by Ivy Fox
“My mother was the one who always decorated our tree. She made all of us kids pitch in. Every year she would sing Christmas carols and play with us while we did it. It became our own little tradition with her,” he begins to explain, the soft, golden-brown hue in his eyes turning deep and rich. “When she died over Thanksgiving, no one bothered to even buy one, so we went without a Christmas tree that year. My father just didn’t care to put it up, and the twins and Elle were still too heartbroken for one.”
“How old were you when it happened?”
“I was fourteen at the time. The twins were twelve, and little Elle was ten. We were still just children. Elle still believed in Santa Claus, but that year everything changed,” he continues, a tint of sadness starting to infiltrate his amber glow.
“I can see how that must have been rough on you.”
He stares into another glass ornament, this one with the name Elle on it, and a tug of a shy smile begins to rise on the corner of his lips.
“It was. So hard that the following year the Murphys invited us to accompany them to Aspen for the first time, so we wouldn’t be alone over Thanksgiving break. They knew our father wasn’t the family kind of man who took time off of work to be with his kids over the holidays, even if it was the anniversary of his wife’s death,” he adds, the hint of bitterness seeping in. “But I didn’t want to go. I was fifteen then and already dating Addison, so leaving New York never sat well with me. This is my mother’s city as much as it is mine, so I stayed.
“Henrietta, instead of asking my father if she should get Lawrence to buy us a tree, asked me. I said yes and decorated it myself. I’ll never forget the twins’ and Elle’s faces when they returned and saw it. It was like I brought a piece of our mother back into this house, back into our lives. From that year on, they go to Aspen every Thanksgiving, knowing when they come back, she’ll be here waiting for them,” he finishes, almost shyly.
My fingers entwine with his, without my mind even giving a second thought as to what it was doing. But I go with it, feeling it’s the right thing to do.
“You’re a good brother, Roman Grayson,” I affirm with all the certainty in the world.
I’ve seen Rome at his worst and also at his best, and never did I doubt that his family was at the core of every decision and action he ever made.
His dark lashes beat rapidly, like butterfly wings taking flight, and there is a soft hue of embarrassment reddening his scruffy cheeks. He lets go of my hand, coughing into his fist, trying to block out whatever is choking him up. Probably nostalgia. Or maybe because, while he was raising his siblings the best way he knew how, no one remembered he needed the same kind of validation and support. He was just a kid himself when he took on the parental role. I’ve learned enough about Malcolm Grayson to know he wasn’t up for the job and, just like Vivienne, he lacks basic human decency even to care that his children were hurting.
Rome passes me a box filled with more decorations, and I take his silent cue to keep at it and let his vulnerable moment pass. After an hour or so, the tree is complete—looking majestic and oddly homey. I noticed most of the ornaments from the various boxes on the floor had been homemade rather than being store-bought. I can’t help but think about all the time and effort their mother put into this one small act—trying to give them a sense of humble normalcy when they were anything but.
“Looks great,” I beam proudly.
“Yeah. It does,” he concurs, taking a good, long, appreciative look at our masterpiece. He then picks up a box filled with colorful light bulbs and hands it over to me. “We’re not done.”
“We’re not?” I ask, confused, watching him pick up another box as he makes his way out of the living room. I quicken my step, trying to keep up with his large strides, but then freeze in place when he enters the one room I have been incapable of passing over its threshold.
“Why in there?” I ask, not hiding my resentment, stranded at the door.
“I thought you’d like something pretty to look at while you play. You are a musician, aren’t you?” he retorts back, placing his box next to a bare tree, already at the center of the room.
“Not anymore. I haven’t written a word or played an instrument since…” My voice fails me, and I set the box I’m holding onto the floor. I can’t believe him. He had to ruin it. He couldn’t give me just this one little thing, a memory in this house that didn’t cause me pain.
Rome turns to me, his stoic face poised as ever. He walks over and stands in front of me, demanding I crane my neck up to look him in the eye.
