MARCY INVITES DAD, MEREDITH, AND ME OVER for dessert two days before Christmas.
In the past, we’ve spent Christmas Eve at the Holdens’, playing board games and devouring a feast of prime rib, twice-baked potatoes, roasted asparagus, and Victorian Christmas pudding (brown sugar and almonds and currants and spices, among other flavorsome things). Until last year, Bill dressed up in a Santa costume and handed out gifts to his kids, me, and, more recently, Zoe and Brett’s son. Before my family walked back across the street for the night, Dad would produce his childhood copy of “The Night Before Christmas” as if by magic, then read it aloud, his deep voice reciting the verses with perfect, rhythmic cadence.
This year, we’ll miss Christmas Eve with the Holdens. Meredith has suggested we travel a few hours south to Portland, where we’ll spend the holiday with her too-old-to-travel parents. Dad protested because lately, that’s what Dad does, but Meredith won the battle—she is pregnant, after all.
Today in the kitchen, I dip a sampling spoon into the nearly done sweet-potato filling I’ve spent half the afternoon working on. Soon, it’ll fill the flaky, from-scratch pie crust that’s chilling in the fridge. The filling tastes smooth and rich and sweet; I added a couple of tablespoons of bourbon pilfered from my dad’s liquor cabinet in hopes of intensifying the flavor, and it’s perfect.
Any pastry chef worthy of her rolling pin knows how important it is to check for taste and texture and doneness. Baking is a science: measuring and mixing, a series of actions and reactions, separate parts of an aspiring whole. Heat is almost always involved because heat forces change, melds the ingredients into something different. Something better.
Meredith appears in the doorway, assessing the kitchen with her hands on her bloated waistline, back arched, the way I’ve only ever seen pregnant women do. She frowns at the mess I’ve made but, to her credit, refrains from complaining. “How’s it going?” she asks instead, brushing a few spilled sugar crystals into the sink.
“Okay. The pie’s almost ready for the oven, the cranberry tartlets are nearly done, and the peppermint sugar cookies are already in Tupperware.”
“Do you think you’ll be ready to head to the Holdens’ in a few hours?”
“Should be. When will Dad be home?”
She glances at the microwave clock. “Hopefully by five. I told Marcy we’d be over at six, and I don’t want to be late.”
I pour the sweet potato filling into its chilled pie shell and ask a loaded question. “What’s he doing at the office again anyway?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Meredith says with annoyance that makes my ears ring. Sighing, she lifts the lid of the Tupperware housing the peppermint sugar cookies and inhales their cool scent. “May I?”
I nod, using an offset spatula to smooth the pie filling.
She snags two cookies before toddling out of the kitchen.
I slide my favorite ruffled pie pan, loaded with sweet potato goodness, into the oven, trying not to stress about Dad and Meredith and tonight, our first attempt at a Holden-Eldridge gathering in the wake of Bill’s stroke, and the first time I’ll see Max since our awful outing to the tree farm.
* * *
Dad walks through the front door at six fifteen. Meredith leaps down his throat, lecturing him about punctuality and consideration and good manners. He takes it in stride until she mentions the strict meal/medicine/rest/therapy regimen Bill is on. That’s when he demands that she “Lay the hell off!”
They’re not speaking when, at six thirty, we step into a sad drizzle and cross the street.
All’s forgotten when Marcy opens the front door. She hugs Meredith, then Dad, and everyone’s smiling and schmoozing like my parents weren’t just bickering like stray cats over a discarded can of tuna.
It’s mind-blowing, how well they hide the truth.
Marcy leads us past the living room, where the Douglas fir we picked up the other day sits in a corner, trimmed and twinkling with white lights, to the kitchen, where most of the Holdens have gathered. Zoe sits at one end of the big kitchen table, surrounded by an array of coloring books and crayons. Brett and raven-haired, innocent-eyed Oliver, a two-year-old facsimile of his uncle Max, sit across from her. Bill’s at the table, too, his wheelchair parked below its surface, wearing a mask of contentment and a collared shirt that fits too loose on his once robust frame. He’s studying his grandson in this introspective way that’s contrary to the rousing ambiance he used to lend to gatherings. I watch as Zoe leans over to pat her dad’s arm.
