“You’re totally right, kiddo. Physically impossible.” I click the last fake plastic branch into the base as Bug enlightens me and Mr. Napkins on the remaining holes in the Santa plot. The lights and tinsel are still wound around the boughs from last year, and when we finally plug in the cords and stand back to admire our work, we both sigh. The heat’s not on yet, the poor hamster is shivering in his plastic ball, and let’s face facts here, people: This is one sad little Charlie Brown Christmas tree.
“Let’s do the ornaments.” I wrap the hamster ball in an electric blanket and plug him in. “It’ll look better when we’re done.”
“Okay, Hud.” Unfazed, Bug smiles, tugging his mittens off and opening the ornament box. He pulls out the angel first and places her gently on the coffee table, smoothing her wild sapphire hair with his tiny fingers. “Think Dad will remember to call this year?”
“Maybe. He might be on vacation, though.” I blink away today’s trip down memory lane and my father’s latest blog posts, all sun and smiles from Southern California. Sometimes I think the hardest thing about being the so-called grown-up—a real one or a stand-in—is having to pretend that everything is A-OK, that things are looking up, that life will work out for the best, when all you really want to do is roll into a ball like Mr. Napkins and cry it out under the blanket.
“He has a cell phone,” Bug says. “With a national plan.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t always get reception on the road.” I brace myself for the next question, the next bit of logic and reason, but it doesn’t come. We sit in silence for a few moments, me stuffing ornament wrappings back into the empty box, Bug tracing the grooves of the angel’s corrugated cardboard dress.
“Wanna know a secret?” he asks. “I never liked this ugly angel anyway.” Bug wraps his hands around the defenseless angel and twists her in half, ravaging her from halo to toe. He yanks off the wings. Pulls out clumps of spiderwebby hair. Rips at her cardboard dress. Crushes the paper towel roll body. In a final act of vengeance, he grabs her Styrofoam ball head, breaks it off at the neck, and tosses it into my lap, scattering her other remains on the floor between us.
The whole raging episode is over in fifteen seconds, and I wonder if this is one of those things that parents of serial killers look back on as a sign. Maybe it is. But when he turns to me and that ear-to-ear gap-toothed grin rises on his face like a sun on some distant planet, my heart melts. My little brother is just fine. Pefect, even.
“Remember when we used to think she was cursed?” I ask.
“She is cursed. I mean, look at that hair. It’s like she fell in the tub with the hair dryer.”
The fragile foam head rests in my hands, clumps of bright blue hair windblown and hacked, eyes wild with some ancient, silent fury. It’s like she’s still on my father’s side. Like after all these years, she’s planning to tell him about this.
I toss her head on the floor. Good luck with that, Blue Hair. He left you, too, remember?
“Ready to make those cupcakes?” I ask, standing and holding out a hand for my brother. Bug nods and laces his fingers through mine, stomping extra hard on the fallen angel as we head to the kitchen.
The heat’s been back on for hours, but by bedtime, the wind is crazy, railing against the walls with all the power of the lake behind it. With Josh’s mix on my iPod and earbuds jammed into my ears, I snuggle into the womb of my blankets, but I can’t stop shivering, every icy lash echoing through the music and into my bones.
Whoooosh.
Back in the house on Sibley Court, I used to wait for that familiar roar off the lake. Welcome it, even—the safe harbor of my bed made warmer by the furious beat of winter’s hooves against the roof. But here on Blake Street, the wind leaks through the walls, Blue Hair’s cardboard wings skittering across my dresser with every gust.
I yank out the earbuds and fold the pillow around my head, blotting out the world. A million miles away, the train whistle blows again, straight through the glass of my windows, straight through every fake feather in my pillow, straight into my head.
Whooo. Whooo.
“Hudson?” Bug’s there in the doorway, all black and fuzzy lines, his silhouette lit up like a church statue by the dim yellow light of the hall.
I unfold the pillow and sit up. “What happened?”
“I heard a noise.”
“Maybe it was Santa.”
“Hudson,” he says. “Um … well, Mr. Napkins wants to know if you can stay in our room tonight. I think he’s a little down. Seasonal affective disorder, maybe.”
“Of course, sweet pea.” I swallow the lump in my throat and slip out from beneath the blankets, following him toward the hall. When I pass my dresser, I run my hand over the top and sweep the broken angel wings into the trash.
“Mr. Napkins says he loves you,” Bug whispers when I climb into his bed.
“Tell Mr. Napkins I love him, too.”
Bug pulls my arm across his chest and scoots closer, and I bury my face against his soft blond hair, both of us finally drifting off to sleep.
I didn’t hear Mom come home last night, but when I hit the kitchen in the morning on a critical caffeine run, there she is, kneeling in her yellow bathrobe, the dusty bottoms of her slippers sticking out as she tucks two presents under the tree. In the light of the window, she looks young and untroubled, hair falling gently around her shoulders as she hums “The Little Drummer Boy.” When she sees me, the smile takes up her whole face, and she’s beautiful. It’s like the last few years haven’t happened yet—like I’m stuck in a dream with my own Ghost of Christmas Past, one last chance to see her and remember how things looked before everything changed.
She waves me over and pulls me into a hug, gray-blond hair clean and soft on my cheek. “Look in the tree outside. Do you see it?”
I follow the line of her finger out the window, across the tiny backyard. The snow is thick and unbroken, dazzling white, and from the branches of a sycamore, a red cardinal watches us, silent and majestic.
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.” Mom wraps me in another hug, longer and tighter this time. For a moment I forget everything but what’s here, right now. The smell of her just-washed grapefruit hair. The red bird, keeping watch as the snow falls. The quiet of Christmas morning, our lives clean and crisp in the new dawn.
From the kitchen counter, Mom’s purse warbles suddenly, shattering the fragile peace. She practically trips over me to get to her purse, dumps the whole thing on the counter, locates her cell under a pile of makeup and receipts and loose change, and answers breathlessly as if she’d been waiting on that call her entire life.
While Mom chatters on, I sit beside the Charlie Brown tree and sip my coffee, staring out the window until my eyes water from the bright white intensity.
The cardinal is gone.
“Good news!” Mom clicks her phone shut and refills her coffee, joining me again on the living room floor. “That was Nat. Turns out her sister-in-law works for the Watonka Chamber of Commerce now. You know how they do that big New Year’s to-do for local business owners?”
I nod, still watching the snow fall.
“Nat scored me an invitation! Isn’t that great?”
“Totally.” I smile. “Especially if you like eating food on toothpicks and standing around with a bunch of old people in black clothes.”
Mom laughs and swats me with the tie from her bathrobe. “You don’t go for the food, hon. It’s a good opportunity to chat up the business, especially if they get news coverage. Channel Seven was there last year.”
I tug on an old Snoopy ornament dangling from one of the tree’s lower branches. Poor dog’s missing an ear. “Sounds fancy.”
“It is. Ooh, can I borrow that black dress? The one with the spaghetti straps?”