“Church.” Holland sits on the arm of the couch. “Then Christine’s.”
Christine is one of Mom’s old library pals. She got divorced a year before Mom did and then married a guy who grooms pets. He offered us a lifetime of free pet grooming, should we ever decide to “take the plunge and buy a furry friend.”
“Barry and Christine asked about you.” Mom unbuttons her coat, slides it off, and folds it over her arm. “He’s a big hockey fan, you remember?”
I don’t remember, but I nod anyway.
“They bought a macaw for Christmas,” Holland adds. “It speaks German.”
“German?” I repeat.
“Wer sind Sie?” Holland offers, gazing at the ceiling like she’s trying to remember more. “Bitte bringen Sie Erbsen.” That’s just like Holland. She probably even knows what it means. “Who are you?” she translates. “Please bring peas.” See what I mean.
I glance over at Mom. “So now she speaks German.”
“Nein,” Holland says. “Just ‘who are you’ and ‘please bring peas.’”
“The two most important phrases in the German language,” I joke.
Holland smiles and I can’t believe I made a joke. It must be that voice in the back of my head again—the one that told me to change my clothes and eat something. Maybe it means things will be okay. Maybe you can make it through your whole life feeling like shit, as long as you have that voice taking care of you. I glance from Holland to my mom and back to Holland. It’s like they’re scared to move, afraid to leave me alone in the living room with my secret. They’re my little support group, only I don’t want to talk to them.
“I can barely keep my eyes open,” I tell them. “I think I’ll go to bed.”
“We were about to make hot chocolate,” Mom says, her eyes lighting up. “You love hot chocolate.”
And she’s right, normally I do. Hot chocolate with shortbread cookies is a Christmas Eve tradition. Six years ago Holland and I snuck downstairs in the middle of the night and finished off half the shortbread cookies while diving under the tree and searching out our presents. We weren’t going to open them. We just wanted to examine their shapes and test their weights. Then Holland lost her balance and landed full force on one of her own presents, instantly flattening it. Something snapped inside and Holland’s eyes popped out of her face like she was being squeezed. Man, she looked funny, but I didn’t laugh.
“We’ll hide the evidence,” I suggested. “Maybe they won’t notice it’s missing.”
And you know, it actually worked. We unwrapped it and it was one of those paint by number sets, the little brush snapped in two but the miniature paints miraculously intact. A few days later we managed to smuggle the numbered landscape into the garbage. It was from some great-uncle and not something a kid would normally be interested in painting, but I think Holland used the paints during her angels and castles phase.
“Okay,” I say. “I guess I’ll have some hot chocolate first.”
The three of us sit in the kitchen sipping hot chocolate. It feels like we’ll never be done and the moment we are, I trudge up to my room and check my e-mail and IM. There are four new messages, but none of them are from Sasha. I told her to IM me because I thought it might be good for her. Now I realize it’s what I need too. We’re connected, her and me and what’s happening inside her. I’m more connected than I’ve ever been to anything in my whole life, but I’ve never felt more alone.
thirteen
Holland wakes me up at 9:48 the next morning. Nothing registers at first. I’m plain old Nick scowling at Holland for waking me up so early. Holland’s bangs are hanging in her eyes and she’s wearing one of her many black T-shirts. This one says Angry Young Girl on the front and has a pink cartoon face with squiggly long hair on the back. The face is baring its teeth in an angry young frown.
“We’re about to do presents,” Holland says, watching me struggle towards consciousness.
I’d like to stay in that moment where I don’t remember anything, but sure enough it all rushes back to me as I look at Holland. What happened, Nick? We had that talk. I sit up in bed. It’s one of many things I have to do while I’m waiting for tomorrow. I have a whole Christmas Day to get through.
“So what really happened yesterday?” Holland asks. “I won’t say anything to Mom, I swear.” She folds her arms in front of her angry declaration. “It was them, wasn’t it?”
