“Go wake Drew and Hope!” I said. “We’ll open when Grandma gets here!”
His palms slapped the wooden stairs. “Up. Up. Up,” he said, moving faster than I’d like.
I put a pot of milk on for old-fashioned cocoa, which would accompany our traditional Russian tea cakes for Christmas breakfast. My grandma Doris had started the tradition, and I couldn’t see any reason to end it. Cookies and cocoa were a dream team.
Hope and Drew thundered down the stairs with Roman, their enthusiasm almost as fake as mine. They had been taught to push down the bad stuff and carry on. Hiding secrets had been a family talent for too long for us to let loose of the habit easily. We would work on it, I promised myself that, but not today. I was exhausted from working too many jobs and then hitting the construction site until after dark. The festivities would sap the last of my energy.
“Ho! Ho! Ho! Who wants cookies?” I carried a tray with each of their favorite Christmas-themed mugs and a pyramid of cookies into the den. I’d spiked my mug and Drew’s half full of strong coffee before adding cocoa, and he closed his eyes to savor the first steamy swallow. The smile that followed looked genuine, and I returned it, thinking of him rolling in the mud and laughing at the job site. It was a good memory, a favorite one, and I now believed we would collect enough of those to outweigh the bad ones we’d been stockpiling for too long.
My mom’s van pulled in before I had time to eat my cookie.
“Grandma’s here!” Jada squealed.
“Grandma brings cookies!” Roman said, running for the door.
As always, she brought the real spirit of Christmas with her. We hadn’t seen her in a couple of months, and her dark hair had grown long, making her look very close to her Native American ancestors.
Her van was loaded to the roof with food and gifts, all wrapped to perfection with huge bows and ribbons. She was my best friend in the whole world, and the only one who knew even half of what had happened with Adam, with Matt, and during the other messy times in my life. Domestic-violence victims don’t often have friends, and they rarely manage to hold on to family ties. Somehow Mom and I managed to stay close, but I had hid enough that it wasn’t perfect. I would make things better after the house was finished. We’d make time to rebuild things that had started crumbling years ago when she and Dad divorced. I hadn’t noticed when I stopped looking forward to the future, but now that the skill had returned I built tomorrows in my mind like neatly stacked bricks.
The idea that things would be perfect after the build was like an incessant monk-like chant that followed every thought on every topic. After so many years of bad times, I needed to believe the good times were right there within reach. Even more, I needed to believe that my own hard work was bringing them closer. I wanted to see evidence that for the first time in my whole life my future was in my own control.
It wasn’t. But if we knew how out of control our lives are, how would we ever muster the courage to turn the next corner?
We opened gifts slower than usual, taking turns rather than tearing into our individual piles all at once. Our heaps were smaller, too, and they had an obvious construction theme. We opened tool belts, work boots, and rubber-coated gloves like they were the hottest pieces from this season’s Milan fashion show. Jada tried out a chalk line on a large sheet of wrapping paper while Hope took selfies in her pink hard hat. When I opened a handmade coupon book from Jada, the kind promising the usual hugs, concrete mixing, chores, and wall framing, I realized that somewhere along the way we had all stopped pretending and were actually enjoying Christmas.
Right on the heels of that holiday joy, something ugly bubbled in me, a bold anger toward Adam and Matt for the years of unhappiness. It came from someone else—from Caroline. I imagined setting their minds on fire with fear. For a second, I imagined towering over them at two A.M. and showing them what it meant to be afraid—to really be afraid.
I had laced a length of sparkly gold ribbon through my fingers and pulled tight enough to make fat, purple sausage fingers. With a deep breath, I released the ribbon and balled a sheet of blue snowman paper into a tight wad. Conquering my fear and building confidence was good, turning myself into a mirror of Adam or Matt was not.
“Did you put the chicken in?” Hope asked.
I cringed. “Sorry. I got so wrapped up in making the perfect cocoa I didn’t even think about dinner.”
“Roast beast!” Roman said. “I want roast beast!”
“How did you know we were having roast beast?” My mom tickled him and pushed a button on his new ride-on fire engine. Sirens wailed and a deep voice said, “Put the fire out! Put the fire out!”
He laughed and turned on the revolving red light that should have come with a seizure warning. Jada pushed him around the house, skidding dangerously sideways around corners. I opened my mouth to tell her to stay out of the kitchen, but Hope beat me to it.
“No firefighters in the kitchen! Grandma and I are making spinach dip. Christmas dinner is postponed until two. And if you drive through this kitchen again, we’ll be eating you!” She chased the two of them, banging a wooden spoon on a mixing bowl.
They sped out, laughing like she wouldn’t really whack them with the spoon if they rode through again.
Drew scrolled through options on his new phone, the one gift that had nothing to do with construction. His headphones were back in place. I scooted in close and looked over his shoulder, pointing out a Scrabble app without speaking. The techno beat from his headphones meant that he needed space, but I didn’t want him to slip as far away as he had before. We started a game of Scrabble, which I was destined to lose without spell check. It was a lazy game, both of us trying harder to make ridiculous words than score points.
Jada and Roman rounded the corner, both wearing capes, lipstick, and monster-claw slippers. Hershey jumped out of the way, carrying her enormous holiday bone to a quieter spot near the laundry room.
“I a superhero!” Roman put his arms out and raced around the room, cape floating behind him through the maze of new toys and tape measures. “Presents! Ho! Ho! Ho!” Roman said, zipping past and tripping over his monster slippers. He skidded on his tummy for a couple of feet and pushed himself up, crying hard enough to smear his lipstick. I scooped him up and grabbed a handful of tissues to mop up the tears and smears.
“I smell roast beast,” I told him.
Roman laughed, twisting to get down. I pulled the slippers off before I set him free.