Father Carl gushes, noting he didn’t bring anything, doesn’t need anything, for he has all he needs in God’s love, but she insists, and does he like art supplies? Everyone likes a nice set of watercolor pencils, especially ones from Switzerland, the brand is well respected if you’re into that sort of thing.
Father Carl collapses into one chair, and Deborah sits stiffly in the one opposite. I sit in the third, and no one seems to notice that Liv hasn’t moved from the floor, staring at the stupid manger scene that isn’t really pretty but is actually kind of shabby. The smell of Leland’s candles is overpowering, a mix of candy apple and wintergreen that hurts my teeth. The Christmas tree winks on and off in a sickening strobe effect. I can’t understand why Liv doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t even give Deborah a dirty look for giving her present away, so I give Deborah my dirtiest look for her. Can’t anyone see Liv’s eyes are filled with tears? But since I’m the one who broke Father Carl’s praying hands, maybe it’s my fault.
Father Carl rips at the soft tissue paper. “These pencils are lovely! I guess I’ll have to take up drawing.”
“I need to call Shane,” Liv says softly.
“What’s so important that you have to call Shane right now?” I say, wishing she’d stay, because the minute she leaves, I will slip her gift in her stocking, and she will know, and nothing will ever be the same. Right in this moment, we are in a snow globe that’s about to shatter, a moment in time that we can never go back to.
“I need to arrange when to give him his gift.” She trips lightly up the stairs.
Deborah throws up her hands. “Dinner’s nearly done. Come, everyone! I’ve even made figgy pudding.”
I am left alone with the flashing tree. The lights have halos. I’m looking through tears, I realize, blinking them back. There isn’t much time. I stand and walk over to the ornamental fireplace, patting my vest. Liv needs to know I know what she did. I risked my life to save her. And she risked my life to … what?
Which stocking? Eeenie-meanie-miney-mo. The one I land on feels wrong. I try again.
Not because you’re dirty.
Not because you’re clean.
Just because you kissed a boy behind a magazine.
Out goes Y-O-U.
I slip the stocking off the angel’s trumpet hook. It’s heavy. Inside is a box of Crest whitening strips, a cold eye pack, oil-control blotting papers, and a large jar of vitamins called Time Machine with “age-defying, plant-based properties that support cell health.” All stuff I’ve seen among Deborah’s things she uses and owns, just more of it. I stuff the items back in the same order and slip it back on the hook.
Stocking Two is as empty as the other is full, but for a long envelope. Please make this be a really good gift certificate, I think. Clothes or the Apple store or anything, really. Liv may be immoral, but she’s a kid whose fake-Christmas present just got given away, and she deserves something.
Laughter from the other room. I slip the envelope from the stocking and face the wall. Peeking may be a violation of Liv’s privacy, but she violated us.
The gift certificate is not a gift certificate but a tricolor brochure for something called Makeover Travel. It’s written in stilted English, with porny photos of boobs and butts and perfectly caved stomachs and straight noses. It explains that “surgery holidays” in Bolivia are less expensive because there are no taxes and the exchange rate is favorable, where something called the “Latin Touch” means you get to recover in a “post-operative paradise” for as many weeks as you like. It talks about combining various plastic surgeries at once—a cost-effective alternative! Where else can you “go on holiday and you become the souvenir”? I feel nauseated as I tick down the menu of implants (chin, cheek, butt), lifts (face, breast, thigh, butt), reductions (chin, female breast, male breast), and ominous-sounding plasties (blepharoplasty, rhinoplasty, labiaplasty).
Plastic surgery in Bolivia?
From the dining room comes the clinking of forks and the slosh of poured wine. Another doorbell, and Liv’s fast steps on the stairs. I tuck my present for Liv back into my vest pocket, and meet her as she swings around the newel-post, lighter, her mood shifted to suit our new visitor, Crystal, who has arrived in a cab that Liv runs out to pay. Deborah doesn’t move from Father Carl, which leaves me as host and greeter until Liv returns.
I walk over to Crystal. “Hi. I’m Julia.”
Crystal is a gorgeous child: perfect skin, bright black eyes, cheekbones to die for. Tall and limber already, her figure is filling out in ways that peg her a stone-cold fox in a year’s time. Dread blooms inside my chest.
“Hi,” Crystal says, shy. Afraid of me.
Deborah yells from the dining room, and Crystal runs toward her voice. Liv comes behind me.
“Crystal’s mom sends her in a cab?” I say.
“Crystal’s mom is a meth addict. She and her two little brothers live with her grandmother, who’s on dialysis. We send her in a cab.”
“She’s afraid of me, but she likes Deborah,” I say.