Not Just For Christmas

by Hazel Redgate

  She shook her head. He’s been missing for two hours, she thought, and you’ve already gone soft.

  That was when she saw it.

  She wasn’t far from home – maybe two or three streets away – and in her worried daydreams she hadn’t been paying much attention to the floor, but it was unmistakeable: in the crisp snow of the sidewalk, there was a trail of pawprints, leaving the car-churned slush of the road and walking a straight path along the street. There was no set of human footprints beside it: no heavy boots, no slim sneakers. Instead, there was just a solid line – the kind of line that might be made by, say, the end of a leash being dragged through fresh snow.

  Baxter.

  She followed the tracks along the street, pausing every now to make sure she was still heading in the right direction. The tracks were intermittent, sometimes on the road, sometimes on the sidewalk, and sometimes invisible where he had traced his way over patches of slick ice or slush. Eventually, they disappeared completely outside a little house just a few streets away from the Marsh house. Well, damn, she thought to herself. He managed to find his way pretty much back home by himself. How about that? It looked like of the scent-marking he had attempted on the way out had served some practical purpose after all.

  In the front yard of the house, there was a little girl merrily playing in the snow. She had already cleared a good section of the snow in the garden – Jo could see the tell-tale bare strips that had been caused by the rolling of a giant snowball – but the girl wasn’t done; as Jo watched her, she diligently scooped up handful after handful of white and plastered it onto the lumpen body that she had built.

  ‘Hey,’ Jo said.

  The little girl stopped immediately, but didn’t say anything. Immediately, Jo’s mind ran to every PSA she had ever seen as a child on the topic of talking to strangers. In every single one the strangers in question had been towering men with shifty smiles built to menace small children, offering candy from the back of a van – and God only knew what else. Surely she was less of a threat than that?

  Perhaps not. She pushed on regardless. ‘Have you seen a dog go by here?’ she asked.

  The little girl stayed silent, but frowned. ‘No,’ she said eventually, before pointing her eyes down to the ground, suddenly struggling to make eye contact. She’s lying, Jo thought. She remembered that from her younger sisters: no matter what happened, no matter what lie the younger Marshes tried to pull off, they gave themselves away by their inability to look George and Patty right in the face when it came down to it.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Jo asked slowly. ‘Because I think he must have run right by here, and…’

  A light clicked on in the hallway, and then a moment later the front door opened. Silhouetted in the frame there was a tall man in his thirties, his shoulders broad, a look like stone on his face. ‘Honey, come over here,’ he said.

  As the little girl scampered over to him, Jo could see the resemblance. Even on her tiny face, it wasn’t hard to notice that they had the same features: the same dark eyes, the same straight black hair – although his was just beginning to grey at the edges into a soft salt-and-pepper look. They even had the same frown, but who could blame them? She must have seemed insane, standing there in the middle of the road, haggard and exhausted and half-dead from cold after hours running around in the snow.

  I’m not crazy, she wanted to tell them – but then again, what looks crazier than telling someone you’re not crazy? That didn’t stop the urge, though. It built up inside her, an eighteen-month itch that had just now decided that it wouldn’t be ignored any longer. I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy, I’m not –

  ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.

  Where do I start? she thought. Pick a day in the past eight years and we’ll go from there.

  ‘I lost my dog,’ she said simply.

  He paused, waiting to see if there was any more to it. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said when he realised that was all she was getting. ‘I’ll be sure to keep a look out.’

  He ushered the girl to his side – anything to get her away from the windswept lunatic who had decided to stop by and cause trouble – and waited to see what Jo’s next move would be. Leave peacefully? Cause a fuss? Who could even tell, with people like that?

  ‘I think your daughter knows where he is,’ she said, trying to project an air of trustworthiness and responsibility even as her body teetered on the edge of giving out entirely. No such luck. She couldn’t see the strained smile she gave – the only smile her facial muscles were capable of, after two hours in the freezing cold – but based on the man’s reaction it wasn’t doing anything to help her case.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry about your dog, but my daughter is seven years old and hasn’t left the front yard in about two hours, so I’m not sure what you think–’

  ‘Do you have a dog?’ she interrupted.

  He shook his head.

  Jo gestured down to the canine footprints in the snow, leading towards the gate at the back of the house. There you go, she thought. The man frowned, as if wondering which seemed crazier: the harried-looking woman who was interrogating a seven-year-old, or the idea that he might have had a dog all along and it had somehow slipped his mind.

  ‘Baxter!’ Jo shouted.

  An appreciative Woof! came from the backyard, rising up over the high wooden fence. She looked at the man: Explain that, then.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Well, that seems pretty conclusive, eh?’

  ‘Seems like it.’

  He stepped out into the front yard, and for a second Jo thought he was going to cross over to the gate and let Baxter loose. Instead, he dropped down to one knee and looked his daughter right in the eye, taking her mittened hands in his. ‘Molly, honey…’ he said. His voice was soft, his tone calm and measured. ‘Did you see this nice lady’s dog?’

  The little girl shook her head. ‘Nope,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Because she’s very worried, and she misses her dog a whole bunch. Isn’t that right…?’

