I turned away for a moment and tried to discern if there was any movement at the front windows of the house, wondering if Grandma was watching.
“Everything okay?” Will asked.
“I think so. My grandmother can be a pain. She’s probably spying on us.”
Will laughed at this. I yanked off my hat and, one by one, the fingers of my gloves. I wedged everything into the small space between us and put my hands up to the vents, enjoying the warmth. Will tugged the bright green pom-pom at the top of my hat. “Nice.”
“Thanks. Watching hockey is a cold profession,” I said, and Will laughed again.
He took the truck out of neutral and we headed up the street. His hand nearly bumped my knee every time he shifted gears. I considered inching closer to the passenger door so we wouldn’t end up in some awkward situation, but then, there wasn’t much room to move over anyway.
“So I have a few questions for you,” I said.
Will pulled onto the highway. “What kinds of questions?”
“The ones that explain why you spend so much time in the penalty box.”
He grinned. “Oh, that kind. All I have to say is that it’s never really my fault.
“I’m sure.”
“No, really.”
“Enough of the kidding. This time I want the truth.”
“Fine, fine. How about I go over why I landed there during the last game?”
“That’s a good start—though we might be here forever,” I said. “Just make sure not to leave out any important, incriminating details.”
Will glanced over at me. “Picky.”
“Sometimes. Now get on with it already,” I urged, and proceeded to grill him the rest of the way to the rink. As with the last two games, I sat with Kecia—Krupa wasn’t singing tonight; she was away for the holiday. But unlike the previous weekend, Lewis won tonight. Will scored once and made two assists, so he was in a good mood when we returned to his truck for the ride home. I pulled the scarf around my neck up to my mouth to hide my smile.
“Got everything?” he asked before backing out of the space.
“All set,” I said.
“Since I answered your questions on the way here, now you have to answer mine,” he said.
“But—”
He interrupted my protest. “It’s only fair.” The truck stopped at a light and he turned to me. “Ready?”
“I guess,” I reluctantly agreed.
“If you could go anywhere in the world and money was no object, where would you go?”
“Anywhere else is better than Lewis.”
“That doesn’t count as an answer.”
I laughed. “You dodged my first question, remember?”
“True. But then I answered it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay, so ever since I was, I don’t know, maybe six? I’ve wanted to go to Bangalore—that’s a city in India.”
“You want to go to India?” He sounded intrigued.
“Krupa’s family is originally from Bangalore and she and I have been talking about taking a trip for years. And don’t get me started on the food we would eat.”
“Do you have a favorite dish?”
“To be honest, it’s hard to choose,” I said, trying to decide, “but Mrs. Shakti—that’s Krupa’s mom—makes these lentils that are to die for.”
He made an ick face. “Lentils?”
“I know, right? You’d change your mind if you tasted hers, I swear.”
After discussing no fewer than five of my favorite Indian meals in great detail, Will changed the subject again—he could be talkative when he wanted. “This next question”—he said, and looked at me while we waited at another light—“you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“Uh-oh,” I said, bracing myself.
“Of all the songs you’ve listened to so far on that iPod of yours, what’s your favorite?”
I thought about it. “I think I can answer that. This is going to sound random, but I think it’s ‘You Are My Sunshine,’ that version from O Brother, Where Art Thou? Do you know it?”
“Actually, I do. My mother loves that sound track. She used to sing that song to me when I was little, and then to my sisters, too.”
“Do you think it’s required that all parents sing that to their kids?”
“I don’t know, I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said, and slipped right on to another, less touchy topic.
Will seemed genuinely interested to find out more about me, and I found myself offering opinions on all sorts of issues and confessing things I dreamed about doing someday. Soon I was shifting toward him instead of farther away. The more unself-conscious he became, the more he pushed his hair out of his face so he could really see me and I could see him. I became aware of how the blue of Will’s eyes changed when he got excited about something, and how his face became like one big open invitation when he smiled, like right now, after we arrived at my house and I agreed to go to his game next Friday, too.
“I can’t wait,” I told him before I got out. When I headed up to the house, listening to the sound of Will’s truck idling until I was safely inside, just like last time, after the front door closed behind me, I leaned against it and sighed.
The following Monday I was at my locker when I noticed Will coming down the hall, and I wondered what would happen next, if we would just pick up where we’d left off on Saturday night or continue to act like we didn’t know each other at school. I immediately saw how different he was. The Will from the truck who laughed and smiled at me was replaced by a boy whose eyes were distant, almost blank, as if he were a thousand miles away.
“I can’t believe Mrs. Jantzen is giving a biology test right after a holiday,” Krupa complained as he walked right past us with barely a glance in my direction.
My lungs exhaled with a relief I didn’t realize I would feel.
“Rose? Are you listening?” Krupa waved a hand in front of my face, her glittery nail polish catching the light.
“Yes. Sorry. Biology test today,” I said.
“Did your brother go back to school already?”
“What?”
“Rose! Did Jim return to college?”
“Oh. Yeah. He’ll be back again in a couple of weeks after finishing exams,” I answered distractedly, and Krupa looked at me strangely.
