My legs feel suddenly weak. I look over at Mom, holding Sam, and she’s stroking his head, but her eyes are on Earl, and they look at each other like two people who’ve just witnessed a horrific accident—with fear and shock and uncertainty.
“Oh God,” Sam moans again. “I want it to stop,” he says. “I want it to stop.” Sam opens his eyes and fixes his gaze on me. His face is wet and red, his jaw shaking a little, but he just looks at me in a way that’s hard to describe. Like he’s pleading with me to help him.
But I’m frozen. I don’t know how to help him at all.
“Here, come on,” Earl says, gently lifting Sam from the floor. He and Mom settle him onto his bed. Earl stands while Mom sits next to Sam.
I shake myself into action and start cleaning things up off the floor—clothes, a few frames, books.
“Leave that, Beth,” Earl says, so I just drop everything in a corner.
“Beth, will you go to my bathroom and get an Ambien,” Mom whispers.
I do just that, glad to have a task, first grabbing a glass of water, then cupping the pill carefully in my hand when I walk back to Sam’s room. Mom nudges Sam gently and says, “Here, baby, take this.” He whimpers a slight protest, but Mom asks him again and he takes it and gulps down the water. He lies back down and closes his eyes.
I just stand there till Earl says, “Go back to bed, sweetie.”
Back in my room I don’t sleep. I just sit on my bed. I keep seeing that man’s horrible face. The mug shot. He’s dead, he’s gone, but I know he’s not, really. He might never be.
===
The next morning, Sam is calm, like nothing ever happened. But I feel wrung out. Mom cooks us breakfast—pancakes and bacon—and we all eat in silence at the dining room table.
The news vans are gone. They’ve moved on to the next thing. But Mom says we shouldn’t turn on the TV. My phone’s still somewhere in my purse, on silent. I don’t care. I don’t have the energy to talk to anyone.
Later, Sam settles in the living room with that sketch pad. Mom and I work on the Christmas decorations—pulling out boxes of ornaments, hanging the stockings on the fireplace, putting out the ceramic Nativity set. Meanwhile, Earl works in Sam’s room, painting over the marks on the wall, cleaning up the traces of last night, eventually taking the cracked mirror to the trash can outside.
Aunt Shelley gets here at lunchtime. We help her lug in her suitcase to my room, and then two big bags of presents, which Sam and I start placing under the Christmas tree. “Oh, Shelley,” Mom says, shaking her head, looking at all the gifts. Mom begged everyone not to go overboard. She said that the only present any of us needed this year was Sam being home. But she’s smiling, surrendering to the occasion.
After lunch, Mom and Shelley spruce up and grab their purses. “I have to get some last-minute things,” Mom says before they leave.
I stay in my room, wrapping my gifts. A candle and some slippers for Mom. A scarf for Aunt Shelley. A nice brown belt for Earl, because his usual one is falling to pieces. And for Sam I found this sketch booklet, with a hard backing, nicer than the one I’ve seen him using. It’s more like a notebook, he could even write in it if he wanted. I also got him a soccer ball, since I took his old one. I hope he’ll have use for it one day, if he goes back to school. When he goes back.
When I finish my wrapping, I go out to the den. Earl’s watching TV in his recliner, and Mom and Shelley are still out shopping.
“Where’s Sam?”
“Out there.”
“Isn’t it cold out?”
“Yeah, but he bundled up. He says he’s okay.”
I look out at him, sitting there, staring off calmly. “Do you think . . . last night—you think that will happen again?”
Earl looks at the TV, like he’s barely paying attention to me, but I can tell by the way he scrunches his eyes that he’s thinking. He rubs his beard a little and says, “I don’t know. I hope not.”
“Are you happy that man was killed?”
Earl’s quiet at first. “I guess in some ways, yeah. But part of me wishes he had to rot in prison. That would have been the true punishment. A life in prison, knowing that Sam is out in the real world. That he’s getting better.”
I’m about to ask about what Sam said, about missing him. Missing Rusty. But Mom and Shelley walk in right then. Shelley is carrying a few bags. “Nothing to see here,” Shelley says, walking past us to my room.
“Want to help make cookies?” Mom asks me, smiling to maybe distract me from the redness of her eyes.
“Sure,” I say.
Shelley hovers about the kitchen while we bake, talking away like she does, but it’s soothing, like listening to music. Earl comes in and grabs a beer. Sam finally comes inside, too. He grabs a Coke from the fridge, cracks it open, and stands there, smiling and watching us. I watch him back, wondering if he’s really feeling okay, or if he’s holding something in. How can he seem so happy now, after the past few days?
When the cookies come out, Sam helps me ice them with sugary frosting—one bowl white, one bowl reddened with food coloring.
“Remember when we used to wake up at like four in the morning, so excited about Santa?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, relieved that he remembers those happy years. They haven’t been snuffed out of his memory. “How did we ever believe that?”
“Once you said you saw the glow of Rudolph’s nose coming from the roof, that you heard the hooves and stuff.”
“I did?” I ask, laughing.
“Yep,” he says. “I was so bummed you saw it and I slept through it. The next year I slept in a sleeping bag in your room so you could wake me up if it happened again.”
“I remember that now,” I say. And I do: the two of us little kids, trying to stay awake by talking to each other, but eventually falling asleep. I remember waking up to Sam shaking me, “Get up, get up, time to open presents,” his eyes wide with wonder, his hair messed from sleep. I remember him taking my hand and dragging me to the living room, where our treasures awaited. How old were we then? Was Dad still around? It feels like my life but also someone else’s—like something I read in a book.
Once the cookies are done, we watch movies in the den. A Christmas Story. Mom makes lasagna for dinner, which we eat on plates on our laps while watching It’s a Wonderful Life.
After the movie, feeling full of Christmas spirit, Earl flips off the TV and we all just sit there and look at the tree, its colored lights flashing.
“Remember that time when Sam got so excited about the presents he puked all over the floor?” Shelley says.
“I did not,” Sam says.
“You did!”
“I remember,” I say. “Dad had to clean it up, and then he puked.”
Sam puts his face in his hands and shakes his head.
“I remember, too,” Mom says, smiling to herself.
And on we go like that, trading stories of past Christmases. Even Earl chimes in, sharing memories from before he knew any of us. But of course we don’t mention the past few Christmases. And I try to squash down any thoughts about what Christmas was like for Sam, with that man.
We call it a night, and once I’m ready for bed I remember my phone. I have some texts, and a missed call from Dad. I call him back, hoping it’s not too late.