by Amy Giles
“So your mom didn’t say anything?” Charlie asks as we walk down the driveway.
I shake my head. “She was already bombed by the time we got home. Dad was MIA.” I shiver, and not from the cold. “Charlie, I’m terrified he’s going to know it was us.”
He wraps me in his arms. “Your mom got pulled over for a DWI with Lila in the car. That’s enough reason for CPS to pay them a visit, you know?”
“Maybe,” I say, because I’d really like to believe it.
“Look . . . I’ve been thinking.” Charlie holds me back by my arms. “Maybe you should come stay with my mom and me.”
“Lila,” I remind him.
“He doesn’t hit Lila,” he says, his voice a sharp snap in the cold air.
“Yet.” He opens his mouth, but I place my hand over it. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s Christmas Eve. We’re together. Let’s try to be happy, okay?”
I pull my hand away, and he takes a deep breath, releasing it in a burst of frosty air. “Okay.”
“Should I follow you in my car?” I ask.
He thinks about it. “Give me your phone,” he says. I hand it to him. “Open your car.” I hit the key fob; he opens the door and throws my phone in my glove compartment.
“There. You were at Meaghan’s all night, just like you said.”
“He’s like NORAD tracking Santa.” I laugh bitterly, at myself, at my life. We walk to his car, and he opens his passenger door for me.
Listening to Christmas music on the radio, we drive into town. Charlie pulls into the municipal lot behind Sal’s and parks, but he doesn’t take the keys out of the ignition right away. Instead, he leans over me and opens the glove compartment, pulling out a thin box.
He hands it to me with a smile. “Merry Christmas.”
I hold the box. “You didn’t have to get me anything else. The concert tickets—”
“Just open it,” he says, exasperated.
Inside the box is a silver pendant. “Oh. It’s so pretty.” I lift it carefully out of the box and hold it in my fingers, looking at the design: two hands holding a heart, with a crown.
He reaches around me, and I hold my hair up while he struggles to clasp it. “It’s a claddagh necklace,” he explains.
“Okay,” I say, touching where it rests between my clavicles.
“Do you know what the symbol means?”
“No, not really.”
“A McCauley doesn’t know her fine Irish heritage?” he teases.
I grimace. “We’re a few generations away from all of that.”
His fingers trace along my collarbone to the pendant, where he holds it gently in his hand. “The claddagh is a symbol of love, loyalty, and friendship. I’m quoting here, but it’s ‘the visual expression of the creator’s heartfelt joy when he came home and found his true love still waiting.’”
“That’s the sappiest thing I’ve ever heard,” I tease, fingering the pendant resting in his hand. Sappy or not, I love it.
He pulls me closer. “I know. But I wanted you to have a constant reminder. I’m always going to be here for you, Hadley. No matter what. I can’t imagine a world where I won’t.”
We kiss for a long time, long enough that we fog up all the windows, before I pull away.
“I want to go back to the mall now,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because I sure as hell can’t give you a stupid shirt after this!”
He laughs. “Is it short sleeved?”
“Yes!”
“Then it is extremely thoughtful. I thought I was going to melt into a Charlie puddle at Meaghan’s house. Hand it over.”
St. Pat’s is standing room only.
Charlie spots his mother saving us seats. She leans over and kisses me on the cheek.
“I’m so glad you could come, Hadley,” she whispers in my ear. Charlie and his mom flank me on either side. The mass starts as soon as we sit. We timed it perfectly.
Familiar faces fill the pews. I recognize a lot of them, mostly from when I was coming every Sunday in preparation for my first communion then my confirmation. After that we stopped coming to church. I’ll be surprised if Lila makes it to her confirmation. My parents are all about the show, but even they couldn’t keep up the pretense of being a devout family week after week.
Two pews in front of us, Claudia turns around, acting like she’s searching the whole crowd. But I know she’s looking at us. She leans in and whispers something to her mother, who shushes her and focuses ahead.