That one encounter with Will was the beginning of a strange set of interactions—or noninteractions—between us. As November turned to December, we fell into a routine of sorts. Every Friday and Saturday he picked me up for his game, dropped me at the front door of the rink, and drove around back to park. I took my seat in the stands with Kecia, Tamika, and Mary, and eventually Krupa, too. No one asked how I got there, or why I was so interested in watching Will on the ice, as if there was an unspoken rule not to pry for details about whatever it was he and I were doing. As my game count rose higher, it was difficult to believe I hadn’t always done this on weekends. But during the week, Will and I barely acknowledged each other’s existence; we didn’t call each other or text. We didn’t communicate at all.
“Rose, just talk to the boy,” Krupa said one day when, yet again, he had passed in the hall without saying hello.
“I think it’s better that we keep our friendship private, for now at least. It’s different when we’re here. He’s different.”
“And you aren’t?” Krupa asked, filling her bag with books to take home.
“I don’t know. Do you think I am?”
“You don’t seem at ease with him like you do at the games, that’s for sure. Maybe if you guys got used to hanging out here—”
“No,” I interrupted. “It’s just what he and I do, and it works so I don’t want to mess with it.”
With each ride home from the rink, Will and I stayed together longer and longer, parked out in front of my yard. Sometimes we would talk past two a.m., until both of us were yawning and our eyes were heavy with sleep. It wasn’t long before I fell in love with the inside of Will’s truck, the i
ntimacy of talking for hours in that small space, watching the trees sway outside in the wind while we were inside, warm and protected, and during the occasional snowfall that turned the world around us white. The more time we spent together, the more we opened up about even the most difficult subjects.
“So, remember that iPod?” I asked him one night, when, as usual, we were parked in front of my house, with Will occasionally turning the engine on so we could blast the heat and warm up.
He nodded. “I keep waiting for you to bring it so we can listen.”
“Well, it’s sort of from my mom,” I confessed. “Wait, not sort of,” I backtracked. “She made it for me. It’s like she left me a sound track for when she was gone. You know, to have after she died.” The last word was like a punch in the silence. “She put together these playlists for me.” I laughed a little, thinking about how I used to pester her that she needed an iPod because the best part of having one was how you could arrange your songs so that they told a story, and how you could make the perfect playlist to set a scene for your life, or to remind you of an experience you never wanted to forget. “She put a playlist on it of all her favorite songs. Then there’s another of holiday music—I haven’t touched that one yet. There’s one called ‘Happy Rose,’ filled with the cheesy dance music I used to listen to that drove her crazy. It must have taken her forever to make all of them.” I trailed off.
“What an amazing thing to have given you. To have made for you.”
“I know,” I whispered, my words two short breaths in the quiet. I was relieved Will understood the importance of the iPod and so I decided to confess something else, something I couldn’t stop thinking about. “One of the playlists on it, it’s called ‘TBD by Rose.’ To be determined, I guess. It’s blank.”
“Not a single song?”
“Not one. Not yet,” I added.
“So she wants you to make a new playlist. That’s intense.”
“I know,” I said, feeling the weight of this task. “Sometimes it’s overwhelming to have this big open space that I’m supposed to fill, when it’s still difficult to listen to anything at all, never mind the picking and choosing through songs to get a playlist just right—to get this one just right. I used to be so obsessive about them. I don’t even know how to begin.” I stared down the road ahead of us, watching the bare branches of the trees dip down toward the windshield in the wind. “The closer we get to Christmas, the harder it is to think about ever filling it in. God, I’m dreading Christmas this year.” I fidgeted, pulling on the fingers of my gloves. I leaned my head back against the seat, wondering how to interpret Will’s silence. “Was that too much information?”
“No,” he said. “Not at all.”
“Okay. Good. Because you could tell me.”
“Really, it’s okay. I was just thinking about your TBD playlist and what you might want to put on it, or maybe what I’d put on it if my dad had left me something similar.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised by this sweet, vulnerable response. “Any suggestions?” I asked, almost wishing he would give me a song to start things off.
“I think I’ll leave that to you. You’ll figure it out. You did manage to plant peonies and that was well out of your skill set.”
That comment lightened up the mood and I nudged his arm. “Hey, I did great with the garden.”
“Yeah, with my help.”
“So did your dad ever give you anything? You know, for afterward?” I asked.
Will’s hands tightened around the bottom of the steering wheel. “Hockey,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“My father brought me up on hockey—he played when he was my age, too. I’m grateful, but sometimes it’s a bit overwhelming, like you said before. For me, it’s the pressure I feel because this is his legacy. Me playing hockey, I mean. Don’t get me wrong—I love the game. It’s always been my favorite thing”—in the glow of the streetlight, I saw the blue of Will’s eyes deepen in that familiar way—“but sometimes hockey feels like this neverending thing I’ll always owe my dad. You’re lucky your mom’s iPod is so tangible. So concrete.”
