“You mean, quid pro quo?”
“Yes, that. My turn to ask you a question.”
Alex’s stomach tightened with nerves. He worried about what she might ask. Instinctively he raised one hand to his face, but stopped halfway and folded his arms.
“Okay,” he agreed, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.
“Where were you born?”
Alex grinned. She let him off easy. “I was born in New Hampshire.”
“Really?” When he nodded, she said, “I don’t think I would have ever guessed that. Why in the world did you guys move out West?”
“What happened to quid pro quo?”
“You asked me two,” she said. She held up a hand and ticked them off. “My house. My dad. You owe me another first.”
Alex relaxed his hands. “Because the opportunity came up for my father to purchase the bank. So we moved.”
Calli nodded, but looked disappointed by his incomplete answer. Alex didn’t blame her. It was only the tip of the truth.
“Should we continue this discussion over dinner?” he asked.
“Sure. Where we going to eat?”
Alex pointed to a door on the opposite side of the room. “In there.”
“The bathroom?” Calli sounded shocked. Alex laughed and pointed to another door not far from the door that entered the room.
“That’s the bathroom. I have another room in there.”
“I can hardly wait to see this,” Calli mumbled, making Alex laugh again.
He stood and held a hand out to her, realizing a split second too late that it was a gesture he should not have performed. It made this feel too much like it was a date, and that was an impression he had to avoid at all costs. But Calli simply placed her hand in his, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and followed him into what he referred to as his spare room.
* * * * *
Calli looked around the stark white room. Everything was painted flat white, the floor covered with plain white tiles. A white fridge, stove, and microwave lined one wall. The only color came from the brown table and chairs that sat in the middle of the room. This room was decidedly more depressing than his room, but she chose to keep her mouth closed about this as well.
Alex pulled their dinner out of the oven where it had been warming, and some other items from the fridge. They sat and ate, asking questions back and forth.
“Tell me about your friends,” he said.
“Brittany and Jennae are my best friends, have been since we were in Kindergarten. Eli and Brandon are usually with us. Brandon wants to be anywhere Brittany is. I have other friends at school, but they are who I mostly hang out with. Tell me about your father.”
“What’s to know?” he said. “You probably know him better than I do. He owns the bank. He likes playing God with the people in town. He has no sense of humor—or honor.”
“Really? Is that what you think of him?”
“Is that your next question?” he asked. “I believe it’s my turn. Tell me about your school.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but let it go. “Fine. Just remember you set the rules. My school is like any other school.” When he raised his brows at her, she realized he would have no idea what school as like. “I live on the poor side of town, so I hang with the others who live near me. None of us play football, are cheerleaders, or run for school officers. We don’t associate with the richies. The teachers could care less about any of us, though they care a little more about those whose parents have the means to donate to their programs. Learning anything is a personal choice, because you aren’t going to learn from the teachers.”
When she stopped speaking, he looked as if he were going to ask her to expound, so she raised a finger. “My turn. Why do you work out so much?”
Alex shrugged, turning his attention to his dinner. “It helps keep things loose, you know. If I don’t, my scars tighten up and make it harder to loosen them up again.”
Her shoulders slumped. She thought about all the guys at school who worked out to bulk up for the purpose of looking good for girls. Then she thought about Alex, who did it to try to stave off the pain. “Alex, I’m sor—”
“Don’t,” he said, holding a hand up. “Don’t be sorry. Not . . . not you. Please.”
Calli bit the inside of her cheek. A flush had crept up Alex’s left cheek. “Why don’t you ever eat with your dad?” she asked quietly.
She thought he might not answer. It was his turn after all. But he surprised her when he met her gaze and said, “I can’t stand to see him looking at me, and seeing nothing more than the loss of his wife and daughter.”
Calli wanted to argue with him. Surely Mr. Stratford didn’t blame Alex, or the little boy he had been. He had to be grateful that his son was saved. But she couldn’t argue it, because she didn’t know. She hadn’t ever seen them together, or even talked to Mr. Stratford about what had happened. What she could see was the pain and guilt in Alex’s eyes, and the loneliness.
She pushed her plate away from her. “Got any good movies?” He looked at her, a question in his eyes. “Well, every good non-date should end with a movie in a non-theater. We’ll eat a piece of Javier’s peach pie that I saw in your fridge, and that will be our non-popcorn.”
Alex smiled at her. “You’re pretty non-normal, Callidora Clayson.”
“Finally,” she said, throwing her hands in the air, “he gets me.” She stood and this time held her hand out to him. “C’mon, friend.”
He looked at her hand for a second, then took it and followed her back out into his room. She stopped there.
“Um, can I use your restroom first?” she asked.
He waved a hand toward the door and she went in. She leaned against the edge of the sink and took deep breaths. Sympathy for Alex overwhelmed her. She wanted to go back in time and hold that little boy who thought it was his fault he couldn’t rescue two others from a burning building. She wanted to hold the almost-man he was now for the pain that continued to rip him apart and kept him hidden like a . . . well, like a monster.
