“Are you the artist?” An older woman clutching a champagne flute lurched toward Katie.
“Yes, and bid high. The money’s going to an excellent cause.”
“You were saying?” Lilah spoke loudly, and Katie couldn’t help but smile. Yes, Lilah could certainly handle Cal. In different circumstances, she and Lilah might have become friends.
The woman mumbled to her companion and tottered off.
“There’s no single answer,” Katie said. “Trying to support Maisie will be counterintuitive to everything your gut tells you. You’ll want to make the hurt go away, but only she can do that. When she’s struggling, the OCD will demand reassurance, which you mustn’t provide. Often she’ll seem self-centered, but you can’t punish her for behavior that’s a symptom of her illness, and you can’t push too hard. Some days she won’t have the strength to fight back, and on those days, hold her and love her. Remind her it’s okay to fail, and that tomorrow’s a do-over. That’s what Ben does—loves me hardest on days I can’t cope. I can recommend more books, too. If you’d like.”
“On audio?” Lilah tossed back her hair. “I doubt I’ll ever have time to read again.”
“When’s the maternity leave up?”
“It isn’t. I’ve decided to be a full-time wife and mom for a while, give the family a chance to find its feet. There’s been so much to absorb.”
They exchanged a look.
“Now that’s my ideal baby. Asleep.” Delaney joined them, hand in hand with Patrick. The same height, both black haired, they balanced each other out. Patrick was wearing a dark three-button blazer, a bright-blue shirt, and his standard cashmere scarf knotted in a way that screamed European. On his wrist would, no doubt, be the Sesame Street watch that matched his nephew’s. It was a family joke, and nothing mattered more to Patrick than family. When Delaney fell for him, that silly watch had told Katie all she needed to know: this man was good enough for her sister.
Katie handled the introductions, and the band started up again. It was only a matter of time before Cal and Jake appeared and Delaney and Cal came face-to-face. Cal might hate confrontations, but Delaney embraced them. Did he realize that Delaney had vowed to never forgive him? Katie’s every muscle tightened. Pain spiked at the base of her skull; anxiety prickled under her skin and wormed into her gut. As if sensing she was going under, Ben strolled over.
“Hey.” He kissed Delaney’s cheek. “What’s up?” he said to Patrick.
Patrick shook hands with Ben, oblivious to the two men who had moved into place behind him. Even if you didn’t know, you would sense their connection. With similar sculpted physiques, they looked like brothers, and on some level they were.
Katie scratched her forearm.
“How interesting—seeing you again,” Delaney said to Cal. She looked as if she was about to say more. Or maybe she was battling to stay quiet since she wanted his permission for Maisie to be her flower girl.
“Likewise,” Cal said. He smiled; Delaney didn’t.
“Patrick, this is my ex-brother-in-law.” Delaney overenunciated ex. She made no reference to him being Maisie’s dad, for which Katie was oddly grateful. “Callum, this is my fiancé, Patrick.”
“Getting hitched, eh?” Jake said. “You’re one lucky man.”
Delaney had once complained that it was impossible to make Patrick jealous, but the look he gave Jake was, surely, reserved for muggers of little old ladies. “So, you’re Jake.”
“I’ve told him lots of Jake stories,” Delaney said with a broad grin. “All bad.”
“Then all true,” Jake said to Patrick.
Maisie bounded over to join them. “I’m about to start my presentation. Would you please stop talking and come and listen?”
“Your wish is our command, darlin’,” Jake said.
As Maisie began her docent spiel, a small crowd formed around them. She had inherited her father’s public speaking skills, but as a teacher, Katie’s hadn’t been shoddy. Cal beamed at Maisie and then back at Lilah and the baby. Had he ever looked at her that way? It was hard to recall. The memories were fading faster than old photographs stored carelessly and eaten by mold.
Katie leaned back against Ben. His arms came around her, and she rested her own on top of his, rubbing her hands up and down his biceps. I love you, Ben Holt. I love you fiercely.