  He paused, waiting for her to fill in the blank.

  ‘Oh. Jo,’ Jo said. ‘And yeah. I really miss him.’ She was kind of surprised by how true it was; absence really did make the heart grow fonder, it seemed. ‘Really-really.’

  ‘You see?’ the man said. ‘And you remember how sad you were when we lost your plushie? How you cried and cried until we found him again?’

  The little girl had broken eye contact now, the weight of her lie a little too much of a burden for her tiny frame to carry. ‘Yeah,’ she said.

  ‘So if you know where this nice lady’s dog is, you really should tell her, right? So she’s not sad?’ He paused. ‘And if you do help her, you definitely won’t get in trouble for it. How about that?’

  She nodded. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I might-maybe saw him. But you’ve got to close your eyes, OK?’

  ‘Sure thing, honey.’ He put his hands over his eyes, pinching his fingers tightly shut.

  ‘Both of you.’

  Well, why the hell not? Jo thought as she followed suit. The sooner she got Baxter back, the sooner she could get home and get warm. It was a hell of a day to be outside.

  In the darkness, she heard the skittering of tiny feet moving away from her, and then the heavy wooden gate swinging open. Almost immediately, a lump of fur barrelled into the side of her, threatening to take her feet out from under her. She didn’t even need to open her eyes to know that it was Baxter, but she was still relieved when she looked down and saw him staring back at her as though they’d never been separated.

  ‘Is he OK?’ the man asked.

  Jo gave the dog a quick look over. He seemed fine – a little muddied-up from his impromptu tour of North Riverton, but otherwise the same happy lug he had been when she had picked him up. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘Good.’ The man turned to his daughter. ‘Now you can say sorry.’<
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  ‘For what?’ she asked, evidently not thrilled at the new development.

  ‘You know for what, Molly.’

  ‘You said I wouldn’t get in trouble.’

  ‘And you’re not in trouble. But you still have to say sorry.’

  The man looked up at Jo apologetically, as if to say You know how it is. Kids, right?

  Jo nodded in what she hoped passed as solidarity; even as the oldest of four, her time dealing with small children was long in the past. The girl – Molly – took a step forward with all the reluctance of a man on his way to the firing squad. ‘I’m sorry I hid your dog,’ she said.

  ‘And?’ the tall man said from behind her.

  The little girl sighed. ‘And I’m sorry I lied about not seeing him.’ She turned back to her father, and he nodded slightly: good enough for him, if she was happy.

  ‘OK,’ Jo said. ‘No harm done, I guess.’ She slipped the leash over her wrist – tightly, this time; she wasn’t going to make that mistake again – and stood upright. Time to leave.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything I can do…’

  Jo shook her head. ‘I’m fine, really. Just cold.’

  ‘Well, Merry Christmas, anyway. It was nice to meet you.’

  ‘Merry Chr—’

