – who had followed Helen’s lead in taking off her shoes and curling up more comfortably on the couch – gave a bemused sigh.

  “Hundreds,” she said. “Thousands. The second freezer in the garage is totally full. But I hardly have the stomach for them. Neither do the kids.”

  Helen nodded. “I thought so,” she said. “That's the usual way. There’s a cooler and some grocery bags in the kitchen I’m sending back with you guys when you go home. Just some basics. Spaghetti and sauce, some cans of good soup, macaroni and cheese – some pretzels, Isaac likes pretzels – peanut butter, jelly, bread – they only eat white, by the way – cocoa for them, coffee for you – you drink coffee? Of course you do – crackers, cheese, lunchmeat, lettuce, tomatoes, and juice.”

  “Oh, no – you don’t have to –“

  “My wife died about two years ago,” Helen said simply.

  “I'm so sorry,” said Annie, and meant it. Helen waved
it off with a “let’s not do that right now” gesture, and Annie – who found it so restful to be among people who also never wanted to publicly talk about their feelings – found herself liking Helen even more.

  “Anyway,” said Helen, “I remember this part well. Everyone thinks you need to eat but don't want to cook, so they bury you in giant frozen trays of something covered in cheese. The casseroles keep coming and coming and you don't have the heart to tell people that you're running out of fridge space and can barely keep food down, let alone polish off an entire lasagna in one night, because you know they mean well, but they have no idea. I opted for lots of soup and cheese and crackers. After Diana died, that was about all I could handle.”

  “What about your kids? Did they eat?”

  “I bent the rules for the first few months,” said Helen. “They couldn't eat anything for almost a week, I had to force them. I decided I was willing to serve absolutely anything that they would eat. We had ice cream for dinner more than a few times,” she said, smiling, though the memory was clearly painful. “After things . . . resettled . . . I steered us back to the regular eating rules. But I wasn't above Taco Bell three nights a week if the choice was that or starvation. I think when you're grieving,” she went on, sipping her bourbon, “the most important thing is to listen to your body. You need to sleep when you're tired, eat when you're hungry, and not force yourself. Especially for the first few weeks, when your whole body is in shock. If all you want is crackers, just eat crackers. Your body will tell you when you're really hungry. How are the kids eating?”

  “I . . . don't know. I mean, I don't have anything to compare it to. I don't know how they usually eat.”

  “You don't have kids, right?” asked Helen, and it was so clearly a simple question of fact with no implicit judgment or criticism attached that Annie thought she might burst into tears. God, it was nice to talk to someone who hadn’t already decided she was a failure.

  “No, I don't have kids.”

  “Okay, so here's the thing you have to know. These kids are not generally picky eaters. They all have the standard vegetable phobia, although Lucy will eat potatoes and Sophia will eat corn, and they all like tomatoes. They'll eat salad and carrot sticks and stuff if you let them dip it in ranch dressing. But other than vegetables, they're pretty easy to feed. I think Grace – ” her voice cracked for a second and Annie saw her forcibly steady herself – “usually let them help her make their lunches in the evenings. Sophia and Isaac will usually want the exact same thing. Lucy likes cheese sandwiches better than PB and J.”

  This did not sound like “not picky eaters” to Annie, whose apprehension must have registered on her face. Helen laughed. “It's really not that bad,” she said soothingly. “They're way better than most. How have you been getting on?”

  “I haven't paid a lot of attention to how they've been eating,” she admitted. “Aunt Vera’s been here.” Helen grinned.

  “She's a force of nature, your aunt.”

  “You know her?”

  “I've met her at some school functions. They do a Grandparents Day at the school, and she's been to some fundraisers. I liked her a lot.”

  “She's definitely something,” agreed Annie. “It's much less terrifying when she's here.”

  “This must be excruciating for you,” said Helen, and there was compassion in her voice but no pity. It was a simple, frank statement of fact – I am acknowledging that I see you in pain – but it was startling in its difference from the hundreds of other conversations she had had with strangers at the funeral. Helen knew what loss felt like. She could meet Annie right where she was.

  All the neighbors had seen the van pull up the other day with Marcus’ boxes inside it, and the story of Danny’s brother from New York moving into the house with the children’s aunt had made its way through every house on Juniper Street. “It’s . . . an unusual approach,” even Helen had admitted. “But I liked Danny Walter. He was a practical guy. No bullshit. If his brother was the wrong person for the job, Danny wouldn’t have done this.”

  “Don’t you think it’s weird that he didn’t tell me, though?”

  “He probably just didn't want to spend hours arguing with you about something there was a 99.99% chance would never even come up,” said Helen reasonably, and it was so painfully accurate that she couldn’t argue. “Besides,” she added, “speaking as a single parent with three children, you’re going to be glad to have a second pair of hands around. Three is a lot. Sooner or later, a parenting crisis is going to erupt, and you’ll be grateful for someone around to help you out.”

