by Cari Noga
New York City. Langley couldn’t possibly have more bad news, could he? On the last ring before voice mail, I answer.
“Mrs. McArdle?” It’s a woman’s voice. “This is Barbara Solomon calling from New York. Lucy’s friend Phoebe’s mother?”
Dimly, I place her from the funeral. On the heavier side, dark hair, carrying a giant purse, accompanying Phoebe along with a nondescript husband.
“Yes. Yes, I remember. Of course. How are you?”
The connection’s bad, and I can’t make out her reply.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”
Then there’s her voice again, clear and high as the clouds that drift over the moon and the road that descends toward bays whose surfaces have gone black and flat. “We’d like to invite Lucy to come home for a visit in December, over her school holidays.”
I learned my lesson with the banquet. I tell Lucy about the invitation at breakfast the next day.
“Oh yeah, Phoebe mentioned that a while ago.” She fills up the cat dishes.
Oh. She sounds indifferent. “Well, do you want to go, then? Should I make arrangements?” I thought she’d be all excited.
“Sure.” She shrugs, hoisting her backpack, heading for the door. “Bye.”
She disappears down the stepping stumps, leaving me to puzzle out another misjudgment. Holidays are hard, so rife with memories and expectations. Is she bottling those up, like Sarah warned? Or with Gloria and Luis gone, maybe she thinks it doesn’t matter where she goes.
I look around the house. A pair of fuzzy Hello Kitty slippers lie under her chair. Breakfast dishes in the sink. Lexie’s curled up with Sarge in the sunny spot. I go to the window, in time to catch her stepping onto Miguel’s bus. Time for morning mourning.
But instead of infant Nina, my mind fills up with Lucy.
“How did you celebrate Thanksgiving, Lucy?” Since the visit to the Solomons’ will curtail Christmas celebrations, I decide to make an extra effort for Thanksgiving. Show Lucy she does matter.
“We watched the parade.” Her eyes brighten as she scratches Lexie’s ears.
“The big one on TV?”
She nods. “Not on TV, though.”
“In person?”
She nods again. “Dad’s friend always had a huge party. He lived on the fourth floor, above Sixth Avenue. Last year Phoebe came with us. We saw the balloons go right by.” She smiles.
“What was his name?” I try to ask casually. I still haven’t figured out who Nando is from Gloria’s letter.
“Whose name?”
“The friend. Who had the party.”
“Mr. Alvarado.” She looks at me funny, but then she’s back down memory lane. “There was a Hello Kitty one year, and . . .”
Some detective I am. And how can I compete with that? I used to like doing a big Thanksgiving dinner. It’s one of the most ritualized days of the year, so it was easy to meet expectations. I cooked, Jim and Matt watched football all day, and then we sat down together to eat. Simple.
Then Jim dropped his dual divorce and Florida blows right before Thanksgiving. I donated the free-range turkey I’d ordered to the homeless shelter and didn’t do anything to celebrate that year. Or the next, or the one after that. We could both use a new tradition, really.
“The parade party sounds like a lot of fun.”
“No parades in Traverse City, probably.”
“Nope. There’s a turkey trot, though.”
“A what?” She frowns.
“A turkey trot. It’s a five-K run on Thanksgiving morning.”
She makes a face. “That sounds terrible.”
“I think so, too. I’d a whole lot rather sleep in.” I pause. “So we know what we don’t want to do. Can we think of something we’d both like to do?”
She looks at Lexie and shrugs. “Maybe.”
“It sounds like you like parties. You liked going out for your birthday dinner, you said, right?”
“I guess.” She looks up.
“What if we invited the Livingstons over for dinner? And Miguel?”
“OK,” she says, shrugging yet again.
Not the most encouraging start, but I call Rebecca, who says they already have plans. Her sister’s family and Paul’s mother are both visiting.
“You and Lucy come, too. I’d love to have you, and so would Jared. My niece and nephew are three and five. Too young to be much fun.”
I feel like we’re intruding, but I promised Lucy a party.
“You’re sure it’s not too much trouble?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then what can we bring?”
