by Amy Reed
“I was seven years younger than her, you know? She was out of the house by the time I was nine, and the year leading up to that was rough. She changed a lot. She and Ma were always yelling at each other. But that wasn’t really her. It was the drugs talking.” He laughs bitterly. “After seeing what happened to Sarah, I should have steered clear, right? Talk about a cautionary tale. But it’s almost like watching her go through it made it seem even more inevitable. I knew we were made out of the same stuff.”
This is not the part I want to hear about. My whole life, this is the only part I’ve known. But what about before that? Why can’t anyone in this family ever talk about anything good?
“What did she like to do?” My voice is almost a whisper. I don’t feel like I’m even allowed to ask these kinds of questions, allowed to know anything that would make her three-dimensional.
“She loved singing,” Caleb says. “The only thing we ever did together as a family was watch those silly singing competition shows. Even Dad liked them.”
“Did she have a good voice?”
“It was decent. Nothing spectacular. But the amazing thing was she seemed so happy when she sang. Like all of a sudden, she wasn’t a Sloat anymore. She was a happy person who ended up with us by mistake.” Caleb looks at me with a sort of melancholy smile. “Kind of like you.”
I feel my throat close up and a new batch of tears form in my eyes. I suddenly don’t want to know any more. I don’t want my mother to be a real person. It hurts too much. The realer she becomes, the more it means I lost.
“You know she’s who taught me how to play guitar?” Caleb says. “The basic stuff, anyway. I’d strum these simple little three-chord songs while she sang and danced, and then she started making me sing backup.” He laughs. “Who knows? If it wasn’t for her, maybe I’d never have even picked up the guitar. I probably would have ended up working at BigMart or the prison like everyone else, or selling drugs like Gordon.”
“Maybe you’d be happier if you did that,” I say.
“Yeah, you’re probably right. But there’s no hope of that anymore, is there? You can’t go back to being like everyone else after you realize you’re not.”
“I’ve always known I’m not like everyone else,” I say. “Ever since I was a baby. That’s all anyone’s ever told me.”
“Yeah, you’re different. That’s why I like you.”
My chest is suddenly full of bubbles.
“Everyone tries so hard to be homogeneous, you know?” Caleb says. “To not stand out. To not be different. They hate us because we’re different. But I hate them because they’re the same.”
“I don’t hate anyone,” I say.
“Well, maybe you should.” Caleb chuckles. “How did we grow up in the same house? How are you not totally furious and full of shame?”
“Maybe I am but I’m in denial.”
“No, you’re made out of something else,” Caleb says, shaking his head. “I wish I was more like you.”
“But I’m nothing special. I’m nobody.”
“I spent the last ten years trying to be somebody,” Caleb says. “That shit’s the loneliest gig there is.”
We’re quiet for a long time. Caleb keeps looking out the window even though it’s pitch-black and all he can see is his own distorted reflection. I want to tell him he should cover up the window, but that would mean I’d have to tell him why, which would mean telling him about how the investigation is closing in and we’re running out of time and pretty soon the world’s going to catch up to us, and that’s not something either of us wants to talk about. I’m also pretty sure all this talking about our feelings means Caleb’s getting better, which I think means he’s going to leave soon. So no matter what I do, I’m going to be alone again any day now.
“You know what’s sad?” Caleb finally says. “Growing up in this shitty house with our shitty parents—it should have brought Sarah and me closer together. It should have made us a unit. Me and Sarah against the world. That’s what should have happened. We should have known that’s what would have made it bearable, that we had each other even if we didn’t have them, that we were stronger together.”
He pauses, swallows. He looks at the place in front of him where the computer screen should be, but it’s still closed. There’s nothing to distract him.
“But we didn’t do that,” Caleb says. “We turned against each other. Like in those nature documentaries where there’s, like, an epic drought or something and there aren’t enough resources to go around, and the animals just start fucking killing each other or jumping off cliffs, or they just wander off into the wilderness to die. That was like me and Sarah. Totally on our own, competing for resources. And there was never enough.”
“And she wandered off into the wilderness to die,” I say.
Caleb looks away and doesn’t say anything for a long time. Is that what he’s doing here? Is this the wilderness?
“You ever seen those documentaries about the Serengeti during the wet season?” Caleb finally says.
“You know we don’t watch documentaries in this house.”
“Good point.” He almost smiles. “Well, the Serengeti is basically, like, this giant meadow in Africa where at a certain time of year, there’s, like, all these rivers and lakes and a shit ton of food for all the animals, more than anyone can eat, and there’s a bunch of lions hanging out next to a bunch of zebras and gazelles, and they’re all buddies just taking a nap together, and there’s no such thing as predator or prey because everyone’s bellies are so full, they can’t even move, and they’re so goddamned happy, they forget they’re enemies.”
“That sounds nice,” I say.
“Yeah,” Caleb says. “But people aren’t like animals. No matter how much they have, they always want more.”
I look down at the empty box and cellophane wrappers at our feet. The cakes are gone. And I’m still hungry.
