25

“MERRY CHRISTMAS, PAY.”

“Merry Christmas, Pepper.”

Christmas morning. My sister and I sit in front of the family Christmas tree, the multicolored lights causing all the ornaments to glimmer and glow among the branches. We wear matching pajamas —soft-gray bottoms with coordinating red tops, not unlike the matchy-matchy pj’s my parents gave us every Christmas. When we were younger, we’d find them waiting on our beds when we woke up, exchanging the old for the new before running downstairs to ransack the presents waiting for us under the tree.

I fingered the soft flannel fabric of my sleeve. Where did these pajamas come from?

“What’s wrong?” Pepper’s question was a normal one. Nothing probing about my life choices.

“You don’t think this —” I motioned back and forth between us —“is a little weird?”

“What? It is Christmas . . .”

“No. You. Me. Wearing identical pajamas.”

“We always used to do this when we were kids.”

“But we’re older now.”

“You’re older. You’re even older than me. Now that’s weird. We always thought we’d be the same age. But you’re twenty-six and I’m . . . not.”

“Things are so different than we ever expected. I tried to help Jillian and probably made things worse . . . and I told the truth and now Johanna isn’t talking to me. . . .”

Pepper selected a present and handed it to me. “Sometimes you just have to forget all the other stuff and remember we’re sisters.”

I tossed and turned, pulling myself from the dream, my heart pounding in my chest. My pillow was on the floor, my blankets tangled around my legs.

Why? Why was Pepper still showing up? I’d done what I needed to do. What Pepper asked of me. I’d confessed the truth to my family.

My heart rate slowed to a dull thud. For a few years after Pepper had died —before I’d turned my back on that part of my life —I’d wanted to see my sister again . . . to find some way to connect with Pepper. And now all I wanted was for her to go away. To stop appearing in my dreams. To stop asking questions. To disappear.

For someone to tell me what more I was supposed to do so Pepper would stop haunting me.

Christmas Day stretched ahead of me and I was already exhausted. I needed to shower. Get dressed. Drive down to my parents’ house, after declining their invitation to stay overnight on Christmas Eve.

My improved pile of gifts sat on the couch, next to my purse. Gone were the tiny foil bags containing impersonal gift cards. Everyone would now receive a more personalized gift, as well as the original gift card. Thank you, Sydney. Thank you, Etsy. Even Beckett, who was making a rare appearance for Christmas, would receive a custom pen made from California redwood. I’d tucked something extra into Johanna’s bag. Whether she’d accept it or toss it back in my face . . . well, I wouldn’t know until later.

There was no white Christmas for Colorado this year. I skipped the Christmas music as I drove south on I-25 to my parents’ house, the highway mostly deserted. One of the few cars I passed was decorated to look like a Rudolph, complete with two brown antlers and a big red nose centered over the front grill.

Why didn’t the holiday feel different this year? Why wasn’t I looking forward to spending time with my family, now that everything was out in the open? The truth should grant me some measure of freedom, right? But I was no happier than any other Christmas since Pepper had died. Granted, Johanna and I were at an emotional standoff, but I was hoping to change that.

The sound of my phone ringing startled me, but I welcomed the interruption, activating my Bluetooth.

“Merry Christmas, Payton.”

Zach.

“Merry Christmas.”

“I hope it’s okay that I called. I don’t want to interrupt you if you’re with your family —”

“No, you’re fine. I’m driving down to my parents’ house right now.”

“Are you having a good day? I imagine Christmas might be hard for you.”

“Thanks. It’s going to be different . . . I think.”

“Okay. Should I ask what that means?”

“Why not? You’re partly to blame.”

That didn’t come out the way I meant it to.

“Let me start over.” I flexed my fingers on the steering wheel. Made sure I was driving the speed limit. “After I told you about what happened the night my sister died —how I talked her into switching places with me —I realized it was time to tell my family the truth too. And I did —back in October.”

“That’s fantastic.” When I didn’t respond, Zach lowered his voice. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes. And no. I mean, my parents and Jillian were amazing. They responded better than I ever imagined. But Johanna —”

“Your oldest sister, right?”