Snowflakes are whirling when the bus drops Lucy home the day before Thanksgiving. Thick, feathery flakes, the kind that drape everything in a perfect white coat. She comes up the stepping stump path slowly, her face lifted to the sky. With her purple jacket and the bright-green pom-pom on her hat, she’s the only pinpoint of color from here to the horizon. She comes in smiling, snowflakes on her eyelashes and her hair.
“I never saw so much snow before!”
An elementary-age image of Matt in his snowsuit pops in my head. The first winter we moved here, probably, when wonder edges out delight. Delight requires anticipation, and you can’t anticipate the majesty of your first real Old Mission snow. Next year she will, so this is a one-time-only experience.
“This is just the beginning. It’s supposed to keep up all night. If it wasn’t already vacation, they’d probably cancel school.” Another memory surfaces, of snow-day mornings. When Matt emerged, yawning, I’d make pancakes or omelets, something we didn’t have time for on school mornings. If the plows hadn’t come through and Jim was still home, all three of us would hunker down together. It felt cozy, almost like that time we had the huge blizzard on Kodiak.
Watching Lucy stare out the window into the whitening world, it feels that way now. The toes of Lucy’s shoes are soaked, and she’s wearing thin, stretchy knit gloves, but she’s oblivious, even to Lexie rubbing up against her leg.
“Did you know no two snowflakes are alike?” I ask, going to stand next to her, close enough that our arms touch, so maybe some of the wonder will brush off on me.
Chapter 53
LUCY
I’m still mostly asleep when I hear a roar outside. It sounds like a car, but it doesn’t just fade away like the cars that pass. It’s an engine and another scraping kind of noise. I pull up the window shade.
It’s all white, a super bright kind of white, like a sequined dress Mom wore once to a charity dinner. I have to hold my hand over my eyes. A truck is going back and forth along the driveway, pushing a big pile of snow to the back of the house.
Lexie meows for me to pick her up. She bats at the window, which is frosted over, and her claws scratch some lines. I draw a peace sign, my fingertip melting the fuzzy frost.
Downstairs Lexie dives for her food dish. Aunt Jane is outside, talking to the man driving the plow, holding a shovel. He waves and backs up, heading down the road back to Traverse City. I open the door.
Everything is covered in white. The dull grass and the stepping stumps and the two bumpy gravel driveway strips all are gone. It looks thick and clean and beautiful, sparkling in the sun.
Aunt Jane turns around. “Lucy! Put on a coat.”
The snow is so amazing I can’t think or feel anything else, but I reach for the coat hooks. “Wow.”
“At least ten inches, I’d say.” Aunt Jane pauses. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Happy Thanksgiving.” I lean out the door to get a better look. My hair swings forward, and I push it out of my eyes.
“Your hair’s gotten so long!” she says.
“I guess.” I examine the ends.
“You know, um . . . it looked so nice in braids, but I don’t see you wear it that way anymore.”
I remember Phoebe’s fingers, smoothing and tucking. “I can’t do them myself.”
“Oh.” She pauses. “Would you like me to try?”
<
br /> “Well . . . OK.”
We go to Jared’s at three o’clock. The snowstorm was so bad his aunt and uncle couldn’t get here, or his grandma.
“So we’ve got plenty of food,” Mrs. Livingston says. “I hope you’re hungry.”
It’s weird being at Jared’s house. He’s watching a football game with his dad and brother and barely says hi. Aunt Jane and Mrs. Livingston disappear into the kitchen. I wander around. What’s Phoebe doing? We haven’t Skyped since my birthday, even though I’m going there at Christmas. How about Graciela? They don’t have Thanksgiving in Mexico, so it’s a regular Thursday. Since the pawnshop, I’ve run out of ideas to get a plane ticket. Jared talked about using his dad’s miles that one time, but he’s probably forgotten. I don’t know if I want to go to either place anymore. Mom and Daddy won’t be in New York, and it’s just four days, anyway. I have to come back. And Mexico feels so far away and impossible.