“Holland, it’s Christmas,” I rasp. My voice box has accumulated a hundred years of dust overnight. “I don’t want to think about this shit. Go downstairs and wait for me. I’ll be down in a second.”
Holland cocks her head and stares at me. I know this look. She’s trying to decide if she should keep pushing. Well, push away, Holland. It won’t get you anywhere.
“Fine,” she says, and turns on her heel.
I jump in the shower, change into my clothes, and set a course for the Christmas tree. Mom and Holland are sitting on the couch, waiting for me. “Merry Christmas,” Mom says. I go over and kiss her on the cheek. She smells like the perfume Holland and I gave her for her birthday.
“Merry Christmas,” I tell both of them. It sounds okay, I think. It only feels wrong.
“Merry Christmas,” Holland says. “Are you playing Santa Claus?”
“You can do that.” I motion towards her.
“I did it last year. It’s your turn.”
So why ask? Shit. But Mom looks genuinely happy and I don’t want to mess with that if I can help it. I root around under the tree and pull out present after present, reading the tags and passing them on.
Afterwards Mom makes blueberry pancakes, another Severson family Christmas tradition. It’s funny, Dad doesn’t do any of the stuff we used to, but Mom’s kept it all up. Maybe that’s why she normally looks so unhappy over the holidays. She hasn’t moved on. Maybe I’m wrong about that, though, because her smile looks real today, unlike mine.
“I’m glad you’re here for Christmas this year,” she says as I load the dishwasher. “But are you going to tell me what happened with your father yesterday?”
“Who says anything happened with him?”
“Nicholas.” Mom stands with one hand on the counter and watches me, but I don’t stop loading. “There’s obviously a problem here and I’d like to know what it is.”
The phone rings just then and we both step towards it, but Mom gets there first. She frowns at the voice on the other end of the line and says, “Yes, he is, Cole, but he won’t tell me a thing. Maybe you can fill me in on what happened last night.” She holds the phone tight to her ear and my stomach sinks. This isn’t the way I want things to go. Not on Christmas. Not before I’ve seen Sasha again.
“Let me talk to him,” I say. I can hear Dad’s voice, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. “Mom, give me the phone.”
“Well, at least he’ll confide in you,” she says, glowering at me as she continues speaking to Dad. “I still haven’t heard a word about it. I came home last night and found him asleep on the sofa.”
Mom hands over the phone, which I promptly put on hold. I rush upstairs, pick up the phone in my room, and yell for Mom to hang up.
“You haven’t told your mother yet,” Dad says, sounding tenser than he did last night.
“Not yet. Sasha and I want to get some things settled first.”
“And how’d it go last night?”
“We didn’t have long,” I explain. “Her family was going to church. I’m going to meet her again tomorrow.”
“And her family? What do they say?” Dad exhales heavily.
“They don’t know yet either.”
“Nick, I know you just found out, but don’t wait too long on this. Her parents could be some help.” A single note of laughter shoots out of my mouth and slides under Dad’s words. “They seem like good people,” he continues.
“Yeah, I know.” I’ve had as much of this as I can take. He can’t help me. He doesn’t know how. “So how was Christ
mas Eve? You guys got back okay?”
“Fine. Nicholas, look, I want to hear from you again soon. I know it’s early, but there are different options that could be set in motion.”
“I know.” I don’t mean to say more; it just slips out. “Maybe she won’t have it.”
“That could be the best thing, but this is her decision, you realize,” Dad says cautiously.
I do realize, but I don’t want her to ruin both our lives. Sasha’s got more plans than I do; you’d think she’d want to keep them.
Dad and I don’t talk for long. He tells me he’s glad I trusted him enough to tell him. I don’t point out that it was an act of desperation. I thank him for calling and promise to get in touch with him in a few days.
There’re a few hours before Aunt Deirdre and Co. show up and I spend most of them in my room. My Christmas gifts are piled at the foot of my bed—new shoulder pads, a waterproof clock radio for the shower, gift certificates for clothes, a collection of CDs and DVDs, and a Magic 8 Ball. The Magic 8 Ball is from Holland and I swoop down and pick it up. I don’t even know if you’re supposed to ask the questions out loud or what. It’s a stupid ball, after all.