“Yes. She . . . didn’t understand.” Did I say more? Go into all the details of our argument?

“I’m sorry. Maybe you just need to give her time.”

“Maybe. Although Johanna and I have never been close, so things may never change no matter what I do.”

I stopped. This was an intense conversation when all Zach had done was call to say, “Merry Christmas.” Time to backpedal a bit. “Are you having a good day?”

He took the change in topic well. “I’m at the airport.”

“The airport? On Christmas Day?”

“Yep. At the gate, waiting to board my plane.”

“Are you going to see your parents?”

“For a few days. I’ll be back before New Year’s Eve. Don’t want to leave Laz for too long.”

“Is he in a kennel?”

“No, a friend is watching him for me. Kelsey loves taking care of Laz.”

Kelsey. Why had it never occurred to me that Zach probably had a girlfriend? I bet she was some cute, Christian girl —just perfect for him. Why did it matter to me, anyway?

“Sounds like fun.” And that comment made no sense at all. What sounded like fun? Kelsey watching Laz? “I’m almost at the exit for my parents’ house.”

“I’ll let you go then. Merry Christmas.”

“You, too.”

“Talk to you soon —and maybe we can do coffee or something when I get back.”

“Sure. Great.”

Now on top of everything I had to untangle myself from an unexpected, and unnecessary, snarl of jealousy toward Zach and some woman named Kelsey.

Could I just go back to bed and push restart on this day? Or skip it altogether?

As my parents’ house came into view, expectations burdened my heart again. I wanted more for my family. But maybe that was a bit like asking for a Christmas miracle, not unlike Frosty the Snowman coming to life and dancing through the town.

Mom’s “maybe” seemed to linger as I entered the house.

“Maybe, maybe we can figure out what our family looks like now.”

But how could we do that without changing? Without acknowledging that we were different —that what had happened changed us?

After Pepper died, we’d maintained our traditions. The same music my parents had played for years in the background, a mixture heavy on classic Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby and light on more contemporary songs. Brunch, complete with Mom’s eggs Benedict and mimosas and continual rounds of coffee. With the silence continuing between Johanna and me, maybe she wouldn’t comment on my sugar addiction. My parents seemed oblivious to the underlying tension threaded throughout the day. It was as if we’d been pulled into the holiday movie where toys were outlawed and everything was tinted gray.

My new and improved collection of presents tucked a warm sense of contentment inside me —each one was a sign that I was trying. Opening gifts waited until after brunch, everyone settling around the room, the packages piled beneath the tree. But before my parents could begin to distribute the gifts, Johanna stood and moved to the center of the room.

“Can we break with tradition today —just a little bit?” She scanned the family, her gaze settling on Jillian. “I know we usually open presents youngest to oldest, but I thought we could just give each other our presents. And I’d like to start with Jillian.”

If anyone was going to break a family custom, it would be Johanna.

And of course, she didn’t wait for approval from anyone. She was holding a card in a bright-red envelope, ready to present it to Jillian. The palm of one of her hands rubbed against the back of her other hand.

Just like our father did when he was nervous.

How had I never noticed that before?

Johanna sat beside Jillian, who now wore a knit cap to cover her bare head. She clung to her corner of the couch like she was stranded on a desert island, waiting for someone —Geoff, maybe? —to come rescue her. But he was absent —and so were his easygoing manner, his corny jokes, and his boisterous laugh. We all missed him, but the loss had erased any hint of joy from my sister.

A tiny smile curved Johanna’s lips as Jillian opened the card. Removed a small plastic bag. Held it up, turning it around.

Jillian’s brow furrowed. “What is this?”

“It’s a piece of my hair. You need to read the note that comes with it.” Johanna undid her chignon. Her hair, which used to fall almost to her waist, skimmed her shoulders. “Merry Christmas, Jilly. I donated my hair to Locks of Love in your name.”

“You what?” Jillian covered her mouth with her hand. “No . . . you can’t do that —”

Johanna ran both hands through her hair, shaking her head. “It’s done. And I don’t regret cutting it at all.”

