Chương 13
“Mommy liked the pink.”
“She made fun of the pink.”
“That means she liked it.”
“No, that means she made fun of it.”
“Can we keep one?”
He looked at the pile of broken tile.
“Why?”
“Because.”
That was all.
Not symbolism.
Not grief articulated through an object.
A six-year-old simply wanted a square of ugly pink ceramic.
Adrian kept one.
They used it later beneath a plant pot.
Christmas returned faster than Adrian wanted.
By early December, every grocery store began playing the same songs that had been in Evelyn’s living room the year before.
The first time Lila heard one in a pharmacy, she went quiet.
Adrian noticed.
He did not ask immediately.
They bought toothpaste, children’s cold medicine, and a ridiculous holiday headband with antlers because Lila argued that Rudolph needed “representation.”
In the parking lot, she said, “Are we going to Grandma’s?”
“For Christmas?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know.”
“She asked me.”
Adrian stopped beside the car.
“When?”
“Saturday.”
“What exactly did she ask?”
“If I wanted Christmas at her house.”
Adrian took a slow breath.
This was the rule.
Evelyn did not invite Lila to events without going through him.
Lila saw his face.
“She said ask you.”
The breath came out.
“Okay.”
“Are you mad?”
“No.”
“Your eyebrows are.”
“My eyebrows are dramatic.”
“Uncle Travis said that.”
“Of course he did.”
They got into the car.
Adrian started the engine but did not drive.
“Do you want to go?”
Lila shrugged.
“That’s not an answer.”
“I want Grandma’s cinnamon rolls.”
“We can steal the recipe.”
“She said you tried.”
“Traitor.”
Lila smiled.
Then she looked out the window.
“I don’t want the same Christmas.”
Adrian put the car in park again even though it was already in park.
“Neither do I.”
“What if she gets mad?”
“Then we leave.”
“What if Uncle Travis says something?”
“Then he deals with you.”
She looked suspicious.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you are allowed to tell him you don’t like it.”
“What if he doesn’t stop?”
“Then I deal with him.”
“Do you throw Rudolph?”
“No.”
“You promised.”
“I remember.”
She nodded.
“Can we go?”
Adrian looked at her.
“Yes.”
On Christmas morning, almost one year to the day after the reindeer hit Evelyn’s floor, Adrian parked in front of his mother’s house.
He sat behind the wheel longer than necessary.
Lila waited.
She wore a different sweater this year.
Blue.
No snowflakes.
Rudolph sat on her lap.
The antler Adrian had repaired leaned slightly to the left.
He had offered to redo it.
Lila refused.
“That’s his story,” she had said.
Adrian decided not to argue with a child who had apparently become a novelist.
“You ready?” he asked.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“Good.”
They went inside.
The room looked almost exactly the same.
Tall tree.
Red and gold ornaments.
Cream sofa.
Wrapped presents.
Daylight through the large windows.
The cinnamon candle.
Adrian hated that candle.
Aunt June saw them first.
She came over slowly.
No dramatic hug.
No speech.
“Hi, Lila.”
“Hi.”
June nodded toward Rudolph.
“He looks dangerous.”
“He’s retired.”
“Smart.”
Travis appeared with coffee.
He had put on weight.
Adrian told him so.
Travis called him a terrible person.
Normality, imperfect and slightly rude, entered the room.
Then Evelyn came from the kitchen.
She stopped when she saw Lila.
For a second Adrian felt the previous Christmas overlay the present one so precisely that his muscles tightened.
Lila felt it too.
Her fingers closed around Rudolph.
Evelyn noticed.
She did not come closer.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Morning,” Lila answered.
“I made cinnamon rolls.”
“I know.”
Evelyn smiled.
“Of course you do.”
There were presents beneath the tree.
Lila looked at them.
Then at Evelyn.
“Can I look at the paper?”
The room went quiet.
Not completely.
A spoon clinked in the kitchen.
Someone’s phone buzzed.
Travis coughed.
Evelyn looked at Adrian.
Then back at Lila.