“I guess so,” I said, and thought about how the iPod was just one piece of a larger puzzle. The journey outlined by my Survival Kit was anything but tangible, and there was still so much left unanswered. Sometimes I worried I wouldn’t get things right or understand what the tasks truly meant. “Your dad was right to give you hockey.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I watch you play, I can tell that you love being out there.”
“Not always,” he said.
“Well, every time I’ve seen you.”
“I hope you’ll share the iPod with me sometime,” Will said. “You said it was easier to listen with someone else. I’m here if you ever want to.”
“I know,” I said, and looked at the clock. It was after midnight and we’d been sitting in front of my house for almost two hours. Maybe we’d revealed enough secrets for one night. “Soon. Maybe after the holidays are over. On that note, it’s probably time I go.” I opened the door and cold air sliced across us. “Thanks for telling me something about you and your father.”
“Rose,” Will said, and stopped me from getting out by placing a hand on my arm. His palm was warm against my skin. “I’m having fun. This”—he stopped, nodding at me—“this is fun, what we’re doing.”
The wintry air was rushing inside, but before I jumped down to the street I looked back into his blue eyes. “I know. For me, too,” I said.
Will’s hand remained a moment longer and when he let go I pushed the door shut. As I walked up to the house, aware of each step that took us farther and farther apart, I felt his fingers pressed against my skin as if they were still there.
21
BLUE CHRISTMAS
I woke to snow falling outside and Christmas music blaring through the house. I recognized “The Wassail Song,” one of Mom’s favorite carols, and knew it was on the holiday playlist from her iPod. I hurried out of bed and grabbed the cardigan hanging over the back of my desk chair, wrapping it around me. The playlist jumped to “The Holly and the Ivy” by the time I reached the kitchen. Memories of my mother singing as she made holiday cookies flooded my mind so powerfully that I almost believed I’d find her there. But Jim’s voice broke the spell. He must’ve arrived late last night after finishing his last exam. “You took my iPod,” I yelled angrily over the music.
Jim looked up from spreading jam on toast, stopping midlyric. “Hey, Rosey.”
“Turn. It. Off!” I screamed. Of all the music I found difficult to hear, Christmas carols were the worst.
But Jim only lowered the sound. “Calm down,” he said, seeming startled by my anger. “When I saw Mom’s favorites on here I couldn’t resist.”
“I don’t want to listen,” I snapped, and stomped over to the iPod dock and hit stop. Silence fell over us.
“It was sitting here on the counter,” Jim backpedaled. “I didn’t think it would be a big deal.”
I bit my lip, unable to speak, and a sob rose in my throat. Just a few bars of these familiar songs and I wanted to weep.
“Aw, Rosey. Are you okay? You’re not, are you?”
I shook my head.
“Are you thinking about Mom?”
I nodded.
“Me, too. I think about her all the time.” His voice caught and he sighed. “You want a hug?”
I nodded again and Jim wrapped his arms around me and rested his chin on the top of my head. Tears rolled down my face. If I could go back to the day of Mom’s funeral, when the whole future lay out ahead like one big nightmare, I would have prepared myself to cry at least once a day going forward, no matter how hard I tried not to. Though maybe it meant that I loved Mom more than words could express. The one thing tears were really good for was when we ran out of words.
My sobs turned to sniffles.
“Rosey?” Jim handed me a napkin to blow my nose. I saw that his
eyes were red from crying, too. “Sometimes I can’t believe Mom isn’t going to suddenly walk in the kitchen. I keep expecting her to, you know?”
“I do,” I said. “I’m sorry I lost it.”
“You don’t have to apologize. Why wouldn’t we be losing it? It’s our first Christmas without her.”
“I know. It’s crazy she’s not here. It’s like, impossible or something.”
Jim pulled two slices of bread from the bag and put them in the toaster. “Sometimes I feel like Christmas won’t happen if she isn’t here to make it happen, which means we need to do it ourselves. I thought that waking you up to Christmas carols might be festive.”
“This sounds stupid, but I hear a song, any song, and I want to sob,” I confessed. “Obviously,” I added.
Jim leaned over the toaster, watching the coils turn red. “When ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ came on before you got up, I cried hard.”
“You did?”
“Yes.” The toast popped up and Jim caught the two pieces and placed them on a plate for me. He pushed the jar of jam closer and handed me a knife. “Music sometimes … I don’t know. This may sound strange but it almost—”
“—brings Mom back to life,” I finished.
“Yes.”
“I know just what you mean.” Talking to my brother about Mom made me feel less alone, especially since my father barely mentioned her. “Where’s Dad and Grandma anyway?”
“They went out a while ago. Grandma dragged him Christmas shopping at the mall. She said he had to go.”
“God, I haven’t even thought about presents this year. I mean, the thought of not buying Mom a gift about kills me,” I said. For a while, the only sounds were from Jim and me eating.
Then Jim spoke. “I think we should rise to the occasion for the holiday songs.”
“I’m so tired of feeling sad, though.”
“You’ll get used to it. We have to start somewhere and what’s Christmas without music?”
“But—”
“Rosey, come on. It would mean a lot to me.”
I sighed. “Can I reserve the right to skip something if I think I can’t handle it?”
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