After Maisie had explained how the buckshot represented the artist’s struggles to overcome fear, she swept her arm toward Katie. “And we’re super lucky to have the artist here. She can tell you lots more about the piece than I can.”
Katie smiled. “I have nothing to add.”
Jake had been right: Maisie understood Katie Mack’s work perfectly.
Raleigh, North Carolina
Katie glanced up at the Christmas tree created from live poinsettias. The third plant on the fourth row, the one in gold foil, needed water. It was crying out for attention, wilted enough to ruin the whole display. What if she didn’t take action and it died? Dead holiday decor had to be a sign of something bad. Should she track down maintenance and tell them?
On the stage near photos with Santa, the middle school band stopped screeching through “Silent Night” and rustled sheet music. Parents applauded while Katie’s ears continued to ring from the squeaky clarinet. Maisie, who had wanted to listen for comparison with her soon-to-be school band, didn’t comment. In fact, Maisie had stopped talking. Did she wish she were home with her family? Did she want to be anywhere but here, in an overheated, overstuffed mall short on Christmas spirit? So far they’d been jostled, sworn at, and bashed by a woman who was yelling into her phone instead of watching where she was swinging her shopping bags.
“Let’s go to Macy’s,” Katie said quickly. Before the music starts up again; before I give in to the OCD and go find maintenance.
After Maisie had mentioned that Miracle on 34th Street—the remake, not the black-and-white original—was her favorite Christmas movie, Katie offered to take her to Macy’s to find Theo’s Christmas present. That, however, was before she had realized her daughter hated shopping malls. Would it ever end, this struggle to create a three-dimensional oil painting out of a connect-the-dots worksheet?
Dodging shoppers, they walked away from the center of the mall, and the squawking of the clarinet in “Jingle Bells” receded.
“How are things going with Dr. Young?” Katie said.
“Quite well, thank you. I like her very much.”
“Is she helping with the fear of middle school?”
“Oh, yes. It’s still super scary, but I’m excited about trying out for the middle school band, and Ms. Lynn has been in contact with my dad and says she can’t wait to get me in her classroom next year.”
Katie glanced up at the mall clock. Their two hours were half-over, and there were still so many questions to ask. Why couldn’t time slow down? Even better, why couldn’t it stop and give them the gift of a never-ending afternoon?
“Thank you for helping me with my Christmas shopping,” Maisie said. “Do you still have the twenty dollars my dad gave you?”
“Are you checking?”
Maisie smiled. “You’ve very good at this. My dad never asks about the checking.”
“Sadly I have more experience than he does. But you’re aware of it, which is huge. The less checking you can do, the better.”
A security guard, walkie-talkie in his hand, dashed into a store up ahead, keys jangling on his belt. Was that a holstered gun at his waist? A gun, in a place with kids?
Does he think I stole something? Did I? What if I stole something and didn’t realize? Is he going to shoot me in front of Maisie?
Feeling guilty is not the same as being guilty. This is OCD.
Katie pushed her hand deep into her pocket and scratched at the lining.
“Did Aunt Delaney buy nice sister gifts for you when she was my age?” Maisie said.
Why did it bother her that Delaney had reverted to aunt status, but she would never be anythi
ng other than Katie?
“We didn’t do gifts when we were kids. To be honest, our Christmases were pretty small. Not much money to go around.”
They reached the entrance to the department store, and Christmas Muzak blasted. Maisie fiddled with the strap of the Star Wars satchel Delaney had given her.
“I don’t have much money, either. My coin bag only has four dollars and two quarters.”
Katie glanced around for the store directory. So many people, too many people. “Your dad doesn’t give you pocket money?”
“Oh, no. I don’t like to wear things with pockets.”
Katie looked at Maisie and started laughing.
“What’s funny?” Maisie frowned.
“’Mazing Maisie, I love spending time with you. You say the best things.”
Maisie beamed. “Did you have any Christmas traditions when you were a kid?” Maisie had started asking questions about the Sullivan side of her family. Not many, but a few dotted here and there. At first Katie gave vague answers, but then Maisie had explained she was collecting family stories for a scrapbook.
