by Paula Stokes
“Can’t I just want to help my mom?” I ask. A twinge of guilt pricks at my insides as I think about the best way to pass three more hours.
“Hmph.” Mom shrugs into her coat. “First time for everything, I guess.”
“Hey!” I protest. “That’s not—”
Mom laughs. “I’m kidding. What’s got you so wound up today?”
I slide into my own coat and we turn toward the front. “Nothing. Just some stuff going on at school.”
“Anything I need to know about?” She adjusts her wig slightly as she slides on a fuzzy cream-colored hat and pulls it down over her ears.
“I’ve got it under control,” I tell her. At least I hope I do.
We wave to Adele as we pass by the front counter. The bells above the door jingle as we step out into the cold. Fog has rolled in off the water. It twists and swirls around us, painting the entire street a hazy gray. I pause in the doorway of the post office to pull out my phone and snap a couple of pictures.
Mom and I continue walking along Main Street. We pass the row of shops and then turn away from the ocean, walking on the shoulder of Highway W as we round the base of Puffin Hill. Someone has strung tiny white lights along the top of the fence that runs the length of the cemetery. Headstones cast dark shadows across the grass. I can just barely make out the feathery leaves of poinsettia plants that some people have left by their loved ones’ graves. The skin on the back of my neck prickles. When I was little, living so close to the cemetery never bothered me, but now that some of my relatives are buried there I can’t pass it without getting a weird feeling in my gut.
As we approach the road leading into our neighborhood, the mix of fog and our neighbors’ Christmas lights creates an interesting swirly red-and-green effect. I take a couple more pictures.
“Let me see what your photos look like,” Mom says.
I scroll back through my image gallery and show her the best one from today, taken right outside the post office. It’s a picture where the red-and-black cobblestones of the street and the houses at the top of Puffin Hill are in focus, but the area in between them is blunted a ghostly gray.
“Pretty,” Mom says. “Especially considering what a piece of crap this phone is. Have you thought about studying photography at college?”
“Why? So I can work at the coffee shop forever? Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I add quickly.
My mom smiles. “I definitely do not expect you to work at the coffee shop forever, unless you want to. I don’t know how people make money taking pictures, but it might be worth looking into, if it’s something you really enjoy.”
A gust of wind rattles the windows on one of the hill houses above us. Mom grips onto her fuzzy hat with her free hand to keep it from blowing away. She’s still looking at the picture on my phone.
“I’m actually taking a photography class next semester,” I say. “Hopefully we’ll talk about stuff like that.”
“You’ve definitely got a good eye.” Without asking, Mom flips back through the previous few pictures—a couple of the street, a couple of the beach, and one of Holden. Luckily it’s just him on his motorcycle, nowhere near the Sea Cliff Inn. She shakes her head. “I can’t believe his mother lets him ride that thing. She must worry every time he goes somewhere that he might not come back.”
“Well, she is a cop,” I say. “It’d be kind of hypocritical of her to forbid him from doing anything dangerous.”
“Good point,” Mom says. “Do I even want to know if you’ve ever ridden on the back of that thing?”
I blink innocently as we turn onto the cracked asphalt road that cuts through the middle of our neighborhood. When my mom was in the hospital and I couldn’t be with her because she was getting chemo, Holden would pick me up and take me for rides up and down the Oregon Coast to distract me.
“Don’t you just love what the Lerners have done to their yard?” I say, changing the subject and pointing at a giant inflatable snow globe with two polar bears dancing inside it. Fake snow rains down on their heads. “I swear every year they add more and more Christmas decorations. Soon they’ll be charging people just to drive down our street.”
“That is not an answer.” Mom clears her throat. “Just promise me that you’ll never take unnecessary chances, okay?” She wraps an arm around my back. “You’re all I got, kiddo. I don’t want to lose you.”
I pause in front of our house and turn to my mom. “I don’t want to lose you either.”