Her fingers tightened against the corner and she held her breath to stifle the sobs. Finally she splashed some water onto her neck and glanced up into the mirror to make sure no traces of her anguish remained.
No mirror.
She turned in a circle in the large bathroom. No mirrors anywhere. His closet led from the back of the bathroom, same as hers. She peeked in, not wanting to snoop, but snooping anyway. Rows of sweatshirts and long-sleeved t-shirts lined the racks. No mirrors.
Weird. Understandable, but weird. And not a little heartbreaking.
* * * * *
Alex paced as he waited for Calli to come out of his bathroom. He’d said too much. He found himself doing that more and more with her. He’d told her more than he’d ever told his psychiatrist in all his years of therapy. It made him edgy that he’d shared so much with her.
She came out, her usual happy countenance back in place. She took a look around his room, as if searching for something, then said, “Let’s go.”
They went out to the theater room, and he listed some of the movies he had.
“Well, I can see this is something we’re going to have to do more often,” she said. “I haven’t seen any of those.”
She chose one, and he put it in the player while she dished them up two pieces of pie. He sat on the couch, and when she came over, she sat down right next to him. Alex thought he should feel nervous about that, but somehow it felt right.
The movie started, and Calli exclaimed over the size of the screen and the sound in the room. “This is so much better than the theater. And my feet don’t stick to the floor.”
“Why would your feet stick to the floor?”
“I don’t know. I guess they never mop up the spilled drinks and stuff. But you have to be careful or you could lose a shoe.”
Alex laughed and took her empty plate, setting it on the end table with his. He turned his attention back
to the movie, and soon Calli tucked her feet up next to her, leaned over, and laid her head on his shoulder. Alex stiffened.
“Is this okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. And it was. She snaked her arm through his, tangling her fingers with his. Alex relaxed against her. He didn’t think he’d ever enjoyed a movie more.
* * * * *
“You can’t put the star on yet,” Calli told Alex, reaching to snatch it out of his hand.
“Why not?” He laughed, holding it up out of her reach.
“It goes on last. You have to hang all the ornaments and the strings of popcorn before you can top the tree.”
Alex rolled his eyes. “And who decided that it would be fun to spend hours stringing popcorn just to hang on a Christmas tree. We had enough decorations already.” Alex would never admit it, but the hours they’d spent stringing—and eating—the popcorn had been fun.
The four months Calli had been living in Alex’s home had sped by. Four months of Alex feeling alive again. Calli rarely went home on weekends anymore. At first it had only been occasionally that she stayed. She hadn’t gone home for the last six weeks solid.
Alex now ate dinner with her and his father every night. How she’d talked him into that he couldn’t say, but he realized how much easier it was to be around his father with her there. He could ignore his father’s looks, and watch Calli tease him. Tease Winston Stratford. He didn’t think another soul could get away with that.
Alex looked down into the box he held. “Look, Calli, there’s only one little box of ornaments left. How can putting those up first possibly make a difference?”
She shrugged. “It just does.”
“Well,” he said, “I can’t argue with that logic. I’ll wait.”
Calli grinned and bumped his shoulder with hers. “Thanks, Alex.”
“Alex. Callidora. What are you two up to?” his father asked, entering the room. Alex stiffened, putting up his guard as he always did when his father was near.
“Hey, Winny. What’s up?” Calli asked. Alex’s father bristled. When he kept addressing her as Callidora she began calling him the ridiculous nickname of Winny. It had become a battle of wills regarding their names. Alex suspected Calli would win.
“My name is Winston, as you well know.”
“And mine is Calli, as you well know. Wanna help us put this last box of ornaments on the tree?”
Alex waited for his father’s expected refusal. Surprisingly, Alex heard him say, “Sure.”
Disappointment filled Alex. He’d been having fun until now. He preferred his father to leave and let them get back to the fun. Instead, Calli leaned into the larger box and withdrew the small box of ornaments, which she handed to his father.
“Callido—Calli, why don’t you go see if Javier will make us some eggnog while Alex and I put these on the tree.”
“Sure,” Calli cheerfully agreed before Alex could offer to go himself. He didn’t want to be left alone with his father. Calli left the room, and Alex grudgingly stayed put.
His father opened the box, tipping it toward Alex so he could see inside. “Do you remember these ornaments, Alex?”
Alex looked into the box. The ornaments were the cheap, glass kind. They were pink and silver. They didn’t look familiar. Their tree was always professionally decorated—and definitely had never included strands of popcorn.
“No, I’ve never seen them,” he said curtly.
His father looked down at the ornaments, caressing them with his free hand almost reverently. “They were your mom’s.”
Alex jerked at the mention of his mom. His father had never spoken of her to Alex. In fact, Alex had been informed of her death—which he’d already known anyway—by one of his nurses at the hospital.
“She bought them the first year we were married at a run-down dollar store. They were all we could afford.” He smiled to himself, lost in memory. “When we got home, she dragged me up the mountain to dig up a tree. We had to be very careful so that after Christmas it could be planted in the yard.”
