by Carrie Arcos
Jenny places her hand on mine and squeezes it, as if she can tell what I’m thinking, then announces that we have ten minutes until we leave or Fern is going to have a meltdown.
“I’m ready,” I say.
At the tree farm, Fern is in charge. We follow her around from tree to tree. I’m carrying the saw and get the job of cutting it down when we find one.
“Ooh. This is a good one,” Fern says, stopping at a huge, full tree.
“That might be a little tall,” Dad says.
“I don’t know if it’d fit in our living room,” Jenny adds.
Fern walks around it like she’s a professional tree inspector. “Yeah, and here’s a bad spot.” She points to a huge hole she didn’t see at first.
She hops over to another one.
“Here it is,” she singsongs.
“That’s the fattest tree I’ve ever seen,” I say. The tree is almost as full as it is tall, but it’s probably only six feet, because it’s barely taller than me.
Fern thinks it’s beautiful. I spy a small, skinny one that looks as if it hasn’t had as much time to grow. Grace would have picked that one. She usually went for the little ones because she felt sorry for them. It probably had to do with the fact that we watched A Charlie Brown Christmas every year. She wanted to be like Charlie and dress up a poor, unwanted tree.
“Is this the one?” Dad asks, standing beside the fat tree.
“This is the one,” Fern says definitively.
We take turns walking around, assessing the tree.
“It’s very thick.” Jenny pulls apart some of the branches to look at the trunk. “And healthy.”
“This is it,” Fern says again. “Mark, saw it down.”
I look to Jenny and Dad. Even though we all get an opinion, we know who really has the authority.
Dad says, “All right, the expert has spoken. Mark, do the honors.”
I bend down, and it takes me some effort to saw through the thick trunk. I’m wearing a flannel underneath my jacket because I guess I was hoping for cold weather, but it’s seventy-five degrees out. I’m sweating by the time I’m done and have sap all over my hands. Dad takes the top end, I take the bottom, and we carry the new Christmas tree over to the guys at the entrance so they can wrap it up. Once it’s strapped on the car, we drive over to our usual restaurant and have some lunch.
I help Dad set up the tree in front of our big living room window, where it always goes. Jenny starts popping the popcorn. When she was a kid they strung a garland of popcorn and cranberries to put on the tree, so she makes us do it too. It’s my least favorite part about putting up the tree because I usually prick my fingers. This time I’m prepared, and Jenny laughs when she comes into the living room with the bowl, sewing needles, and thread to see the Band-Aids I’ve strapped to my fingertips like eraser tops on pencils.
“Mark, a little extreme, don’t you think?”
“I’m not taking chances with these.” I wiggle my fingers. “They’re my moneymakers.”
I grab one of the needles and a long piece of thread. “So, Jenny, what’re you up to?” I say in a high voice like I’m one of the girls at a knitting party, because I feel kind of ridiculous. I cross my legs to mock her even more.
“Well, Mark, let’s see. Work is going well. I have a new client who wants me to design a website for a new restaurant she’s opening. And what about you, Fern?”
“I am writing a story,” she says. Fern is a little young still for stringing the popcorn, so she is helping Dad remove ornaments from their packaging and lay them on the floor in a straight line.
“What’s it about?” Jenny asks.
“A whale that got its tail stolen by a witch.”
“Oh, that sounds scary,” Dad says.
“It isn’t really. Well, parts are, I guess. In the end the whale gets it back and they become friends.”
“Want me to make some hot chocolate?” Dad asks.
“Sure, honey,” Jenny says.
“Yes!” Fern says.
“Are we ignoring the summerlike conditions outside?” I ask.
“It’s not about the weather,” Jenny says.
There’s a knock on the front door and Jenny yells, “Come in!”
Hanna opens the door wearing jean shorts and a white T-shirt, verifying my previous statement. “Ooh, great tree,” she says.
“Thanks!” Fern says.
“Can I help?” she asks.
Jenny hands her another needle and thread, and Hanna sits next to me on the couch. I try not to look at her bare legs, which are touching mine, but it’s kind of impossible. Every time she moves, her shorts ride up just a little higher.
“Ouch.” I prick my finger through the Band-Aid. I take it as punishment for not being a gentleman.
Hanna laughs. “It’s not difficult, Mark. Geesh. Don’t be a baby.”
“Hi, Hanna,” Dad says when he enters the room with a tray of cups. “You want some hot chocolate?”
“Thank you, Mr. Santos.”
“I can’t believe we’re already putting up the Christmas tree,” Dad says.
“I know,” Jenny says. “This year it kind of crept up on us.”
“We didn’t even go apple picking,” Fern says, a little surprised, as if she’s just realizing it.
“No, not this year. Next year, though,” Jenny says.
We’re quiet for a moment. All of us thinking about how much Grace loved this stuff: apple picking, Thanksgiving, decorating the tree. Grace isn’t with us, but in a strange way, her absence makes her even more present.
Fern unwraps an ornament that’s a green Christmas tree with a picture of Grace in the center of it. It’s the kind of ornament that you make in elementary school, and the kind you beg your parents not to keep putting up year after year. There are a couple of me somewhere in the decorations box too.