Ivy, who I’ve spoken to exactly zero times since she interrupted Max and me in my dad’s study, stands at the stove. She’s stirring a copper-bottomed pot of hot cocoa in a striped dress and knee-high boots, her long hair blown out straight and sleek. I recall what Max said about her being jealous and mentally roll my eyes. Confidence wafts off Ivy Holden like heat from an open flame.
I turn away before she notices me—I don’t have the energy for spitefulness—and begin laying out the treats I brought. Marcy’s confections are already displayed on the counter, buffet-style. She’s made a caramel apple torte cake, a pecan pie, and an apple pie with a gorgeous honeycomb crust. The kitchen smells amazing, and the selection is worthy of the finest pâtisserie, and I’m in heaven—until I spot Ivy closing in.
“Jillian,” she says briskly.
“Ivy,” I reply, glancing over my shoulder to be sure there are witnesses. I have a feeling she’s going to confront me about what Max told Becky—the kiss, the betrayal, my involvement—and it’s probably going to get ugly. But Marcy, Dad, and Meredith have crowded around the table, and no one’s paying any attention to the two of us.
Great.
Ivy smooths her bangs and says, quietly, “Have you heard from my brother today?”
There’s a good chance this is an attempt at entrapment—some scheme she and Becky cooked up to nail Max for a crime he’s yet to commit. I unwrap my platter of cranberry tartlets and reply impassively, “He’s not here?”
“We don’t know where he is. Mom told him to be home before you and your parents came over, but he hasn’t even called.”
I place my sweet potato pie atop a stand, my heart faltering.… Max is missing? “Have you talked to the guys?”
Ivy nods. “He’s not with Jesse or Kyle or Leo. My mom’s going crazy worrying about him. I can’t get ahold of Becky, so … Maybe they’re together?”
“Probably,” I say, feeling some relief. The thought of Max and Becky hanging out in an unreachable den of sin makes my mouth taste bitter, but I’d rather know he’s with her than know nothing at all. “He probably just lost track of time. I bet he’ll be home in a few minutes.” Even as I say this, though, I’m not sure it’ll prove true. Chances are, Max is fine, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be moseying through the door for pie anytime soon.
I leave Ivy to help Marcy and Meredith serve hot cocoa. After passing a steaming drink to everyone at the table, I squish into an empty space, far from Oliver and his sticky toddler hands. Brett slides a tray of add-ins—mini marshmallows, crushed candy cane, cinnamon sticks, and orange twists among other tasty things—our way. I add a dollop of whipped cream and a few chocolate chips to my mug, then watch as Ivy sneaks a handful of mini marshmallows to her nephew, who appears to be on his way to a sugar overdose.
Across from me, Marcy’s helping Bill sip cocoa from a straw. She must be stressing about Max’s whereabouts, seeing as how her son’s propensity for responsible decision making has gone down the toilet.
God, I hope he shows up soon.
No one mentions his absence as the clock journeys toward seven and then beyond, but it becomes obvious that we’re waiting on him. The implicit question builds and hovers over the untouched desserts, thickening like tapioca.
When Oliver at last rubs his eyes and rests his chocolaty chin on the tabletop, Marcy stands, clasps her hands together, and says, “Goodness, Oli, I’m ready for a treat. Should I serve the desserts now?”
Oliver perks right up. “Tweat! Tweat, pwease!”
Zoe runs a hand over Oliver’s head. “I don’t know, kiddo. It’s getting late.”
“God, Zoe, lighten up,” Ivy says. “Let him have some pie.”
Zoe flings a glare at her sister. “Why don’t you stay out—”
Brett drops a hand onto Zoe’s shoulder and nods in Bill’s direction. She glances quickly, guiltily, at her father, then snaps her mouth shut.
“What?” Ivy needles. “Stay out of your perfect parenting?”
Zoe pulls in a breath, but Brett jumps up before she has a chance to retort. “I’ll help you with the plates, Marcy,” he says. He looks pointedly at his wife. “Zoe, why don’t you and Oli keep your dad company?”
As if Bill’s a charity case. This time last year, he would have told Ivy and Zoe to quit bickering while at the same time reviewing the standings of whatever football teams happened to be playing on TV, and passing my dad a beer. Now he stares with dismay at his daughters. Zoe, chagrined, picks up a turquoise crayon and begins filling in one of the shapes on Oliver’s coloring page. Ivy takes her phone out of her pocket and taps away at its screen.