Mom pulls me into a full hug right next to the mailbox. “I’m not going anywhere, Embry. My doctors say I’m doing great.”
“I don’t know what I would do without you,” I murmur into the zipper of Mom’s winter jacket.
“Oh, probably fall apart completely,” Mom teases. “But if you’re lucky, Betsy would take care of you.”
As if she somehow heard her name, Betsy pops her golden head up in the living room window, which means she’s standing on the futon couch.
“Get down.” My mom claps her hands.
Betsy prances back and forth on the futon. She barks twice. She’s loud enough to hear through the glass. Her tail thumps against the windowpanes.
“This is why we can’t have nice things,” Mom says with a grin.
“She’s completely hopeless,” I agree. A smile forms on my face as my dumb dog disappears from view. She’s probably scratching on the front door.
Mom fishes her keys out of her purse, and sure enough Betsy explodes out into the cold as soon as Mom opens the door. I have to grab her by the collar before she makes it across the yard and into the street. I drag the dog back into the house and shut the door behind us.
“Are you hungry?” Mom asks. “I was thinking about driving into Tillamook and picking up a pizza.”
“Sure,” I say. “I’m always hungry for pizza.” Heading into the kitchen, I do a quick check of our refrigerator. It’s mostly empty except for a half gallon of milk and some cheese and lunch meat that Mom brought home from the coffee shop because it was getting close to the expiration date. “But I could make us sandwiches if you don’t want to drive all that way.”
“You know what? I have a better idea. We got so much accomplished today that I think we should celebrate. Let’s go to Fintastic. I know how much you love their sautéed scallops, and with Luke gone you probably haven’t had them in forever.”
“I do love those,” I admit. “But Fintastic is so expensive. We could probably buy some scallops from the market and make—”
“Embry!” Mom scolds. “You shouldn’t be worrying more about money than I am. How long has it been since we went out to eat? We can afford to have a nice meal every once in a while.”
“You’re right,” I mumble.” As long as no one finds out I burned down the Sea Cliff Inn.
“What do you say?” Mom continues. “Dinner at Fintastic, and then afterward we can even get a Christmas tree if you want. I heard the lot has marked them down to half price.”
“Really?” Mom and I both love Christmas, and every year we have fun decorating the coffee shop and our house with knickknacks and lights, but we haven’t gotten a tree since my grandmother died.
“Sure. Your dad sent a little extra money this month to buy some holiday things, and now that they’re marked down—”
I scowl. I hate it when she calls him my dad. “Dad” implies involvement. I prefer the term “father” or perhaps “genetic donor.” When I was little, it was different—back then I really wanted him to be part of my life. All the other kids at school had a dad they saw at least occasionally if not every day. I felt cheated, like I was missing out. But when I turned fourteen, my grandmother told me the whole ugly story of his affair with my mom—how his wife told all of Three Rocks that Mom was a stalker who got him drunk and seduced him, how he begged and pleaded and even tried to bribe her into getting an abortion, how my mom agreed to take less child support in exchange for him promising he would never try to get custody.
&nbs
p; I looked my father up online a couple of times after I heard that story. I think I was hoping to find some evidence it was false, or at least exaggerated. But all I found was a sandy-haired executive type with a Pilates instructor for a wife and two sons in college on the East Coast. After seeing all that, I decided I wanted nothing to do with a man who didn’t even want me to exist. I’d say that I hate him, but I know the money he sends my mom every month is what’s keeping us afloat, so I guess maybe I just dislike him a lot.
“I don’t want to use his money,” I say. “I mean, obviously we should use his money for things that we need. But I have some cash saved up we can use for the tree.”
“What difference does—”
“It makes a difference,” I say. “In fact, hold on a second.” Ducking into my room, I return with a wad of bills. I hold them out toward my mom. “I was thinking we could use this toward fixing the furnace. I know you’ve been looking into that.”