“We did have one tradition.” Katie smiled. “Your grandmother was very religious, and she liked to go to Midnight Mass. When we were little, your aunt and I begged to go, but Mom was adamant that we were too young to stay up that late. Instead, she started this Christmas Eve tradition. We would have hot chocolate, brush our teeth, put out our stockings for Santa, and then snuggle in bed while she read the story of Jesus’s birth. When she was done, she gave us each a special present. And she’d say, ‘Don’t tell Daddy.’ I found out much later that she saved up her pennies all year long for those two gifts.”
“Oh, she sounds lovely.”
“She could be, yes. But she struggled to be happy.”
“That’s very sad.”
“I know. But you know what isn’t sad? Since meeting you again, I’ve realized your grandmother had a lot of problems.”
“OCD problems?”
“I think so. With a few other things tossed in. She didn’t get help, but she did the best she could.”
“Why didn’t she get help?”
“She believed mental illness is something to be ashamed of, which it isn’t. And my dad wasn’t supportive. Not like Ben is with me.”
“Are you and Ben getting married?”
“One day, I hope. But I need life to find a boring rhythm for a while.” Katie tried to not remember making love on the sofa the night before. “Do you need help choosing any more Christmas gifts while we’re here?”
“No, thank you. I always make my own. Although, Theo’s has to be age appropriate, which is the causation of my current problem. It was very nice of you to offer a solution. Thank you! It’s super hard to find the right gift for a baby. Gosh—” Maisie started gnawing on her thumbnail. “There are lots of people in here, aren’t there?”
“I’m sorry, I should have thought more about how busy a mall would be the weekend before Christmas. Sorry.”
“Is OCD making you apologize?” Maisie looked up with huge hazel eyes.
“Busted!”
“I hate OCD. It’s stinkier than a thousand stinky butts.”
“A million.”
“A trillion!”
Katie held up her fist for a knuckle touch, and they started walking again.
“Are you managing to boss back some of your worries?” Katie said.
“Yes, but it’s super hard, isn’t it?”
“Something only the bravest of the brave can handle. Are you using your mantra?”
“Oh, yes!” Maisie cleared her throat and pushed her arms back as if she were spearing snow with ski poles. “I am brave, I am a fearless warrior.”
“Woot!” Katie pumped the air.
Maisie grinned. “My dad’s hung a huuuge color-coded chart in his office called ‘Maisie’s Fears.’ We’re trying to be very systemic.”
“Systematic?”
“That’s the word!”
“And can you see the difference, after three months?”
“Oh, yes. We have el-iminated lots of smaller worries, but the exposures are very hard.”
“I know, sweetheart. I’m doing them with my new therapist, and some days I think I’d rather pick up a large, hairy spider.”
“Ewww,” Maisie shrieked.
“But I’m learning a lot.”
Like how everything goes back to uncertainty about my role. Of how becoming an actual mother recaptured the trauma of being a mom when I was still a child. And then the uncertainty of who I am to you, to Ben . . . One big cauldron of uncertainty.
“My dad says you’ve started a support group for adults with the really bad kind of OCD.”
They reached the store directory and stopped. People streamed past on either side. “Honey, all OCD is bad. It’s no different from hair color. Your hair can be the same exact shade as someone else’s, but no one wears it quite the way you do. Aunt Delaney, for example, wears her hair long and mine is short, but we both have black hair.” Katie smiled. “Goodness. That made more sense in my head.”
“Oh, no, I understand.” Maisie held up her own hair. “I only wore a ponytail to keep Ava Grace happy. I didn’t want to offend her so she’d decide she liked Ellie more, and the voice told me she would. But now I say, ‘Ava Grace. That is your choice, not mine. Only I get to decide how I want to wear my hair.’ I like being a redhead. My dad always said my hair color was a sign of strength.” Maisie pulled back her chin. “Forged in fire like Vulcan.”
“Vulcan, the god of metalworking?”
“Yyyes. And how weird is that when we didn’t know you were a metal artist?”