“No one can rob you of your power. Only you can give it away.”
His tone is serious, but his eyes continue to hold a kindness I’ve grown attached to. I bite my inner cheek and turn my head, not wanting to hold onto our stare. He wants too much. He’s demanding too much. I’m not ready. I’m not. So why does he believe I am?
Rome retreats, back into the room, and begins his endeavor. I’m thankful he hasn’t turned on any music this time. I don’t know if I could keep myself intact if I heard one note coming out of this room. Yet he still continues, going back to the living room for more boxes so he can give this tree the same care he gave the one we did together.
It’s just a room.
It doesn’t have any power.
I do.
I had it when the monster came after me.
I had it when I made him stop.
I stopped him.
He can’t hurt me.
This room can’t hurt me.
“Well, are you going to help me or not?” Rome provokes, sensing my resolve picking up.
“Not,” I reply harshly, even though my mind is ordering me to take a step forward.
“Suit yourself.” He starts riffling through the various ornaments, trying to decide which one he should beautify the large tree with, and then begins decorating with the same dedication and devotion he showed the one in the living room.
I take a step inside. Then another. And another. Until I find myself next to him, my skin burning aflame, but my chest feeling lighter from the stroll I was able to perform.
Without looking at me, Rome places an ornament in my hands, and I put it on the tree.
“I know what you’re doing,” I say softly.
“And what am I doing?” He smirks as he gives me another ornament to hang.
I roll my eyes and keep to the task, distracting myself from the magnitude of the hurdle I just overcame. Once we’re done, we look at the tree for a moment, appreciating our hard work, and also the progress I was able to accomplish.
“You’re a real prick. You know that?” I utter, finally freeing the small smile I had been holding.
“Yeah, I know,” he teases, nudging me in the shoulder, his eyes still focused on the large, bright star on top.
I have so many words to give him, but all of them seem insubstantial for the moment we’re sharing. But even though I don’t say them, I know he hears my silent gratitude clear as day.
Thank you.
Chapter 12
Roman
“Shh, baby. It’s just a dream, Rome.” She hiccups in my ear with tears in her eyes.
“Is it?” I ask, rubbing my small fists into my sockets, wondering how this can be a dream when I feel wide awake.
I’m always wide awake. I never sleep. Never.
“Shh. It is, baby. You’re asleep. I promise you,” she consoles me, cupping my face in her trembling hands and kissing my cheeks over and over. Her tears fall onto my face, trickling down to my dinosaur pj’s. I feel the wet material starting to stick to my clammy skin. Momma says I’m dreaming, but this doesn’t happen in dreams.
“Momma, I don’t think this is a dream.”
“But it is, sweetheart. Trust me, baby,” she coos, running her icy hands through my hair.
She’s so cold. Momma is never cold. She’s warm like sunshine. So maybe this is a dream.
“So Dad
dy wasn’t hurting you?” I ask, uncertain of what’s real.
She shakes her head, her tears falling even more freely now.
“No, baby, of course not. You need to go to bed now, Rome, so I can wake you up tomorrow, and we can play in the park all day with your little brothers. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
I nod because I like playing with the twins. They’re just babies right now, gurgling at me with big smiles when I make silly faces. One day they’ll be able to play with me, and I’ll make them laugh even more. I like making them smile. I’m their big brother. Momma says I have to always watch out for them and I promised her that I would. I’m going to be the best big brother ever.
“Oh, sweet boy. That’s good. Now run off, baby. Do that for mommy, okay, sweetheart?”
I nod again, even though I don’t want to leave her on the floor as he left her. The ugly scowl that Daddy threw at me when I came into the room frightened me just as much as seeing my mommy begging for him to stop.
But he didn’t. He just kept on top of her, not giving her room to breathe. He’s so much bigger than her. Bigger than me. I couldn’t stop him, so I yelled as loud as I could. He didn’t like that.