Mom’s eyes flick to the thermostat on the wall. We have it turned all the way up, but it’s barely sixty in here. “I was thinking you might want to use it to buy yourself something special,” she says. “Or maybe some presents for your friends?”
I shake my head. “I never buy stuff for anyone besides you and Luke. I’d feel better if the money went toward something we both need.”
“What about Julia?”
“Julia and I always make each other things or exchange little gifts,” I say. “This year I’m surprising her with the official Julia Worthington sandwich, remember?”
After much begging and cajoling, my mom agreed to let me create a new sandwich for the coffee shop menu and name it after Julia. It might seem like a silly gift, but Julia will love seeing her name up on our painted board, and I’m going to make sure she loves the sandwich too.
“As long as it doesn’t have glitter on it,” Mom says.
I grin. Julia is known for her sparkly makeup, especially in the summer when she’s showing a lot of skin. “No glitter. Just hummus and vegetables and low-fat Greek dressing.”
“Sounds good,” Mom says. “So how about this? We’ll put half of this money toward the furnace. The other half you can hang on to or put in the bank just in case something comes up. If nothing else you can put it toward your college textbooks next year.”
“Fair enough. Just let me change and I’ll be ready to go.” I hand Mom five of the fifty-dollar bills and tuck the rest of the cash into my purse. I’m still not going to use it if we get a tree. My father has taken a lot of happiness from Mom and me. He doesn’t get to mess up Christmas.
“Great,” Mom says. “I’m going to call for a reservation just in case it’s busy and then take a quick shower. Can we plan to leave at six-thirty?”
“Sure.” That’ll leave one and a half hours until the deadline. My brain replays that montage of potential life-ruining things. I tell myself I’m being silly. No one can wreck Julia’s chances at college just because they want to. And no one would risk vandalizing the coffee shop or really hurting someone I care about just to teach me a lesson. It’s probably a dumb prank, like Holden said.
I wish I could be with him when that clock counts down, but I think he’s working at the gas station tonight. Maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of him when Mom and I get to the Christmas tree lot—it’s right across the street from the station.
My phone buzzes with a text. Swiping at the display, I smile when I see who it’s from. It’s like he heard me thinking about him.
Holden: Just checking to see if you’re freaking yourself out worrying about that note.
Me: I decided to help Mom out at the café today, but now that I’m home I might be mildly freaking out.
Holden: Anything I can do?
Me: I just feel like I should be doing something. Like warning everyone I care about to be on guard.
Holden: You’re with your mom and I’m looking out for me. Luke is in Afghanistan so who does that leave that you’re worried about? Just Julia?
Me: Julia, Frannie, some of the coffee shop peeps.
Holden: Well, you can warn anyone you want, but without more to go on there’s not a lot any of us can do.
I know he’s right, but it still feels wrong to ignore threats against the people I care about. My chest feels heavy, like it’s full of rocks. I hate this—this helpless out-of-control feeling.
Me: What if something bad happens?
Holden: It won’t.
Me: But what if it does?
Holden: Then we’ll deal with it together, ok?
I gnaw on my bottom lip. Holden’s words aren’t enough to reassure me, but right now they’re the best I’m going to get.
Eight
ABOUT AN HOUR LATER, Mom and I pull into the gravel parking lot for Fintastic. The building is plain on the outside—just white concrete with a black shingled roof—which helps keep it what the townspeople like to refer to as a “hidden treasure.” It’s not the kind of place you would impulsively stop at if you were driving by. Still, each year a few more travel writers find out about it and it gets more and more crowded. Tonight is no exception and the parking lot is almost full.
A blast of warm air hits us as we open the door. The inside of the restaurant is the opposite of the outside. It’s full of cozy booths and coastal decor, perfect for romantic dates or family outings. A tall Christmas tree stands behind the hostess stand, its thick, feathery branches decorated with green, red, and gold ornaments and adorned with hundreds of white lights.