  “It’s erupted already,” Annie said gloomily, and knocked back a huge swallow of bourbon.

  “Oh Lord,” Helen sighed. “And he’s not back for another two weeks?” Annie shook her head. “All right,” she said. “Lay it on me.”

  Annie recounted the entire story of Sophia and the special Christmas cookies, and to her relief, Helen got it immediately.

  “This is one of those things that children just expect adults to know,” said Helen with an understanding sigh. “Sophia’s probably never given two seconds’ worth of thought in her whole life to how those cookies end up in the house every Christmas. They’re just there. Adults just take care of things. She thinks you’re magic.”

  “And I can’t risk asking Isaac for more details,” Annie added gloomily, “or pushing Sophia any more. Not if it’s something that’s so clearly upsetting.”

  “No,” said Helen thoughtfully, “no, you can’t ask the kids.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you magically know what my sister’s special Christmas cookies were,” asked Annie, not expecting an answer.

  Helen sipped her bourbon thoughtfully, brow furrowed, for a long moment. Then, suddenly, her face lit up and she turned back to Annie with a triumphant expression.

  “What did you say Sophia called them?”

  “Saint Agatha cookies,” said Annie, “but I don’t have any idea what that means.”

  “I do,” said Helen, and pulled out her smartphone. “Saint Agatha is another Catholic grade school,” she said, “over in Southeast. Sophia and Isaac did their First Communion classes there last year. And look.” She held out her phone, where she’d pulled up the school website on her browser. “Look at the uniforms,” she said.

  Annie stared.

  On the homepage of the Saint Agatha Parish and School website was a picture of three young girls playing on the playground, wearing typical Catholic school uniforms – white button-down blouses and bright red pleated plaid skirts.

  “I don’t –“

  “Walker’s Shortbread,” said Helen. “Those are the cookies she meant. The plaid on the boxes is the same as the Saint Agatha uniforms. That’s what she was trying to tell you.”

  “Oh my God,” said Annie, staring at her. “Oh my God. You’re a genius. I’ll go tell her right now.”

  But Helen shook her head. “No,” she said. “Don’t tell her I figured it out. Don’t tell her we had to look it up. Just show up to the party with the cookies in your hand. Let her think that you’ve got a little bit of the grownup magic too.”

  Annie started to say more, but a soft ping on her phone alerted her to a text from Vera: “WE’RE READY! COME ON HOME.”

  “Time to see whatever this magical Christmas surprise from Aunt Vera is,” Annie sighed. “I hope she’s not making us make gingerbread houses again. We tried that once. It’s a hundred times more boring than it sounds.”

  “It’s not gingerbread houses,” grinned Helen, “and it’s not from her. She’s just coordinating the logistics.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Get the kids,” Helen said. “We’ll walk over with you. I want to see the look on your face.”

  Anya declined to join them – or come downstairs, or even yell goodbye – but Abe and Alexa happily grabbed their coats and pulled their shoes on. Two glasses of bourbon in, Annie decided she’d rather leave the car in
Helen’s driveway and then come back to get it later, so the seven of them set off down the street.

  They had only made it two houses down before Lucy stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and refused to budge another inch.

  “Lucy?” said Annie uncertainly, as the whole group paused and turned back to her. “Lucy, honey, what –“

  “Shhhhh,” said Lucy, staring up at the sky with wide eyes. “Listen.”

  “Lucy, keep walking please."

  “Aunt Annie, what’s that noise?” asked Sophia, tugging at her sleeve, and then Annie really did stop and listen.

  What the hell?

  She turned to Helen. “Do I hear – is that –“ But she stopped herself.

  “Oh, go ahead,” said Helen with a smile. “See how crazy it sounds when you say it out loud.”

  “Are those . . . sleigh bells?”

  Chapter Fourteen: Sleigh Bells

  The sun had set early that day, and by six it was already nearly dark. So at first, as they made their way down the street towards their house, all Annie could make out was a huge crowd of people in the street at the end of the block. “What in God’s name is happening?” she muttered, and heard Helen chuckling at her side.

  “Oh, just wait,” she said, as they came around the other side of the vast, overgrown rhododendron that grew in front of the Sinclairs’ house four doors down from theirs, bringing the Walter house into view.

  All four of the Walters – yes, even Annie – let out the same startled gasp of astonishment.

  The house was covered in lights.

  There were gaily multicolored ones framing the big picture windows and green ones on the shrubbery in the front yard and long strands of white ones – the good old-fashioned kind with the warm glow, not those chilly LED ones – strung along the roof. There were snowflakes made of lights hanging from the trees and a big green wreath with a merry red bow hanging on the front door.