“Look at Grace,” Fern says. She holds the picture like it’s one of her precious dolls.
I laugh. “She hated that picture.” It’s of her in the third grade. She’s got this horrible bowl cut and is missing her two front teeth. She looks like a vampire.
“Remember how she was always putting it toward the back of the tree?” Jenny asks.
Fern gives Dad the ornament. He takes a moment to gaze at it before putting Grace’s picture front and center. “I think this was the infamous scooter year,” Dad says.
“Sounds mysterious,” Hanna says. She’s already halfway through her thread. I have more broken pieces of popcorn scattered on the floor than I’ve actually strung.
“Dad,” I cut him off. Hearing embarrassing stories with the family is one thing, but having Hanna here for them is another. She doesn’t need any more ammunition to pocket for later use.
“The twins were in third grade, right, Jenny?” he asks as if I’m not in the room.
“Um, I’m right here,” I say. I blow on my hot chocolate before taking a sip.
“Yep, third grade,” Jenny says. “It was the first year we were together.”
“They wanted scooters. So I got Grace a silver-and-pink one and Mark a silver-and-blue one, because I’m thinking, boy and girl, you know, blue and pink. Well, Mark took one look at Grace’s scooter and he wanted it. But Grace didn’t want to trade, so Mark cried about it.”
“He cried?” Hanna asks.
“Slight exaggeration. I didn’t cry,” I protest.
“Oh, there were real tears,” Jenny says. “Your father had to pull Grace aside and pay her off so she’d trade with Mark.”
“You paid her?” I ask Dad. “How much?”
“Never mind.” Dad lifts Fern so she can add an elf ornament near the top of the tree.
Hanna laughs. “So you were into pink, huh? That’s okay. It’s a manly color now.”
“Shut up,” I tell her.
“I have a pink sweater you can borrow sometime,” she continues, bumping me with her shoulder. She ties the end of her thread to Jenny’s and starts a new one.
“Remember when Grace wanted to make the cookies for Santa, but she put salt instead of sugar into the batch?” Jenny asks. “Mark told her Santa would never come back to our house if we left them out.”
“You’re so mean,” Hanna says to me.
“What? They were terrible.” They were. I thought all the remembering might make me upset, but it doesn’t. The memories flow like water, and I didn’t even know how thirsty I was.
“Can I make cookies?” Fern asks.
“Yes, sweetie. I’ll help you,” Jenny says.
“Grace loved Christmas, didn’t she?” Dad says. “Remember last year when she made us all go caroling?”
“That was so fun,” Hanna says.
“When she was little, Grace used to sit on my lap before bed and we’d watch the lights on the tree,” Dad says.
“Like I do sometimes?” Fern asks.
“Yes, just like you,” Dad says.
“One year I remember her telling me that I wasn’t getting anything for Christmas because she had gotten ahold of Santa’s naughty list. She said I was number one,” I said.
“You were pretty naughty,” Jenny says. “Tracking in dirt, climbing on all the furniture and jumping off, taking all my Tupperware to collect bugs, getting Grace to follow you on all your adventures . . .”
“It wasn’t all me! I just wasn’t as smart as Grace. She had you all snowed.”
We continue decorating the tree, remembering different Christmases and sharing good memories of Grace. I throw in a few that reveal her bratty side just for good measure. It’s like we’ve been given unspoken permission to talk about her freely for the first time since the accident, maybe because the holidays are usually a time to remember.
When we’re done with the tree, Jenny puts on the movie Elf, another family tradition. It feels good to be together, laughing at stupid jokes and a man-size elf trying to find his place in the world.
Dad sits next to Jenny, one arm around her, the other holding his cell, to check e-mails and messages from work. He’s not one of the district managers for nothing. He looks up at the screen and laughs when Buddy is singing. Dad’s belly laugh is infectious. I join in, along with Jenny, Fern, and Hanna, the sound of our laughter rising and filling the whole house.
Twenty-Four
You can see all of LA from where we’re standing in front of the Griffith Observatory. The distant city lights stretch for miles all around. The downtown skyline is outlined in the distance. In the opposite direction, the HOLLYWOOD sign stands. We’re early, but I have some unfinished business before we begin. I know Hanna and Sebastian have questions, but they’re being patient. They follow my lead and wait for me to tell them why we’re here.
“It’s amazing,” Hanna says beside me.
“Ever been inside the observatory?” Sebastian asks.
She shakes her head.
“How long have you lived in LA? Come on. I’ll give you a quick tour.” He holds out his arm.
Hanna looks at me, and I tell her to go. She loops her arm with his and they leave. I’ve been here before with Sebastian. He comes frequently with a club he’s part of.
I’m sitting down at the base of the huge Astronomers Monument when I see River walking up from the parking lot. I wave at him and he heads in my direction.
“Thanks for coming,” I say, and stand when he reaches me. I’m not sure how he’s going to react, since the last time we were together I was pummeling his face.
“I was curious.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks around. “It’s different here at night.” He adds as if to explain, “I work out on the trail that comes up here when I want to do hills.”
I decide to just go for it. “Look, I want to say that I’m sorry. You know, about how I acted at the funeral and everything.”