  The word caught on Jo’s tongue as she turned around, but the patch of ice she was standing on had other ideas. All of a sudden, the image of the smiling man and his frowning daughter gave way to a sheer, blank sheet of white. It took her less than a second to realise that she was – for some inexplicable reason – now looking at the sky, but by the time it occurred to her that the reason in question was that she had slipped and the next few seconds were likely to be extremely unpleasant, her hip had collided with the ground, and her head soon followed.

  ~~~

  The couch was a lot softer than the driveway, that was for sure.

  She had let the man and his daughter ferry her indoors, sit her down in their living room and make her a hot cup of coffee, almost despite her objections. It had all happened so quickly she hadn’t really had time to protest. By the time the shock of the fall had sunk in, he was already out in the yard with her, helping her to her feet. His grip was strong, and when she’d wobbled slightly – slipping on the ice, that was all; nothing more than that – she had grasped him tightly, sure in the knowledge that he’d be able to keep her upright.

  Molly had galumphed upstairs to fetch her a towel for where she’d landed in a puddle, and the man – whatever his name was – was rattling away in the kitchen, leaving her alone in what appeared to be a grotto of some sort: the kind of thing that would make shopping malls the length and breadth of the country suck in their breath and say, Hold on a minute, boys… do you think we’ve gone too far this time? Festive lights twinkled on every available surface, and a too-large tree brushed the ceiling, its pristine store-bought decorations interspersed with homemade baubles: some obviously made by a child recently, the glue barely dry on the painted macaroni, but others significantly older – second-generation schmaltz. Others still had that same handmade look about them, but these definitely weren’t the work of childish fingers. They were coiled loops of wire, twisted into delicate shapes as light as air: snowflakes and spirals, loops and whirls and stars that caught the light and reflected it back outwards again, casting shadows and shimmers on the walls around them. When she looked closer, she saw that each of them was a tiny little picture frame. The reflections came from small, smooth pieces of glass, behind each of which was a memory. She reached down to examine the first one, careful not to disentangle it from the tree. In the centre of a wire-frame circle was a photograph of the man, that unmistakeable smile and dark hair and strong jaw beaming out from the past. Molly was there too, much younger – still a baby, in fact – but sitting next to them both was a woman, frail-looking but still beautiful. The three of them looked so happy, a perfect little unit. The tree and its decorations was the history of a family, in pine form.

  The kitchen door squeaked open, and the man came through it backwards, holding a tray in front of him. She leapt away from the tree as though it was a hot stove, immediately filled with the idea that her presence there was unwelcome – that she’d just been caught snooping, a party guest caught opening up the medicine cabinet and picking apart the contents. ‘Figured you might want something to warm you up a little,’ he said as he set the tray down by her side. ‘It’s not a fun day out there.’

  You’re telling me, she thought. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You were looking at the tree?’

  She looked across, and saw the photo-bauble swaying gently where she’d let it go. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Hey, that’s what it’s for. If we didn’t want people to look at Christmas trees, we wouldn’t cover them in lights, right?’

  Jo couldn’t stop her eyes drifting around the room. What’s your excuse for the rest of it? she thought.

  ‘Yeah, OK,’ he said, smiling. ‘Maybe I do go a little overboard with the holiday season. But I tell myself it’s for Molly. Kids at Christmas, right?’

  ‘Right,’ she said. Was this normal? She had always thought the Marshes went hard when it came to Christmas, but this was something else. Maybe they’re one of those self-indulgent families, she thought. The happy, smiling kind that you never really expect to see in real life, outside of a Christmas card or a Macy’s catalogue: just the three of them, mother and father and darling little girl, all grinning wildly at a camera that isn’t really there.

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit much. But I figure, she’s only young once, right? It’s good to keep the magic alive a little bit.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Whatever you say.’ Why was he justifying himself to her? Why did he care what she thought? Because you just slipped and fell in his driveway and he’s scared you’re going to sue him.

  No, that wasn’t it. He didn’t seem worried at all. Contrary to the protective, Papa Bear look he had given her when she had approached Molly, he looked like an absolute beacon of friendliness – a light in the darkness. God only knew she could do with that after the day she had had.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  Jo shrugged. ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Well, I mean… I’ve been better. But I’m OK.’

  ‘Did you hit your head?’

  She nodded, then regretted it. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘A little bit.’

  ‘Let me take a look.’

  She pulled herself upright. ‘I’m fine, really. I should be getting back home.’

  ‘Just a sec. Please.’

  She looked at him, eyebrows raised. What the hell do you mean, ‘Just a sec’? I’ll leave whenever I damn well –

  He was rummaging around in a briefcase – leather, professional, expensive. ‘I know it’s in here somewhere,’ he said. He pulled out a stethoscope, and laid it gently on the table beside him, and then found what he was looking for: a small silver torch, the kind used to check for concussion. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked. ‘I’d like to make sure you’re OK.’

  ‘Are you a doctor?’

  ‘No, I just play one on TV.’ He smiled. It was kind and warm, the same smile he had shown to his daughter earlier. ‘Yes, I’m a doctor. And I saw how hard you went down, so I’d feel a lot better if you’d let me make sure you’re not going to pass out on the way home. Is that OK?’

  She nodded. With everything else that had happened, she didn’t really want to risk it. ‘Sure. I guess.’

  ‘Good. Any headache?’

  ‘No.’

  He knelt down next to her, and with careful fingers parted her hair. ‘You’re not bleeding,’ he said, ‘so that’s something.’

  ‘The best news I’ve heard in hours.’

  ‘One of those days, eh?’

  One of those years. ‘Oh, you don’t know the half of it.’

  Satisfied that her scalp wasn’t in any danger of splitting open, he clic
ked on the torch and began shining it in her eyes. ‘Try me,’ he said, kindly. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You’re interested?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘But I also need to check your speech and your memory, so…’

  She told him: not everything, just the sanitised version – about Baxter getting loose, about the hours she spent looking for him, about how he wasn’t really her dog to begin with. All the while he nodded and mmm-hmmed, flicking the light back and forth from one eye to another.

  ‘Well, you don’t look like you have a concussion,’ he said, clicking off the torch. ‘You’re going to have one hell of a lump in the morning, though. You hit my driveway like it owed you money.’

  Jo prodded the tender patch at the back of her head, then grimaced.

  ‘Yeah, you’re probably not going to want to do that,’ he said.

  ‘I’m getting that impression.’

  ‘How’s your hip?’

  She flexed it, and felt the muscles beneath the skin rise up in protest. ‘Sore,’ she said.

  ‘Can you walk on it?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s fine, just bruised.’ How’s that for a Tinder bio? she thought, then chased the thought away. The last thing she needed was more time spent wallowing in self-pity, but she could see the wave building, threatening to crash over her: the receding tide before the tsunami hit. She had felt it from the minute she had set foot in the house, from the first time she saw the twinkling lights and the closeness of the man and his daughter. She was a stranger here, an interloper in a family where she didn’t belong. Then again, wasn’t that the same way she felt at the Marsh house too? She didn’t really belong there, not in the way she had growing up. Meg still did, sure; she was young, only nineteen, and even though she was at college now the cord was freshly cut and easily repairable. But Jo was the wrong side of thirty, had long since flown the nest. She had built her own life… and had watched it crumble around her.