Meredith nudges my dad. “Jake, tell Bill about the case you’re working on. The one with that broker out of Tacoma? The dilapidated hotel?”
When Bill was healthy, he and Dad never discussed work. They stuck to football and families, lagers and stouts, because the worlds of logging and law have very little overlap. I’m sure the last thing my dad feels like rehashing is some tedious hotel case, but Bill can’t help fill this silence that’s becoming stifling.
Their friendship’s so strained now, nothing like the easy camaraderie they used to share. The transformation makes me sad, and nostalgic for the past.
Once, on a cloudless day when Max and I were twelve—Dad and Meredith had just announced their engagement—we attempted to chalk a rendering of the solar system in the middle of the street. Bill, who’d been busy trimming his junipers, set his clippers aside so he could plop down on the pavement with us. He talked about rocket launches and moon walks as he rifled through our bucket of chalk, helping us pick out colors for the planets. My dad joined us when he got home from work, armed with a reference book and a tape measure for accuracy’s sake, and by the time the lamps came on, the street had become a galaxy, and all four of us were dusted head to toe in chalk. Marcy joked about hosing us off before letting us inside for Cokes.
Now Dad launches into a dry monologue about misconduct and faulty documentation that would have me yawning under different circumstances. I feel sorry for him, and Bill. I wonder if they miss chalk drawings in the street as much as I do.
Marcy and Brett are nearly done loading dessert plates with gluttonous portions of pie, cookies, torte, and tartlets when the doorbell chimes. Zoe rises, but sinks back onto the bench as Marcy darts out of the kitchen ahead of her. Beside me, Ivy’s gone stiff. We sit in silence, waiting.
Marcy’s saccharine voice carries into the kitchen. “Officer Tate!”
Officer Tate serves on the police force of the town adjacent to McAlder, so this visit shouldn’t be in any sort of professional capacity, but why else would he show up unannounced?
A cold sweat breaks out across the back of my neck—Max.
He was hurt during a football game a few months ago, after being taken down by a tackle so violent it was startlingly audible from the grandstand. He made it off the field, arm dangling awkwardly, but the second he crossed the sideline, he hit his knees. I swear to God my heart stopped beating. It was all I could do to keep my butt on the cold aluminum bench, gripping Leah’s hand while coaches and trainers swarmed him. The injury turned out to be a stinger—a harmless but painful charge of electricity that shot through the nerves of his arm after the hit. They were brief but terrible, those moments I had to consider what life would be like if Max wasn’t okay.
He’s fine, I tell myself now. He has to be fine.
Officer Tate’s ramblings are indistinct, but I pick up a few key words: driving, beer, serious, illegal. The muted explanation carries on, peppered with fretful-sounding Yes, sirs and I understands from Marcy. The tension in the kitchen is almost unbearable; even Oliver—who was presented with dessert before the doorbell rang and has made a mess of pecan pie on the table—has fallen victim to the grave atmosphere.
“I should have taken him to the station, Marcy,” we hear Officer Tate say. “Frankly, I put my job at risk by bringing him here. He’s underage, which means zero tolerance. He could have hurt himself. He could have killed himself, or someone else.”
Zoe drops the crayon she’s been clutching, and Meredith makes a little choking sound. Bill’s face has drained of color, and my dad’s tugging on his hair. I feel dizzy, light-headed, a little sick, like I just stepped off a roller coaster.
“I know,” Marcy says, her voice wavering. Max screwed up big-time—irrevocably. I can’t even look at my dad, who predicted a mishap like this weeks ago.
“You’re lucky it was me who stopped him,” Officer Tate says, “not another officer who doesn’t understand your … situation.”
The foyer, the kitchen, the house … So, so quiet.
And then, haltingly, Dad says, “Bill?”
Bill’s rigid in his chair. His hands form fists so tight the tendons in his knuckles strain.
“I don’t want to intrude,” Dad murmurs, using the slower speech pattern we all fall into when addressing him now, “but do you want me to … Should I go out there?”
Bill gives a jerk of his head—No!—before letting his chin drop to his chest. There’s worry in the hunch of his shoulders, helplessness in his slackening fists.
“Okay,” Dad says. “Okay.” I feel marginally better as I watch him make eye contact with the Holden girls: Zoe, who’s pulled Oliver onto her lap, and Ivy, whose quivering lip makes my throat tighten.