“Rome, please baby,” she insists, and I have half a mind to ask her to come with me.
She can tuck me into bed, read me a story, and stay with me all night. I’ll be able to protect her in my room. He never goes there. But the blood on her nightgown scares me too much, and I’m not sure if she can even get up from the floor. I try to help her up, but she pushes me away.
“Baby, you need to go to bed,” she begs, trembling, and with real terror in her eyes. I think maybe it’s because he’s going to come back and she doesn’t want him to hurt me as he hurt her.
So I do as she asks because unlike him, I’d do anything my mommy asks.
Even pretend that I’m dreaming.
I wake up in chills, sitting awkwardly and stiffly in a hospital chair. I wipe the cold sweat off my brow, but it does nothing to ease the tightness in my chest. I must have dozed off while waiting for Dr. Nasir to arrive and give me an update on my father’s condition. My eyes travel to the bed he’s still lying in, tubes and machines doing their best to keep the fucker alive when all I want is for him to die already.
I never remember my dreams too well. They’re always hazy, coming at me in broken, blurry pieces that I can’t get a full grasp on. But the feeling of helplessness never leaves me. Neither does the memory of my mother’s tears. I can still hear her faint, quivering voice.
It’s just a dream.
But what if it’s not? What if it’s a memory? A cruel recollection that my young, boyish mind tried to bury to keep me sane? To keep me safe?
“Mr. Grayson?” A tight, no-nonsense voice calls out to me, breaking through the distressing fog.
“Detective,” I say in greeting, getting up from my seat and praying she doesn’t see how rattled I am from my little, impromptu morning nap.
Her lips maintain a straight line as she looks toward my debilitated father, and then turns her austere glower back at me.
“I see there are still no improvements on Judge Grayson’s condition. Your family must be passing through a rough time. Especially now, over the holidays.”
“Quite,” I reply assertively, not really wanting to give her true insight to what my family feels or doesn’t feel for my father.
I don’t tell her that the holidays were already depressingly tainted by the loss of a far better life than he could ever measure up to. Nor do I tell her that having him here has been a fucking liberating experience for me, even if what he did to land himself in this predicament has caused more than a few bumps and bruises to patch up back at home. But once the fucker dies, I’m sure it will give us all the closure we need. The closure we’re all waiting on with bated breath.
“Is this just a friendly visit, Detective, or is there something I can help you with?” I ask, wanting to get down to whatever business she has in mind.
“Actually, I just wanted to ask you a follow-up question that has been nagging at me,” she replies, her face a stone wall, giving nothing away.
“Anything I can do to help.” My smile is just as impassive, and my features schooled to conceal my true thoughts.
“There were some scratch marks on your father when he was brought into the hospital. You wouldn’t by any chance know how he got those, would you?”
I let out a confident, cocky chuckle, feigning my fake indifference.
“Detective, I think you’re asking the wrong person. That question is better suited for my father’s new wife to explain. Not me.”
“How so?” Her brows furrow together.
“He was just newly wed. And I’m sorry to say, but our relationship wasn’t the kind where we shared such intimacies. I doubt any son wants to know what his father gets up to in his marital bedroom, don’t you agree?” I add for shock value.
“Wasn’t? You mean isn’t, don’t you?” she replies, not one bit unsettled.
I just throw her the same thin smile she has plastered on her face.
“Detective Gomez. Roman. How lovely to see that Malcolm has visitors today,” Vivienne announces, prancing into the room.
She’s donning a tight, gray pencil skirt with a low-cut, white blouse that enhances her phony double D’s. In her hands is a bouquet of flowers that she hurries to fawn over and place at my father’s bedside, looking every bit the devoted wife. She takes a seat by his side, picking up his lifeless hand in hers, and kisses his knuckles.
“Malcolm would be so happy to see how everyone cares so much for him. Soon he’ll be up on his feet, and we’ll invite everyone to our home to celebrate his recovery.” She continues the facade. “Soon, my love,” she whispers, kissing his hand again. “You’ll be home soon.”