Mom and I are greeted by the hostess, who turns out to be Frannie. She’s wearing black pants and a knitted Christmas sweater with rows of reindeer and snowmen.
“Hi, guys,” she chirps. “I saw your reservation in the book and I’ve got you all set up.” She leads us to a table back in the far corner of the restaurant. She sets two leather-bound menus on the table. “Your server Katrina will be right with you.”
“Wait, what?” I ask. “Katrina Jensen?”
“Yeah.” Frannie glances over her shoulder at the front door, as if she’s hoping for some new customers she can use as an escape.
“Is that a problem?” Mom asks. “Who’s Katrina? Is she new in town?”
“She lives in Tillamook.” I envision my nice dinner with my mom being ruined by Katrina’s surly attitude and snide remarks. I turn to Frannie, who is now inching her way back from our table. “Can we have someone different?”
Frannie gives me a pleading look. “Sorry. I know she’s not your favorite person, but I had to skip her in the rotation because the last guests wanted to sit by the fireplace, and if I skip her again she’ll rat me out to my mom.”
I know from Luke that Frannie’s mom is really hard on her, that she feels like nothing she does is ever good enough for her parents. I definitely don’t want to set her up for another lecture. “Ugh, fine.” I roll my eyes. “Why do you hate me?” I mouth at Frannie as Katrina comes strolling up behind her.
“Welp. Here’s your server. I’d better get back to the door.” Frannie turns and scurries back to her post, her braids flapping.
Katrina is close to unrecognizable in the Fintastic server uniform—black pants, a blue T-shirt with a big fish logo across the chest, and a gray baseball cap with the word “Fintastic” embroidered on the front. Her blue hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her robotic smile starts to contort into a snarl when she recognizes me, but she quickly pulls it together when she realizes I’m with my mom.
“Hello, ladies. Embry, our town hero, so nice to see you. Can I start you two off with something to drink?” she asks sweetly.
“Just water, please,” Mom says.
“Water for me too.”
“Two waters. Got it.” Katrina’s fake smile disappears, and I bet she’s already decided Mom and I are going to be shitty tippers. Which actually isn’t true.
“I take it you two aren’t friends,” Mom says, as Katrina heads toward the kitchen. “What’s wrong with her?”
“How long do we have b
efore this place closes?” I joke. “It’s not a big thing. She’s just . . . not my favorite person, like Frannie said.”
“Well, speaking of you being a hero, I was wondering if you were planning to go see the boy you saved at the hospital. What was his name? Sam something?”
“Oh, right. Sam. Uh, I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.” I haven’t thought about it because there’s no way I want to go see him. He’ll probably act all grateful, and I’ll end up feeling even worse about things than I already do. “I’m not even sure if he’s still in the hospital or what.”
“According to the newspaper, he is, but he’s expected to make a full recovery. Did you know him at all? The article I read said he dropped out of Tillamook High during his junior year after his grandfather died.”
“I didn’t even know he went to Tillamook High, but I think maybe he’s a couple years older than me,” I say. “I might have just missed him.”
“Well, it would be a nice gesture if you stopped by to visit,” my mom says.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll think about it.”
Across the restaurant, Frannie seats an older couple I recognize—Julia’s parents. I wonder what Julia is doing tonight. She retook her SAT last month and said she felt pretty good about it, but now she’s obsessing about the essays she has to write. She and her friend Ness signed up for some “How to Write the Perfect Application Essay” online course that I know she’s been logging on to a lot.
Luke’s mom strolls out of the kitchen carrying a tray of food. She stops by the bar, where his brother Jonah adds a bottle of red wine to her tray. Jonah leans in close to say something to her and she pats him on the arm.
Mom follows my gaze. “So I haven’t heard you mention Luke much lately. I take it he’s not coming home for Christmas?”
“He can’t,” I say. “He said maybe after the first of the year.”
“Are things still all right between the two of you?”