LYDIA
I HAVEN’T SEEN A WHOLE lot of the world, but I’m pretty sure Larry’s bar is high on the list of most depressing places to be on Christmas. I’m sitting in my usual spot, the little girl sitting silently on the stool next to me, with the usual suspects at the other end of the bar, and Old Pete in his booth. It’s disturbing how much time I spend with these guys but know close to nothing about them. Do they have families they could be with today? Are they choosing this place over somewhere else? Or is this their only choice?
I keep trying to tell myself this is any old day, that Christmas is just a marketing conspiracy in the guise of a religious tradition I don’t even believe in, so it’s not worthy of acknowledging, let alone celebrating. But I still wish Billy were here. He takes things like holidays seriously. He wants them to be special. He shouldn’t be with those people in his house, even if they are technically family.
That movie that always plays all Christmas day is on the TV. It’s the kind of comedy that, if only a few things were changed, would easily become a tragedy. Those are my favorite kinds of comedies, the ones just a razor-thin line from something else entirely, the ones that make you laugh about things that would normally make you cry. This one could easily be a tearjerker about a terrorized kid in an abusive family, with a bully of a father and a beaten-down mother. But instead you’re supposed to laugh at all the yelling and shaming; it’s supposed to be funny instead of cruel.
Larry’s bad dye job is growing out, showing his gray roots. Right now, I can’t really think of anything more terrible about him than his hair. That, and his dream catcher tattoo. And his Unicorns vs. Dragons obsession. He’s embarrassing and clueless, but those things are superficial. Compared to the dad in this movie, Larry’s an angel. I can’t remember a time he’s even raised his voice to me. So why have I always hated him so much?
Something contracts in the pit of my stomach. I feel off. It’s like somebody grabbed my brain and shook it up real hard, and now all the memories and feelings that had been safely contained in there are floating around, bumping into t
hings, making a mess. I can’t stop thinking. The thoughts keep coming and coming, like a stampede, carrying garbage bags stuffed with feelings, and the bags keep breaking, and the feelings get thrown all over the place, and the cleanup crew I’ve always relied on to quickly mop up all these kinds of messes appears to be on strike.
I remember Larry when his hair was still actually the color he keeps trying to dye it. I had forgotten this version of Larry, but now here he is, bumping around in my brain with all the other stuff that got dislodged. There he is with a bouquet of flowers, dressed up for a night out at the fanciest restaurant in Fog Harbor, but Mom’s in her nightgown claiming she’s too tired. There he is asking Mom what’s wrong, asking how he can help, and she just closes the bedroom door in his face. There he is at the mini golf course during one of his short-lived attempts at family night, trying to stay smiling despite Mom’s refusing to play. And there is little me, holding my tiny pink rented golf club, wanting so desperately to play, but instead hiding my excitement and joining Mom sitting sullen on the bench.
He was always trying to make things better. It was Mom who refused to try. And for some reason, I thought I had to choose a side, and for some reason, I always chose hers.
What kind of mother forces her kid to make a choice like that?
There Larry is, after Mom’s death, trying to hug me, asking me if I want to talk about it. And there is little me, pushing him away. Just like Mom always pushed him away. I told him to leave me alone enough times, and he finally did.
How can he stay so positive when his life sucks so bad, when all the people he cares about turn out to be such assholes? Same with Billy. It’s like some people are just born to see the bright side of things. No matter how bad things get, that’s their special survival technique; it’s how they stay motivated to keep going. But then there are people like me, people like Billy’s grandma and my mom and Caleb. We’re programmed to always see the negative, so we can prepare ourselves for the worst. But I’m starting to think maybe sometimes that’s not always the best approach. Maybe sometimes survival techniques can turn into prisons.
I have the sudden urge to hug Larry. He’s on the other side of the bar, pushing a cup of coffee in front of a guy who’s already half passed out, even though it’s just the afternoon. I think Larry actually loves these losers. He loves this terrible town. Maybe someday he’ll find something that can love him back.
Larry and Billy have so much in common. Foolish optimists, both of them. So what does that make me? A tortured artist like Caleb? Someone who will feel alone no matter what I do, no matter how many people adore me?
The Christmas movie cuts to a commercial for the King’s family’s company’s brand of hot dogs: Royal Wieners. The leader of the United States appears on a jet boat holding a hot dog in one hand, his other arm around a bikini-clad woman who is much closer to my age than his.
This world is too bizarre to even attempt to figure out.
My strange desire to hug Larry has thankfully passed. But now another thought has rushed in to take its place. I think about my last ballet class, how Natalie takes the advanced class for extra practice even though she’s in preprofessional, how she was in the place next to me, how noticeable it was that she didn’t reek of perfume like the other girls. How aware I was of her body the whole time, even when I was facing away from her, how I could sense her behind me. How the more I look at Natalie, I don’t see a stuck-up ballerina, but someone maybe lonely like me, someone who has also made her face a mask, but who opens when she dances, who lights up, who takes off her mask when she’s doing the thing she loves.
I take a sip of my flat soda and think about how Natalie whispered so close I could feel the warmth of her breath on my naked earlobe, “You seem to actually be enjoying yourself.”
“Ballet is a necessary evil,” I said.
“Whatever,” Natalie said, but there was a smile in her voice.