Jared lives in a regular neighborhood, with other houses around. They’re all drifted over with snow, too, the lights inside starting to glow as it gets darker. They look cozy. Across the street a minivan stops at a house that has a porch light on. Two little kids run up to the front door. One’s a girl—I can see her pigtails bouncing. A lady opens the door and reaches down to hug her. Somebody else, a man, comes into the big rectangle of light from the open door and lifts up the other kid.
At the minivan another man is reaching into the back seat. The dad. He follows the kids up the walk now, carrying a baby car seat. Here comes the mom, with a dish. All seven of them stand there on the porch for a minute, hugging each other and smiling.
“Lucy?” Mrs. Livingston’s voice. “You OK in here?”
Across the street the minivan family is going inside, the man who came to the door holding it open for everyone else. I turn away from the window. The “Stop” button on my stomach elevator isn’t working. “Fine.”
“Kind of a hard day, I bet.”
I shrug, sitting down on the couch. It feels a little like a cave in here, with no lights on. I kind of like it dark, though.
“Well, this might not be much comfort. But when I think about what I’m thankful for this year, meeting you and your aunt is right at the top of the list.”
“It is?” I look at her wearing a big apron with a turkey on the top. It’s still got creases in it, like she just unfolded it from the package.
“Absolutely.” She waves at the couch. “Can I join you?”
I shrug again, twirling the braid hanging over my shoulder. She notices.
“Your hair looks pretty in braids. I don’t think I’ve seen it that way before.”
“Aunt Jane did it.”
“Nice.” She settles down next to me. “She’s done a lot for us, too. Being a part of Plain Jane’s was a big deal for me. I’m so grateful for what your aunt’s doing.”
“Why?”
“She’s helping people live better. Healthier, and smarter, too. It’s so important to know where our food comes from.”
“I always thought the grocery store.”
“And now you know what comes before that, right? And so we know what we need to protect. No farms, no food.”
I shrug. I saw that bumper sticker on their car.
She smiles. “That probably sounds a little esoteric to you. But we wouldn’t have met you if it weren’t for Plain Jane’s, either. And I am really grateful for that. So’s Jared.”
“He is?”
“After you arrived, he stopped complaining about going out to Jane’s so much.”
“Oh.” He did?
“And he’s never been very interested in school, but now he talks about your Digital Communications projects all the time. That was his best grade, in fact.”
We got our report cards last week. I got three Bs and two As, in Digital Communications and math. Inteligente. Or school’s just easier here. Aunt Jane was happy, anyway.
“Two-minute warning, Rebecca!” Mr. Livingston appears in the doorway, shaking his head. “Lions are just about to make it official.”
“Finally. I think our turkey’s just about done.” She stands up. “Mind giving me a hand, Lucy?”
She puts her arm around my shoulder as we walk away from the window, into the bright kitchen.
Dinner goes OK. They don’t say grace or do anything weird. We barely eat any of the huge turkey sitting on a platter in the middle of the table.
“Well, we’ll have lots of turkey sandwiches,” Mrs. Livingston says.
“Let’s do the wishbone!” Jared says. He picks up a skinny, brown upside-down Y-shaped thing from a paper towel.
“Is that from the turkey?” It looks gross.
“You’ve never done a wishbone?” Jared shakes his head. “We each hold an end and pull. Whoever gets the bigger end gets their wish.”
Like a birthday. It’s been three months since my birthday wish to go to Mexico. I could wish it again.
“Hang on, Jared. It needs to dry out for a few days first,” Mrs. Livingston says, walking in with serving bowls. Aunt Jane’s behind her with the turkey platter.
“Aw, come on. I was going to wish for a PS3,” Jared grumbles.
“I think your parents would have much more to do with that than a wishbone,” Mrs. Livingston says. “I’ll save it for you two. Lucy can come over after school one day next week, if that’s all right, Jane?”
“Sure,” Aunt Jane says. “We need to return an invitation one of these days, too. Maybe Jared can come up to Old Mission.”
“Yeah!” Jared puts it back on the paper towel. I look at the bone, then at Aunt Jane. That was nice of her.