“Pretty weird. But everything about our blended family is unusual.”
A young woman towed a screaming toddler toward the exit.
“I like weird. Weird means you’re an innndividual,” Maisie said. “And I like that you and Uncle J have become friends.”
“So do I. You, Vulcan Maisie, are very wise.”
Maisie giggled. “My dad was telling me about this big conference that’s held every summer for people with OCD. Mr. Whitmore told him all about it.”
“It’s my dream to go one year and give a workshop on how OCD can mess with new moms.” Katie pointed at the escalator. “Maybe in the future. It’s pretty expensive.”
“Do they allow kids?” Maisie jumped on and Katie stood behind, arms spread-eagled so she could hold both handrails and create a barrier in case Maisie slipped and fell. But that wasn’t OCD, right? That was normal mom impulse. Right?
“Yup. The kids’ activities are meant to be the best part.”
“That sounds super awesome.” Maisie hopped off the escalator, and Katie followed. “Oh, gosh! I forgot to check in with my dad.” Maisie pulled out her phone and typed quickly.
“All done!” Maisie said after a few minutes, and they headed toward shelves—and shelves—of baby paraphernalia.
“If we find something that’s out of your budget, I’d be happy to kick in the extra. How would you feel about giving Theo a joint present, from both of us?”
“Oh, yyyes. After all, we did save his life.”
“Wow. This is a bit overwhelming,” Katie said. “I’m not a great decision maker. You?”
“My dad says I’m hopeless, but he also says I’m supernaturally observant. What did I like as a baby? Maybe if you give me some hints, I can find something appropriate.”
“Honey, you have at least two years before Theo cares what you give him. And even then, he’ll be more interested in the box than what’s inside.”
Maisie frowned. “What did you buy for me when I was born?”
“Lulabelle, books, and the Winnie-the-Pooh lamp because Pooh is one philosophical bear, and I loved the idea of him shining wisdom on you. The baby shower and your dad’s parents took care of everything else. Your grandmother went a bit overboard, since you were her only grandchild.”
“That’s it!” Maisie pranced in place, her hand
s fluttering. “I know what to give Theo! I know what to give him!”
Katie laughed. It was impossible not to when Maisie was excited.
“My Winnie-the-Pooh lamp!”
The laughter died in her throat.
“I mean, I’m far too old for it, and I only still have it because I don’t want to hurt Uncle J’s feelings by telling him the Maisie Reading Nook needs an upgrade. I mean, I am in double digits. Not that you’d know it from listening to my dad and Uncle Jake.”
Katie concentrated on a fake Christmas tree covered in fake snow and Disney ornaments. Maisie wanted to regift one of the few things her mother had given her?
“Yes!” Maisie sounded emphatic. “That is a very good idea! When I was a little kid, my Winnie-the-Pooh lamp was my protector and you lived inside. Remember, I believed you were, you know—”
“Dead,” Katie said the word quickly so Maisie wouldn’t have to.
“I was afraid of the dark, and my dad always left the lamp on. He told me that it would protect me because the light came from the strongest force in alll of nature—a mother’s love.”
Katie grabbed the hem of her jacket and balled it up, hand and fabric in a tight fist.
“Oh, this is perfect! I even created a story about the magical powers of the lamp. My dad paid to have it made into a book. He says it’s one of his most treasured possessions. Not that it was like writing a real novel.” Maisie held up both hands. “It was only a craft kit for little kids, but my dad keeps it on his nightstand. I suspect he’ll move it when we start the babyproofing everyone keeps talking about. Would you like to see the book when you take me home?”
“I—”
Maisie’s phone rang. “Hi, Daddy. Yes, we’re having a very nice time, thank you.” She turned and walked back to the glass balcony that looked down over the floor below.
Not too close, Maisie. Please, not too close.
Beyond the glass barrier, holiday shoppers moved up and down the escalators. The Muzak shifted to “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”
Maisie swung around with her phone held out at arm’s length. “My dad wants to say hi.”
Katie took the phone. “We’re not making a break for the Canadian border. Honest.”
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