Is Sasha pregnant? Magic 8 Ball: Better not tell you now.
Will she have the baby? Magic 8 Ball: Concentrate and ask again.
I drop the Magic 8 Ball on my bed, disgusted with myself. Next thing you know, I’ll be phoning a psychic line that charges by the second. Still, I retrieve the ball and try to focus. The Magic 8 Ball says: Signs point to yes. I give it another shake and read the next reply: As I see it yes. I keep flipping it over, waiting for a message I can live with.
Yes definitely.
It is decidedly so.
Outlook not so good.
Really? I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean. I balance the Magic 8 Ball on top of the DVDs and stand in the middle of the room. I need to get out of the house and do something. I’m not up to the turkey dinner with my cousins. Mom always forces me and Holland to hang out with Simon because he’s fifteen, right in between our ages. She thinks that automatically means we have something in common, but I don’t understand half the stuff he says. He speaks fluent computer-geek. It’s not my language on a good day.
Taking off on Christmas Day isn’t an option, though. Where would I go anyway? Everyone I know is locked into family plans. So I plant myself in front of my computer and check my e-mail and IM again. Not one word from Sasha.
We used to e-mail and IM all the time. A bunch of our conversations and e-mails are sitting on my computer, evidence that we actually used to be together. The funny thing is that I wouldn’t let myself reread any of them. It was proof that I was in control, I guess.
But I’m not in control of anything. I see that now, and I click on her e-mail from Halloween and read it through three times before pushing my chair away from the desk. I remember everything about that night as though it just happened—kidding around with her in bed, singing “I’m with You” in my best Avril imitation, Sasha wrestling with me, grinning at me, telling me how special I was and how it felt like we’d just started over.
That night comes back to me in the shower, ringing up a sale, or warming up on the ice. Lots of things about us come back to me. That hug from last night. Does she still believe anything she said to me on Halloween or is it all past tense? It’s the last thing I should wonder about, but I can’t help it.
Somehow I survive the turkey dinner with Aunt Deirdre, Uncle Martin, and my cousins. I’m quiet, but the giddy noises coming from my two youngest cousins disguise that. After dinner Simon follows me up to my room, sits at my desk, and tries to pretend we have something in common. I try to pretend too, but I know I sound moody and bored. I’m relieved when they leave at ten o’clock, but by ten-thirty I’m bouncing off the walls again.
I don’t sleep until after three and Mom has to tell me to pick up the speed a little in the car the next morning. We’ve been making this mall run since I got my learner’s permit. In fact, I drive whenever we’re in the car together. My road test is in three weeks and I need to pass; I’m tired of walking everywhere. “I don’t think I’ve ever had to ask you to drive faster before,” she jokes from the passenger seat.
It’s not just the car. I’m slow at Sports 2 Go too. Brian, the manager, makes cracks about it all morning. By noon I’m completely sick of it and it must show in my face because he claps me on the back and says, “Why don’t you take your break early? Re-energize yourself.”
“I have to take lunch at one,” I tell him. “Somebody’s meeting me.”
“Oooh,” Brian croons. “Maybe she’s the problem.”
“Yeah, and maybe it’s you,” I retort. Okay, so maybe I did sound a little panicked, but is that any reason for him to act like he knows it all?
Brian’s eyebrows leap up in surprise. “Steady there, Nick. This is just friendly banter. You’re normally right on the ball—not like some of the other guys in here. Nobody knows that better than I do, buddy.”
I nod at the ground and try to figure out what normal Nick would say to that. “Man.” I rub my forehead. “Sorry. I’m seriously burnt out. I think I need a vacation.”
“Yo, this is your vacation,” Grayson says on his way by to grab a pair of shoes from the stockroom. Grayson, as you probably have already guessed, is still an asshole. He mostly stays out of my way and I mostly stay out of his. It’s an arrangement that’s been working for the past three weeks, but for some reason today’s the day he decides to start talking to me again.