“I’m grateful to you for bringing him home, Officer Tate,” Marcy says. “Bill will be, too. We’ll talk to him. We’ll be sure nothing like this happens again.”
The front door slams. A moment later, Max storms into the kitchen, followed closely by his mother. “I was fine to drive!” he shouts, whipping around to face her. “I had a couple of beers at Becky’s. That’s it!”
“You had a case in your truck! You’re seventeen! I cannot believe, after everything we’ve been through this year, that you would climb behind the wheel of that truck half-drunk!”
Max yanks at the collar of his sweatshirt as if it’s choking him. “Tate’s a pompous ass. He had no reason to pull me over.”
Marcy grasps the gold cross hanging from her neck. “He said you rolled through a stop sign! Thank goodness there were no other cars around. Thank goodness it was him who stopped you. Thank goodness he chose to pour the beer out. You heard what he said: You could have ended up in jail!”
“Oh, Jesus,” Max says, snotty and sluggish. “Let’s not blow a little beer out of proportion.”
It’s disgusting, the way he’s acting. I so want to wake him up to how he’s hurting his mother and devastating his father, but I’m frozen in my seat, a lot like Bill. I steal a glance at my dad; he’s glaring at Max, mouth set in a grim line. He catches my eye. I told you, his stare boasts.
“Out of proportion?” Marcy says. She points to the table where we sit, family and friends present to witness the train wreck Max’s life is becoming. “We have company. Company I had to abandon so I could speak to the police officer who would have been well within the limits of the law to throw you in a cell. How would a record affect your hopes of playing college football? Your scholarship chances?”
“College is a long way off,” Max says flatly. He glances at Bill, who’s staring at the opposing wall as if the people arguing around him are someone else’s family. Ivy slides closer to him, like her nearness might protect him from the hurt Max’s crappy choices inflict.
He swipes a cookie from the buffet and takes a big bite. Crumbs cascade to the floor in a display that’s horrifying in its irreverence. Still, I can’t look away. None of us can, which is terrible and unfair and absolutely ironic. I suspect this is exactly what he was drinking to avoid: forced togetherness, a less-than-joyful holiday gathering, families trying too hard to restore a normal that’s irreparably shattered.
Marcy holds out her hand. “Give me your keys.”
Max’s anger flares. “What?”
“Your keys,” Marcy says. “I want them.”
“Why?”
“Because your father and I trusted you to use that truck responsibly. You’re doing the opposite.”
“How the hell am I supposed to get around?”
“Figure it out. I refuse to watch you risk your future—your life. This household does not have the financial security to gamble on your poor choices. We can’t afford legal fees if you’re arrested, and we can’t afford additional medical costs if you cause an accident.”
Her open hand is steady and still in Max’s agitated face.
He yanks his keys, adorned with a leather football key chain, from his pocket. He fumbles momentarily before crushing them into his mother’s palm. Then he stalks toward the stairs, breathing heavily and grumbling faintly, so swollen with emotion I worry he’ll burst.
It hits me hard, the irresistible, idiotic urge to follow him, talk to him, hug him—something. Plaguing what-ifs have made his sweetness, his enviable zest for life, go rancid, but he’s still Max.
I shoot up from my place on the bench.
“Jill!” my dad barks.
Max already has a foot on the stairs, but he pivots slowly to look at me, question marks blinking behind his eyes. He’s not inviting my company, but he’s not discouraging it.
“Sit down, Jillian,” Dad says.
The kitchen falls silent but for the sound of Oliver’s wheezy winter breath and the hum of the furnace. Nine pairs of eyes are trained on me, watching to see what I’ll do.
Max lingers, motionless, while I stand on legs that wobble with uncertainty. I want to go to him because, more than anything in the world, I want him to tell me he’s willing to try to get his life back on track. But I don’t think he is, and I won’t enable him—not like Becky. I won’t tell him it’s okay to drink and drive, to hurt his parents, to risk his future. I won’t let him use me as a diversion from everything that’s wrong in his world. I will not—cannot—trade my priorities, my values, my sense of worth, to be his second best.
I sit back down.
Max shakes his head, his gaze pinning me to my place on the bench.
He looks disgruntled.
He looks unmoored.
He looks broken.
He releases a hefty sigh, and then he throws his fist through the wall.