Alex suddenly had a clear memory of a backyard with pine trees of varying sizes planted along the back fence. It didn’t occur to him to wonder about them at the time. Did he know that she’d planted their Christmas tree every year?
His father looked up at the tree Alex and Calli had decorated. He stepped forward and fingered the popcorn strand. He turned and Alex was surprised to see his eyes were shiny with tears.
“She did this as well, because it also was cheap. Even later, when we had money, she still strung popcorn for the tree.” He looked down at the ornaments again and caressed them. “I miss her, Alex,” he whispered.
Alex clenched his fists, fighting the tide of emotion and guilt that swept over him. He knew there had been some things saved from the fire, some things that were in the garage. But he’d never seen anything. He didn’t have any pictures of his mom or his sister. He didn’t know ornaments had made it into their home until now.
“I know you do,” Alex said, his voice low and rough. “I . . . I’m sorry . . . I tried to . . . I couldn’t get to them. I tried . . . I tried so hard . . .”
As he gave his halting speech, his father’s look went from confused to stunned realization to disbelief. He stepped toward Alex, setting the ornaments on the table and taking Alex by both arms.
“Alex, what are you saying?” he asked urgently.
“I didn’t . . . I couldn’t . . . I tried . . . I . . . but I failed.” Alex couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Alex, son, do you think it’s your fault they died?”
“I’m sorry.” He hung his head miserably.
“Alex, no. It’s not—” He pulled Alex into his arms, holding him tightly and Alex felt the dam burst. He’d been holding onto it for so long, but he couldn’t take this, couldn’t take his father’s arms around him. He shoved his father violently away.
“Of course it’s my fault!” he exploded. “If I had come home like I was supposed to, I could have gotten them out. Don’t tell me you don’t blame me! I see it every time you look at me.”
His father listened with his mouth agape. “Alex, it is not your fault.” Alex looked at him, not sure he’d heard right. “Listen to me, son, this is not your responsibility, not in the slightest. You were seven years old. Even if you’d been there, you couldn’t have gotten them out. And instead of losing my wife and daughter, I would have lost everything. I would have lost you also. I thank God every day that you were spared.” Alex shook his head, denying his father’s words. “Alex, this is my fault. Do you know how the fire started?”
Alex hadn’t ever thought about it. It just was. “No,” he answered.
“There was a gas leak. I should have known that. I should have taken care of it. She lit a match, to start the oven. There’s no way she could have been saved, Alex.” Alex shivered and closed his eyes against the image.
“Whenever I look at you,” his father said, “I see what I’m guilty of.” Alex opened his eyes and leveled them on his father. “I’m selfishly grateful that you lived, so that I could have my son at least, even when you’re forced to live with my negligence. All those weeks in the hospital, all those months of therapy, the intense pain you’ve suffered through. I couldn’t stand it, Alex. I couldn’t stand knowing what I had done. I’d taken your mother from you, and your sister, and I’ve caused you to have to live the rest of your life with the scars of that.”
“But you . . .” Alex took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists a few times, feeling the familiar ache in his arm and leg. “You weren’t there. Ever.”
“I was there, Alex, every day. I just couldn’t face you. I couldn’t deal with the guilt.”
“Didn’t you think that maybe I needed you?”
His father looked surprised by the very idea. “I . . . no, I thought you couldn’t look at me, knowing what I’d done.”
“And I thought you couldn’t look at me knowing what I’d done,” Alex s
aid, his anger suddenly draining.
They stood silently, watching one another.
“I’m sorry, Alex, for making you feel I’d abandoned you. I tried to provide you the best of everything to make your life easier. It never occurred to me that what you needed most was me.”
The torment in his father’s voice attested to the truth of his words. Alex walked to the table and picked up the box of ornaments.
“Well, then we’re both stubborn fools for not saying anything.” He pulled one of the ornaments gently from the box and handed it to his father. His father took it and with his other hand clasped Alex’s shoulder. Alex covered his father’s hand with his own, a silent show of forgiveness.
“Let’s get these ornaments on the tree,” his father said.
“We’d better,” Alex answered, “because Calli won’t let us put the star on top until we do.”
His father laughed and shook his head. “Your mother was exactly the same way.”
* * * * *
Calli stood in the hallway. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but they were loud. And then she didn’t want to interrupt. Their words brought tears to her eyes. She’d read about the fire on the internet. She could understand why Alex never had read about it himself. What she couldn’t understand was in all their years of therapy, neither of them had been together to talk about it. It seemed such a waste, for the little boy to suffer so much pain waiting for his father’s love, and the father afraid to love because he blamed himself for the boy’s pain.
She wiped her face, schooling her features when they’d been silent a few minutes. She knew it was useless to look for a mirror to check herself in—she’d long ago discovered the only mirror in the entire house was the one in her bathroom. She scrubbed her hair, pinched her cheeks, and picked up the eggnog tray that lay on the side table. Pasting a smile on her face, she walked into the room.
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