My oldest sister donated her hair to charity? That was like Rapunzel cutting her own hair —and if I was honest, I often considered Johanna more like the evil not-really-Rapunzel’s-mother in the Disney remake.

A small chill coursed through me. Here I was hoping for my relationship with Johanna to improve and I was still thinking such awful things about her. Where was my Christmas spirit?

Jillian wrapped her arms around Johanna, pulling her close, and Johanna held on, tears streaming down both their faces.

The two of them had always been close, just like Pepper and I had been close. We were like a four-legged stool. Johanna and Jillian. Pepper and Payton. And then Pepper died and the Thatcher sisters were knocked off-kilter.

As Johanna leaned away from Jillian, a smile softened her features. A true smile, reaching all the way to her eyes.

Would I ever experience that kind of smile from my oldest sister?

When my turn came to give my gifts to the family, I tried to rein in my expectations. I wasn’t competing with Johanna. I was only trying to do more than I had in years past. But I couldn’t help but hold my breath when Johanna opened the Christmas card I’d added to her gift bag.

She glanced at the words inside. Closed the card. Slipped it back into the gift bag and thanked me for the bracelet and the gift card to Sephora.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Some relationships are set in emotional stone.

My vaulting act of honesty didn’t erase the strain from the family relationships. Johanna had ruled the day, setting the table, organizing the cleanup, and even establishing a new gift-giving tradition. And all the while, Beckett —the so-often Invisible Man now become visible —lingered on the edges of the activity.

I excused myself, claiming I needed some water, and retreated to the kitchen.

As Mom entered the kitchen, I retrieved a glass from the cabinet, aware of how much more I’d wanted for this day.

“Jillian’s going to lie down for a little while in the guest bedroom.”

“That’s understandable. I thought she was going to fall asleep during brunch.”

“Johanna and Beckett and your dad and I are going to play Sheriff of Nottingham. Do you want to join us?”

“No, thanks.” I filled my glass with ice and water. “I think I’ll find a quiet corner in the house and kick back for a bit.”

It wasn’t until I was standing outside my bedroom door that I realized my unspoken intention. I wrapped my fingers around the smooth brass doorknob. I hadn’t been inside this room in years —not since I’d left for college. Was I ready to breach the barrier?

I eased the door open a few inches. It was just a room. Four walls, a floor, a ceiling. Nothing more.

When I turned on the overhead light, I half expected Pepper to be sitting on the bed, waiting for me.

Absurd.

The room wasn’t untouched, left as some sort of sacred shrine to my sister. The walls were bare of all the items Pepper and I had decorated them with during high school. Our sports photos. Team pictures. A collage of news articles. Our full-length mirror was gone, our single beds replaced by a simple queen-size bed. The walls were painted a soft powder blue, not the vivid turquoise Pepper and I had begged for in an attempt to match our eyes. Over the desk that occupied one corner was a selection of family photos. A closer look revealed photos of Pepper and me from kindergarten up until our junior year. A small framed copy of my graduation photo ended the montage.

Did my parents ever come in here? Did they ever stand and look at these photos of their twin daughters, torn apart so unexpectedly by my stupidity?

What had Mom done with all our clothes? I’d never asked her. Hadn’t cared.

I pulled open the closet door. Once it had overflowed with a jumble of shirts, pants, dresses, shoes, and boots. Now one side was empty, while the other side held . . . what? I pulled out a hanger and stared at my old volleyball jersey. Number 13. Pulled out another hanger. Another jersey, this one number 11. Hanger after hanger held either my jerseys or Pepper’s —from our club seasons from sixth grade until our junior year. And at the very back of the closet were our crimson-and-white high school letter jackets.

Of everything we owned, my parents kept our volleyball jerseys?

I pulled my jacket from the hanger, slipping it on, the weight of it falling onto my shoulders. For just a moment, the years faded away and I was sixteen again, walking down the school hallway next to Pepper, my hair loose and cascading down my back. Pepper and I waving hello to teammates. Talking about upcoming games.