I don’t know what it is about church. Maybe because we come so infrequently. Maybe because people come here really, truly believing in something. Maybe because I want to believe that if I just pray hard enough, things will get better. My eyes fill with tears. I try to wipe them away without anyone noticing. But Charlie’s mom does.
She clasps my hand in hers, wrapping her fingers around mine, like my mother used to when I was a kid crossing the street with her. She squeezes it reassuringly. When she glances over at me, she just nods, as if she’s answering all my unspoken questions.
“It’ll be okay,” she says.
Brady here.
I interviewed one of Mrs. McCauley’s friends, Mrs. Jillian Wiley, who did not want to be recorded, but she did sign a statement. She said the husband was having an affair with someone from work. I think she wants to take credit for breaking the news to the wife.
She also said that Mrs. McCauley told her she “should just fry the bastard’s food in peanut oil.” As noted earlier, the only health issue that could be related is the male victim’s nut allergy. Still waiting for toxicology reports to come in. That could answer a lot of questions.
Also . . . two anonymous calls were placed to CPS. The caseworker assigned on the 23rd couldn’t interview the girls before school let out for the break, but she managed to get two phone interviews in: the first with the younger daughter’s fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Beatrice Stevenson, who said she saw absolutely no signs of abuse in the child, behavioral or physical. Mrs. Stevenson reported that the mother was a regular fixture at the school, the PTA president, and very involved in her children’s lives. The father donated very generously to the school fund-raisers, and was often seen at the children’s concerts and performances. The second call was with the older daughter’s World Literature teacher, Mr. George Roussos, who said Hadley was a model student. The caseworker was going to visit the girls at school after the break just as a formality. She says the calls had all the red flags of being a prank.
Working with law enforcement at this stage to review home security footage.
then
“Hadley, wake up!”
I open my eyes groggily and glimpse the gray sky outside before I turn toward my open bedroom door. Lila stands there in her red flannel pajamas, the ones with sock monkeys printed all over them.
“It’s Christmas!” She holds up her analog clock to show me the evidence: seven o’clock.
My head sinks back into my pillow. “Okay, give me a second.”
She tugs my arm. “Pleaaase? You said seven!”
I pull my legs out from under the cozy duvet. “Okay, okay. I’m up.”
We walk downstairs quietly. Mom and Dad made a rule a few years ago that we could each open one present without them. That way they could sleep a little while longer.
I pad into the kitchen first. “Want some hot cocoa?” I ask her.
“Sure,” she says unconvincingly; her eyes are locked on the Christmas tree in the den, stacked with presents underneath. I notice the long, slim presents leaning vertically against the wall. Someone got skis, I guess.
I prepare the mugs, boiling the water in a kettle the way Grandma taught us, even if it’s not tea. We walk back to the den.
“One each,” I say. “Pick whichever one you want.”
She moves presents around until she finds the one I wrapped.
“This one,” she says holding it up.
“You sure? That one’s fro
m me.”
She nods. “I know.” My heart pinches a little, in a good way.
“Okay, then you have to give me the one from you too,” I say, putting my mug down on a coaster.
Grinning, she hands me a light rectangular present. “Open yours first,” she says. I notice a new crater in her mouth.
I tuck my finger under the wrapping. “Did the tooth fairy and Santa bump into each other in the night?”
“Will you stop with that?” She rolls her eyes. “Just open it,” she adds, echoing the same words Charlie said to me last night. I touch the spot where the claddagh necklace should rest on my chest, but I don’t dare wear it in front of my parents. It’s back in its box in my closet behind a stack of sweaters.
Under the wrapping paper is a frame with the word “SISTERS” etched into the wood on top, then “BEST FRIENDS” at the bottom. There’s a picture of the two of us taken over the summer. The sun was just setting, the light picking up all of the rosy hues in her cheeks, making her blue eyes even bluer, her blond hair blonder, and highlighting the red in my brown hair. We hardly look like sisters at all, but my arms are wrapped around her shoulders from behind, claiming her as mine.