“That was . . . It was a terrible day.”
“I shouldn’t have hit you.”
“You were upset. I get it.”
“Still, it wasn’t right.”
“No . . .” He looks down at his feet, which are toeing at the grass, making a little hole.
I pull the bracelet from my pocket. “We got this package in the mail the other day.” I don’t bother telling him it was more than two months ago. “The police department sent us a box of Grace’s things from the night of the accident. It was lost, so that’s why we didn’t get it sooner. Anyway, this was inside.” I hand him the bracelet.
He takes it and closes his fingers around it. “She never even wore it.” He smiles. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’d never bought anyone jewelry before. My sister helped pick it. I think it freaked Grace out.”
“Maybe a little, but she— Here, I think this’ll say it better than I can.” I hand him a copy of the poem that Hanna read at the club. I don’t know for sure if it is about River, but I think it is.
He reads it and starts to hand it back to me, but I tell him to keep it. He folds it carefully and pockets it.
“I loved her,” he says. “Maybe you think that’s stupid, but I really loved her.”
I believe him. “It’s not stupid.” He looks like he probably still loves her. I wasn’t ready before, but now I’m ready to share Grace. She never was mine alone.
“Grace used to send me like forty texts a day. Just little things. Sometimes funny. Sometimes just saying hi. After the accident I couldn’t believe she was gone. I’d pick up my phone all day, during class, walking, right after practice, expecting her to text me. But the texts just stopped. That made it seem so real. I scroll down and read her old messages sometimes.”
“I lied to you at the funeral,” I say.
He looks up from the bracelet.
“When I told you she never loved you. It wasn’t true. I know she loved you.”
River puts the bracelet in his pocket along with her poem. “Thanks, I appreciate you telling me. You didn’t have to.”
“No, I needed to. Grace would have wanted me to.”
“River?” Hanna says, and we turn toward her voice. She walks over to us with Sebastian trailing a little behind. She gives River a hug and looks at me in confusion over his shoulder. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Yeah.”
“So I take it we’re not here for a little stargazing,” Sebastian says. “Not that we’d see much tonight anyway.” He looks up at the sky. “Too much smog and light pollution.”
“No.” I look at the time. “Come on. We’re going to be late.”
“Late for what?” Hanna asks.
“The service.”
The Twinless Twins group is right where Greg said they’d be, over on the other side of the observatory. Greg greets me with a side hug and pat on the back.
“Glad you could make it. I’m Greg,” he says to my friends.
I introduce them. He dips into a cardboard box and hands us each a white taper candle. I recognize some of the other participants from bowling, but there are a few I don’t know. Ann gives me a wave and Hanna looks at me in wonder. All in all I’d say there are about twenty or so of us.
“Okay, everyone. I think we should get started,” Greg says. We stand in a circle and he lights his candle. He then lights the woman’s candle next to him. She lights the man’s next to hers and so on, until the whole circle is lit up, causing our faces glow softly and change shape with the moving flames of the candles.
“We are all here tonight because we’ve lost someone special to us. Please use this space to honor and remember. You can say something or just be silent. When everyone’s done, I’ll close us.”
The flame from my candle dances as people take turns sharing. The wax drips down the sides. I let some fall on my fingers and play with it after it hardens. At Grace’s funeral, I didn’t speak. I kind of regret that now. But at the time, it was as if people were only reflecting on a two-dimensional version of Grace. I wanted to remember a
ll of her, the good with the bad, the beauty with the ugly. I work up the courage to say something.
After a lull, I say, “Grace could be a real jerk.” I feel all the shadowed eyes snap in my direction. Hanna even places her hand on my arm, probably thinking I’m going to go off. “I mean, not all the time. Most of the time she was great. But sometimes she was selfish. She liked being right and getting her own way. If she didn’t want to do something, instead of coming right out and saying it, she’d manipulate the situation or make you feel guilty. If she was in a bad mood, it was better to stay out of her way. She was also the kindest, most generous person I’ve ever known. She gave everything away. She was good with people. She wanted to make a difference in the world.” I think of her journal and all the stuff I’m learning about her. “I thought she was fearless, but she was terrified to let people really see her or to get too close. She took your food without asking.”
River chuckles next to me.
“Right?” I say.
“She used to tell me that she didn’t want anything at the drive-thru, but after we’d pull away, she’d start eating my fries. I’d tell her they were my fries, but she’d just smile and keep eating them.” He laughs. “I forgot about that.”
“Grace hated being cold, so she was constantly turning up the heat in the house when our stepmom, Jenny, wasn’t looking. She was compassionate and loyal and a good friend.” Hanna is crying beside me. “I don’t want to remember some warped version of Grace without her imperfections, because she wasn’t perfect. None of us are. I want to remember the way she’d scratch me when we fought as kids, or how she slammed the door on me when she was mad, or how I could tell her anything and know she’d never tell anyone. I want to remember the real Grace.”
Hanna wraps her arm around me. Sebastian places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. We listen to a couple more people share. At the end, Greg tells us to blow out our candles. We do so all at once. Standing in the dark, we wait a few moments before silently splintering off and walking into the night.