A stray tear falls down her cheek, and I’m seconds away from laughing and congratulating her for the fucking incredible performance she is capable of dropping on cue. Detective Gomez, however, doesn’t feel as comfortable with Vivienne’s tearful illusion and begins retreating toward the door.
“I don’t want to impose or take any more of your time. I know how precious each second is with a loved one in such a frail state. Mrs. Grayson. Mr. Grayson. If there is anything in which I can be of service to you at this trying time, don’t hesitate to call me.”
Vivienne throws her a forlorn, yet dazzling smile, while I just give the detective the same tight nod she gives me. The minute she leaves us alone, Vivienne drops my father’s hand like yesterday’s old news and sashays over to me, the tears for her husband long forgotten.
“I’m so happy to see you here, Roman. Your father would be, too,” she cajoles, her blood-red fingernail lightly tracing the zipper of my leather jacket. “At a time like this, family is all we have, don’t you think?” She bats her eyes at me like an innocent schoolgirl trying to make nice with the homecoming king, rather than a forty-year-old cougar wanting to nail her stepson.
I grab her hand and give her my shark-like smirk.
“You’re right. Family is all I have. You’re just not a part of it,” I tut, pushing her hand away from me and taking two steps back to avoid a migraine induced by her flowery perfume.
“Now, Roman. I’m sure we can find a way to remedy that. Aren’t you lonely? With the twins gone and sweet Eleanor, too, that big house feels so empty.” She pouts exaggeratedly. “We can find comfort together. If you let me, I can make this sorrowful time so much better,” she croons, bridging the gap between us, this time placing both her hands on my chest and looking up at me with lust-filled blue eyes. I look down at her and realize the color is all wrong.
I don’t want blue. I want gray.
Still staring into her eyes, I clutch her hands on my chest, causing her breath to hitch in her throat. I watch how her tongue licks her lips in anticipation as I lean my head down, placing my lips just inches from her ear.
“If you need
a fuckboy, try Craigslist. I’m not interested.” I squeeze her hands hard enough for her to take the hint that I mean business. However, the bitch doesn’t seem one bit bothered by the brutality, or my words of rejection, and leans even closer, melting against my stiff, nauseated body.
“You’ll come around, Rome. I always get what I want.”
I sneer, thinking how deluded this woman is. She and my father really are perfect bedfellows—neither is used to rejection. They would trample over anything or anyone to get what they think they are entitled to. But just like my father, Vivienne is in for a rude awakening.
I grab her chin forcefully, leaning it back so she can see the vehemence in my face.
“I think in your old age you’re losing your hearing. You can fuck off with whoever you want, but touch me again, and I’ll fuck up your life in ways you won’t even see coming. My generosity in letting you continue to live in my house is nearly at its end. If I were you, I’d make myself scarce and stay out of my sight.” I roughly tug her chin away from me, and the hunger that her blue irises had harbored turns to burning ice.
“It’s my house, too.”
“Keep testing me, Vivienne, and you’ll see how wrong you are,” I retort, turning my back on her and ending the conversation.
The minute my father is pronounced dead to the world, Vivienne West-Grayson is in for the shock of a lifetime. Her karma is on its way, and I’ll be more than happy to sit back and watch how it eats the bitch alive.
For Holland.
For Snow.
I’ll make sure Vivienne gets everything that’s coming to her.
I track down a nurse to leave a message for Dr. Nasir, letting him know that I was unable to stay for his update. Right now, I prefer to head back home where I should have just stayed.
When I arrive home, I try to look inconspicuously around the house for my little liar to raise my spirits, but she’s nowhere to be found. When I meet Henrietta and Carmen in the kitchen for lunch, they tell me Holland went to the library to finish some homework she needs to hand in after Thanksgiving break. Sullen, I eat my lunch in a somber mood, one that both Avó and Carmen evidently pick up on, making our usually carefree lunch a silent one.