We turned in tandem, and when our arms accidentally brushed against each other, I felt a small shiver. Could Natalie see the goose bumps on my skin? Did she notice how my first arabesque on the next side was half a beat too late? Did she notice how desperately I was trying not to look at her for the rest of class?
What is Natalie doing right now? Maybe sitting around the fireplace drinking hot cocoa with her family, a Christmas tree twinkling behind them, tastefully decorated with matching, color-coordinated ornaments and a few handmade ones Natalie has brought home from school over the years.
Did she get everything she wanted for Christmas? Has she already forgotten what she got?
I shake my head. I try to dislodge her. I try to dislodge everyone.
Then the little girl swipes her arm across the bar, knocks over my drink, and spills soda all over my lap. “You fucking idiot!” I scream without thinking, fire and fury exploding from my belly like some kind of dragon. But the girl is gone.
Larry comes over with a towel and starts wiping up the mess. “It was just an accident,” he says, so much dopey kindness in his eyes I want to punch him. I want to punch everyone. I want to strangle that horrible little ghost, but every time I try, my hands go right through her.
I slide off my stool. It’s time to go to my studio. It’s time to lock the door and dance everything away.
Dancing is a relief, but it can’t be everything. I am starting to realize this. I can close my eyes and will myself to stop thinking for three, maybe five minutes at a time. I can dance my way out of my head and into my body, where things briefly make sense, but which I always have to leave eventually. Relief never lasts forever. The world is always there, waiting for me with its relentless weirdness. I must always eventually come back. I must stand still. And it is in that stillness that the other parts of me return, the parts of me that intersect with and bump against the rest of the world. The parts that remember and feel.
There is so much to remember and feel now. It has always been there, but there’s some new portal back to that forgotten place, and it is too wide to plug or patch. Things have escaped that can never be shoved back in again.
For some reason, I feel compelled to walk over to Old Pete’s booth, where he is hunched over the grimy table with his eyes closed, his gnarled, cracked hands around his beer. His beard is definitely green. It has what appear to be tiny strands of moss and lichen growing in it. “Merry Christmas,” I say. He opens his eyes, looks straight ahead, does not seem to even register my presence.
I see movement in the corner of my eye and turn just in time to catch the little girl darting behind the jukebox.
“Oh, this is about to get good,” Old Pete says to nobody in particular.
BILLY
HERE WE ARE AT BIGMART with all of Rome’s and Carthage’s most thrift-conscious citizens looking for post-Christmas deals. Grandma would be right here with them if she weren’t busy giving a tour of our house. Luckily, Caleb is letting me store my Christmas underwear in the attic so the tourists don’t steal it.
Hordes of blue-haired women cram the seasonal aisles, throwing 90-percent-off greeting cards and Christmas ornaments into their shopping carts. Lydia and I go straight for the Advent calendars. An ancient woman with a ratty platinum blond wig and purple lip liner has the same idea and glares at us as we pull stacks of calendars off the shelves.
“There’s enough for everyone,” I tell her.
“No, there’s not,” she spits, then grabs a pile of calendars, cradles them in her arms, and scuttles away.
“How was your Christmas?” I ask Lydia. She’s been pretty quiet ever since she picked me up.
“Quit it with the small talk, Billy Goat,” she says.
“Why won’t you just tell me how your Christmas was?”
“It sucked, just like yours. Nothing to report.”
“Mine didn’t totally suck,” I say. “I think Caleb and I bonded or something. He told me about my mom a little bit.”
She looks at me kind of sad but doesn’t say anything.
“Isn
’t it weird how both our moms are, like, total mysteries?” I say.
“Maybe that’s why we get along so well.” She sighs and looks at the messy rows of Advent calendars. “Why would anyone think this is a good idea?” she says as she inspects a dented calendar covered with illustrations of bloody zombies in Santa hats. She’s pretty good at changing the subject when she doesn’t want to talk about something.
“Look at this one,” I say, holding up one with kittens in sexy lingerie.
“What is wrong with people?”
“Do you think we have enough?” I say. We each have two full shopping baskets.
“It’s never enough, Billy.”
I don’t think she’s talking about Advent calendars.
Larry’s van is impossible to miss in the BigMart parking lot. It’s got a giant airbrushed dragon head on the side, and the doors are so high off the ground it has an extra little step that folds out on the bottom so you can get in. One person passing by looks at it in horror. Another person smirks. A little kid says, “That is so cool!”
“I know, right?” I say to the kid. Lydia rolls her eyes at both of us.
When we get in the car, I grab my backpack out from behind my seat. “I know we promised not to get each other Christmas presents,” I say, “but I kind of cheated.”
“Yeah, me too,” Lydia says.
“Really?” I fight the urge to throw my arms around her. I know she’s not a hugger. But she’s also not a surprise-gift-buyer, so you never know.
“You go first,” she says, not meeting my eye. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was nervous.
“Okay.” I pull the gift out of my backpack and hand it to her—a misshapen, newspaper-wrapped package held together by masking tape.
She opens it slowly, carefully, like she’s trying not to rip the newspaper, and pulls out the first of two things inside.