“I love this picture of us.” My finger traces over the etched words. “This is really special, Lila. Thank you.” I reach over and hug her.
“Gross. Don’t get all premenstrual on me,” she says. I squeeze her harder and cover her cheeks in kisses to annoy her.
She opens her box next, and once again I was completely predictable in the present department. She pulls out the leggings and sweater outfit from Tillys and squeals. “Thank you! I was afraid you wouldn’t figure it out!”
“You left the catalog on my bed with the outfit circled in grape-scented marker. There was no missing it!” I laugh. “Still . . . I got the better present. I’m sorry yours wasn’t as special.”
She shrugs and avoids eye contact. “I don’t care about a present. You’re a pretty cool sister, every day of the year.”
Footsteps creak along the floorboards upstairs—they’re up and coming downstairs.
“I’m glad we had our Christmas together first.” I lift my mug. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” she says, and takes a sip.
They both come down in their bathrobes, looking unusually disheveled and happy. Even Dad.
Mom picks up the frame Lila got me and coos. Dad looks at it and nods, a half smile on his face. He goes into the kitchen to make his coffee, grinding his beans first. Whirr, whirr. We have to wait for him to finish before we can continue with Christmas. Slurping his enormous mug, he picks up a small box from under the tree and tosses it in Mom’s lap. She smiles, almost knowingly.
“What did you do . . . oh, Miles!” She grins, taking the emerald ring out and putting it on her finger. She shows it around the room. “It’s beautiful! Thank you!” She stands up and gives him a big kiss on the lips. Lila gags. He goes back to drinking his coffee.
Lila searches under the tree for her presents to them. I know she did all of her shopping at the Holiday Boutique at school that the PTA runs every year.
Mom opens up her box and finds a hideous paisley nylon scarf that she’ll never wear. “Ooh. So pretty! Um . . . Who helped you pick this out, Lila?”
“Mrs. Hawthorne,” Lila says. Mom turns away from Lila just as her smile slips into something closer to a grimace. I bite my lip so I don’t laugh out loud.
Then Lila hands Dad his gift. He opens it up and pulls out a coffee mug. I almost choke.
“Number One Dad,” he reads, and gives her a limp smile. I watch Lila’s blank expression, realizing for the first time: she’s an even better liar than I am.
“’Cause you like coffee.” She shrugs and sits back down.
I give them their presents next. Gift cards, because there’s nothing they need that they haven’t already bought for themselves.
Mom coos again. “Oh, Lord & Taylor! Thank you, Hadley!”
Dad turns his around between his fingers, looking confused. “The Art of Shaving? Okay,” he says, and throws it on the coffee table. “Thanks,” he adds flatly.
I’m tempted to mimic Lila and say, “Because you like to shave,” but those are fighting words. What was I supposed to get him? A pair of cleats and boxing gloves?
He gets up next and pulls the long vertical presents from against the wall. There are two of them. He hands one to me and one to Lila.
“So,” he says, grinning. “If you haven’t figured out what these are yet, then you’re both idiots.” He laughs. “We’re going to Vermont for the week. Leaving today.”
So that was the surprise that made Grandma get uninvited to Christmas. He couldn’t wait to leave until tomorrow?
He looks at me, one expectant eyebrow raised, and I know what I have to do if I’m going to survive the next week trapped with him on a mountain.
“That’s fantastic, Dad. Thanks so much!”
It is so far removed from being fantastic that it takes everything not to cry in front of him. Dad skiing is an even bigger asshole than Dad in the gym. He pushes us to go down the steepest slopes. The more scared we are, the more he wants us to confront our fears. Lila peed herself when she was eight, in her snow pants, because he told her she was going down a black diamond trail with him. It got her out of going, but still.
Upstairs packing, I send a quick text to Charlie:
Dad’s Christmas present to us is skiing in Vermont. We’re leaving today for a week.