Mr. Livingston comes in. “We were thinking about going sledding after we clean up a bit. Fight off the turkey coma. What do you say, bud?”
“Yeah!” Jared perks up. “Can Lucy come, too? She’s never been sledding.”
“We’ll fix that tonight,” his dad says.
“I’m afraid we don’t have any snow pants or boots with us,” Aunt Jane says.
“We’ve got plenty you can borrow,” Mrs. Livingston says. “It’s all in the basement. Jared, Jason, go look. Snow pants, jackets, mittens, hats. Paul, get the sleds down from the garage. Jane and I will finish up the dining room.”
As soon as they all leave the kitchen, I eye the wishbone. Would I wish to go to Mexico again? If I don’t, what would I wish for? From the dining room I can hear Aunt Jane and Mrs. Livingston.
“Your pies were delicious. Was that pumpkin from the CSA?”
“Libby’s can,” Aunt Jane says. “Shhhh.”
Mrs. Livingston laughs.
“My son always liked it, so I figured, why mess with a good thing?”
“I didn’t know you had a son.”
“He’s in the army. Stationed in Germany.”
I didn’t know he was there. Aunt Jane said Matt was in the army, but not where. That’s far away. She hasn’t said anything about him visiting for Christmas. I wonder if he can’t, or doesn’t want to? There’s a long pause.
“I’m glad that you could come,” Mrs. Livingston says. “Holidays can be so difficult, especially the first year.”
Aunt Jane keeps stacking plates and doesn’t seem to have heard her. Finally she says, “It was a wonderful meal. Thank you for having us.”
“Do you have plans for Christmas?”
I move closer to the doorway, where I can see a little bit into the dining room.
“Lucy’s going back to New York, to visit a friend from school. Flying out Christmas morning. She’ll be back on the twenty-ninth.”
“That’ll be nice for her.”
Aunt Jane nods.
“So you’ll celebrate together Christmas Eve, then?”
Another long pause. “I expect so,” Aunt Jane says.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.” But Mrs. Livingston keeps standing there, waiting.
“It’s fine. It’s just, what you said about holidays being difficult.” Aunt Jane looks up from the
plates, off into the air. “My husband left me just before Thanksgiving five years ago. This is the first holiday I’ve truly celebrated since.”
“My goodness. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
I didn’t, either. Just that she was divorced. I can’t imagine Daddy leaving Mom.
“Your son probably doesn’t get many chances to come home, either.”
Aunt Jane shakes her head. “I was looking forward to Christmas with Lucy, and then this invitation came up. After I denied her the award banquet, I felt like I couldn’t say no to a trip to see a friend during vacation. You’re right, of course, we can celebrate on Christmas Eve. It’s not like she’s expecting Santa Christmas morning, after all!” She digs in her pocket for a Kleenex and blows her nose. She hasn’t been sick. Is she upset? I can’t see her now. Looking at the wishbone again, twirling my braid, I wonder what Aunt Jane would wish for.
“But you had your expectations, too. You’re entitled.”
I can’t hear what Aunt Jane says next, because Jared comes up to me. He’s wearing these funny-looking black puffy overalls and is carrying another pair, blue. “Hey. You’re going to New York over Christmas?”
“Yeah.” I turn away from him, to hear what Aunt Jane is saying next.
“That’s your chance!”
“My chance? For what?”
“To go to Mexico, duh!” Jared shoves the blue pants at me. “Here’s your snow pants. Come on, let’s go.”
Chapter 54
JANE
Kitted out in our borrowed snow gear, we toss all the sleds into the back of my truck and head for the county civic center. Lucy’s quiet as I turn into the complex, bathed in a pinkish glow from the streetlights reflecting off the snow. Does she understand that underneath it is grass? Sledding hill, ball fields, most of this whole property. Yesterday after school she stuck to the stepping stump path, but the ground wasn’t completely covered yet, either. So far today we’ve been on sidewalks and streets, except to get into the truck at home, which I didn’t see her do. Should I remind her? I decide not to ask for trouble.
I park next to the Livingstons’ Prius. Jared is already grabbing sleds before I’ve turned off the engine.