“You can pick up any present you want,” she said. “If it isn’t yours, you still have to give it back.”
“That’s fair.”
Lila crouched by the tree.
She picked up a green box.
Read the tag.
“Uncle Travis.”
“Mine,” Travis said.
“It’s soft.”
“Stop investigating.”
She squeezed it.
“Socks.”
“You ruin everything.”
“I’m good at presents.”
Adrian watched his mother.
Evelyn watched Lila.
There was love there.
There had probably always been love there.
That did not erase what she had done.
Adrian no longer needed it to.
Love was not innocence.
Family was not immunity.
An apology was not repair.
Repair was repetition.
The right repetition.
Again and again, until a frightened animal stopped running.
Lila found a package with her name on it.
She looked at Adrian.
He nodded.
She opened it.
Inside was a wooden sewing box.
Not expensive.
Not heirloom.
Just a child-sized box with thread, large safe needles, fabric squares, buttons, and red yarn.
Lila stared at it.
Then she looked at Rudolph.
“Because Daddy can’t sew,” Evelyn said.
Adrian pointed at her.
“Careful.”
Lila laughed.
So did Travis.
June laughed before everyone else this time.
No one had to apologize for it.
Later, after breakfast, Adrian stood alone in the kitchen rinsing plates.
Evelyn came beside him with a dish towel.
For a while they worked without speaking.
She dried.
He washed.
It was the sort of ordinary labor his mother usually delegated immediately.
He did not mention that.
Finally Evelyn said, “I nearly bought her a reindeer.”
“That would have been terrible.”
“I realized.”
“Growth.”
“Don’t push it.”
He handed her a plate.
She dried it.
After another minute she said, “I still think leaving the company was a mistake.”
“I know.”
“Your new commute is absurd.”
“I know.”
“Travis has no idea what he’s doing.”
“I definitely know.”
She smiled.
Then her expression softened.
“I’m glad you came.”
Adrian looked toward the living room.
Lila sat on the floor threading a large plastic needle while Travis read the instruction booklet upside down.
Aunt June was correcting him despite having no idea how sewing worked.
Rudolph lay on the carpet between them.
“I’m glad we could,” Adrian said.
Evelyn nodded.
Not we did.
We could.
She understood the difference.
That night, after they got home, Lila carried the sewing box upstairs and Adrian carried three bags of gifts he had specifically told everyone not to buy.
He found Rudolph on his desk when he went to check an email.
The reindeer sat beside his keyboard.
Its crooked antler pointed toward the monitor.
Adrian called down the hall.
“Why is Rudolph in my office?”
Lila appeared in the doorway wearing pajamas.
“He lives there now.”
“Why?”
“So you remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Don’t throw my stuff when you’re mad.”
Adrian leaned back in his chair.
“That is going to follow me forever, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Fair.”
She came into the room and straightened the reindeer.
“Also Grandma says you need decorations.”
“This is an office.”
“It’s boring.”
“That is intentional.”
She climbed onto his lap.
Adrian wrapped one arm around her automatically.
Lila looked at the computer screen.
“What are you doing?”
“Work.”
“That looks boring too.”
“Also intentional.”
She yawned.
Adrian closed the laptop.
For a while neither of them moved.
Downstairs, the dishwasher clicked through its cycle. A car passed outside. Somebody two houses over was dragging a trash can to the curb one day too early.
Lila rubbed the stitched antler between two fingers.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re my real dad.”
Adrian’s throat tightened.
He did not answer immediately.
Lila looked up.
“I know,” he said.
“That sounded rude.”
“It did.”
“You should say thank you.”
He smiled.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She slid off his lap.
At the doorway, she turned back.
“And don’t fix Rudolph’s antler again.”
“It’s crooked.”
“I like it.”
Adrian looked at the little reindeer on his desk.
The antler leaned stubbornly left, held there by ugly brown stitches that had finally stayed.
“Okay,” he said.
May you like
Lila disappeared down the hall.
Adrian left the reindeer exactly where she had put it.