Oh.
It takes him a few minutes to respond in more detail.
I’m worried about you being up there with him.
They haven’t said anything about the interview.
If you find out anything, can you text me?
Absolutely.
I’m about to text Meaghan and Noah too, letting them know I’ll be gone for the week, when Dad opens my door.
“Bragging to your friends?” he asks, slurping on his coffee.
“Yeah.”
He nods and sticks his palm out.
“Hand over the phone, Hadley.”
“What?” I ask, quickly deleting my thread to Charlie.
“Hand it over.” Slurp.
“But—”
“Don’t make me say it a third time,” he says quietly.
I hand it to him.
“Sixteen sixty?” he asks.
Sixteen sixty is an important date in ice cream’s history: it was the first year it was made available to the public. It is also my passcode. My parents insisted on knowing it, in case they wanted to check up on me, which is why I delete all my threads. Now I wish I had changed it. It could have bought me a little time so my father wouldn’t have immediate access to my texts.
“Good.” He puts it in his bathrobe pocket. “You kids spend too much time on these things. This is a family vacation. Just us. No distractions.”
His clenched jaw warns me to leave it at that.
Email. I’ll email Charlie as soon as he leaves the room, warn him not to text me. But my dad reads my mind.
“And the laptop,” he says, jutting his hand out again. “You won’t need that while we’re away.”
“I have a project due in English when I get back.”
“You’re off for two weeks. You can do it when you get back. It’ll give you something productive to do.”
He walks with me to my desk, where I unplug my laptop. While he’s there, he picks up the brochures to Hofstra and Stony Brook. He doesn’t say a word. He just rattles them in the air between us.
Maybe there’s some Christmas magic I can draw on today. Maybe the universe owes me a holiday miracle. No matter how horrible our house can be, Christmas has always been a day of peace. Like it was written in the Geneva convention.
“Dad?” I get up my nerve. He turns to me. “I’ve been thinking . . . I’d really like to go to school locally. I . . . uh . . . applied to Hofstra and Stony Brook.”
“Why?” he snaps, then he glares at me knowingl
y. “Is this because of the boyfriend?”
“No!” I rush to defuse the moment. “No . . . I just don’t think I’m ready to go away to college yet. It’s . . . scary.”
He snorts, a derisive laugh at my expense. “Hadley, you have to grow up sometime.”
“But do you think . . . maybe even just for the first year?” I negotiate, trying to find an opening.
He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches his nose with his fingers, trying hard to not lose it completely. “No.”
“But why?” I push my luck.
“Why? Because I’m not paying for you to take Intro to Basket Weaving at some goof-off college.”
“But they’re still good schools.”
His anger crackles like a live wire. “Cornell . . . Harvard . . . Yale . . . Brown.” He ticks off on his fingers. “Those were the schools we discussed, Hadley.”
“But what if I don’t get in?”
His cold stare tells me everything I need to know.
He tosses the brochures in my trash bin then takes my laptop off my desk. “Hurry up and pack. We’re leaving in an hour.”
With that, he turns his back, dismissing me. Maybe my Christmas miracle was that this conversation didn’t turn into something much uglier.
True to his promise, an hour later we’re in the car heading to McKinley Airport. Twenty minutes later, Dad takes off, flying us north to Vermont.
Lila looks out the window as we pass over the fawn-colored, barren grounds of Westchester. The snow is still miles away. I stare out my window, hoping Dad left my phone at home and won’t be checking my messages. Because if he finds out Charlie was the one who called CPS and I knew about it . . .
An anxious fist clenches in my stomach.
“How are flying lessons going?” Dad yells back at me over the roar of the plane.
My head snaps up. “Okay.”
I stare at the back of his thick dark hair as he pilots.
“I spoke to Phil the other day,” he begins. I know where this is going.
Dad turns his head so I can see his profile, his crooked nose, broken during a fight in college.
“So?”
“I haven’t been able to get there.”