As soon as Brian fades into the background, Grayson’s by my side, straightening the men’s sportswear on the sale rack. “Bossman’s really on your back today,” he comments. I shrug and step aside to avoid being stampeded by a sudden rush of customers. “So what’s with you today? You all right, man?”
I shake my head. Spending the day after Christmas at the mall is not my idea of a good time. Between rabid customers knocking merchandise off the shelves and bitching about the lousy sale prices, Brian’s “friendly banter,” and my approaching lunch hour, I’m about as fucked up as I can be without completely losing it.
“Why don’t you take off?” Grayson suggests. “Store won’t fall apart without you, you know. You tell the man you gotta take care of some shit. An emergency.”
“Someone’s meeting me here at one.” I guess Grayson missed that part of the conversation.
“Oh, yeah?” I wait for him to make his own “friendly banter” about that, but he just adds, “Then you go when they get here. Do I have to figure this all out for you?” He cracks a smile when I look at him.
“You’re doing an okay job so far.” I fire a smile back. The conversation actually calms me down for fifteen whole minutes.
I circulate through the store, looking for people to help, and a woman flags me down in sports accessories. The boy with her must be about ten years old and the woman speaks to me like I’m her shrink. She’s all worried because she wants to get her kid interested in sports, but he hates everything he tries and shouldn’t there be something out there for him? I could easily mess with her—say something like, “Well, have you tried chess or backgammon?” but then the kid would feel bad. Clearly he’s got bigger problems than sports, you know, like his mother spilling his personal info in the middle of a sports store.
Shouldn’t these things be obvious?
I give the woman and her kid a spiel about the individuality of sports and how some people are really into the team thing while others prefer solo stuff. I explain that some people like aggressive games while others are into strategy. There are some people who will play anything and some people who need to find their exact fit. It’s like anything else really. Some people have a calling, one thing they were born to be (like Sasha with forensics), while others can explore a spectrum of options. A contemplative expression slips over the woman’s face as she listens to me. She’s buying it, I can tell, and I explain why hockey is the best sport for me. Skating. Speed. T
he team. The kid is staring at me too, but it’s her I’m getting to. For some reason she needs to hear this and when I finish, she thanks me and walks out of the store without buying anything.
It’s busier than ever in the mall and I stare out into the crowd, trying to catch sight of Sasha, although it’s not one o’clock yet. I get edgier with each passing second. I haven’t decided what to say yet, but I know how I feel. I’m not ready to have a kid. There’s no possible way I can be someone’s dad.
The minutes crawl by. One o’clock hits and still no Sasha. I hold it together for eighteen more minutes and then I break. How can she be late today? I’m hanging on by a thread, nerves shooting through my veins and making me half crazy, and she’s late. I stalk towards the cash register, calling Brian’s name. He cocks his head as he eyes me.
“I’m taking lunch now,” I tell him. My company T-shirt is stuck to my back and my forehead is wet.
“Go on,” he says, and I walk out of the store and stop by the fountain. Sasha’s cell phone number is burned into my brain and I fish my phone out of my pocket and punch in her number.
She picks up on the first ring. “Nick?”
“Where are you? I’ve been waiting since one.”
“It’s positive,” she announces hollowly. “I took another test this morning and it’s positive.”
“Shit.” It’s what I expected, but that doesn’t make it any easier. I grip the phone tighter. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Yeah.”
“You need to get over here. We need to talk.”
“Nick, I can’t…all those people. I can’t deal with going anywhere today and you don’t know anyway, do you? You don’t know what to say to me or what I should do. It all comes down to me and I need to stay here and think right now.”
“That’s not fair,” I protest. “I can’t keep doing this, Sasha, pretending everything’s okay when it’s all I can think about. We need to make some decisions, the two of us, and we can’t do it over the phone.” I pull at the back of my T-shirt and wipe my forehead. “If you’re not coming here, I’m coming there.”
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