I slid my hands into the pockets, my fingertips finding something smooth and metallic in one of them.

What was that?

I pulled out my hand, a small key resting in my palm. It wasn’t on a key chain. Didn’t look like a car key. What was a key doing in the pocket of my letter jacket?

I returned the key to the pocket, taking off the coat and folding it over my arms. This was going home with me. If I thought about it long enough, I’d remember what the key was for.

Voices drifted up from the foyer as I came downstairs.

“Is this your warped idea of a Christmas present?” Johanna stood with her arms crossed, her back rigid.

“Johanna, be reasonable. I had to tell you sometime —”

“You decide to say, ‘Merry Christmas, Johanna. I’m not deploying for a year like we talked about. I’m taking another assignment even farther away from Colorado.’”

“Going to a year’s postgraduate study has advantages over going remote. And I said I haven’t made a final decision yet.”

“And now you’re lying to me. I know you, Beckett. You’ve already made up your mind.”

“Let’s get married this summer. Then you can come with me to Alabama.”

“We’ve talked about this over and over again. I’ve got a good job here. You agreed to the plan we talked about so we could get married and live here.”

“It always comes back to your job. There are plenty of hospitals that need a top-notch clinical pharmacist like you —” Beckett stopped as if he sensed my presence at the top of the stairs.

“Sorry to interrupt.” The poor guy looked like he’d been backed into a corner.

“You’re not interrupting anything.” Johanna didn’t even glance my way. “Beckett has to leave.”

“Johanna, we’re not done talking about this.” Beckett sounded ready to take my sister on. I had to believe the man hadn’t dated her for seven years without learning how to deal with her strong personality.

Beckett reached for her arm, but Johanna shrugged him off. “I am not talking about this. Not on Christmas.”

“Walk me out to my car.” Beckett’s words were a statement, not a question.

A few minutes later, Johanna found me in the family room saying good-bye to my parents.

“What’s that, Payton?” Mom asked.

“I found my letter jacket in the closet upstairs.” I held up my arm. “Is it okay if I take it home with me?”

“Absolutely. You don’t need to ask.”

Johanna followed me into the foyer again. I ignored her, gathering my coat, purse, letter jacket, and the reusable plastic bag that contained my gifts.

“I suppose you enjoyed watching that.”

“You and Beckett arguing? No, not really.” I buttoned my coat. “I’m sure you two will figure it out.”

“We will.”

If nothing else, witnessing my sister’s argument with her fiancé had gotten her to talk to me again. For all her bravado, was she bothered by her long-term, long-distance relationship with Beckett? Then why didn’t she just marry the guy?

Halfway home, as the sun set behind the Rocky Mountains off to the west, Geoff called.

“Merry Christmas, Payton.”

“Merry Christmas, Geoff. How are you?”

“Lonely. I saw my parents last night and now I’m eating Chinese takeout and having a Lord of the Rings movie marathon. How’s Jillian?”

“When I left my parents’, she was asleep in the guest bedroom. I think she’s planning on spending the night.” I eased my car over into the right lane. “How are you doing?”

“I miss her. I’m waiting for her to miss me.” Geoff cleared his throat. “But I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. That she’s not going to change her mind.”

“You may be right —” I stopped. It was cruel to tell a man to stop hoping, especially on Christmas Day.

“Don’t say that, Payton. I can wait however long it takes.”

“You haven’t talked to her at all since she broke off the engagement?”

“No. She ignored my texts and voice mails. So I stopped.”

Should I offer him any reason to hang on? “I can tell you that she looks tired, but you know that. She’s quiet. She also looks sad. I can’t help but believe she misses you.”

Was I even saying the right thing? What was I doing, trying to be the go-between for Geoff and my sister? Trying to be someone I wasn’t —a woman who could fix things that were broken when I still didn’t feel completely mended?

“The next time you talk to her, will you tell her I called, please?”

“Sure.”

It was the least I could do for the guy. As I exited the highway, lyrics from the traditional Christmas song wandered through my mind: “It’s the most wonderful time of the year . . .”

What a huge expectation to put on a single day of the year. To decide that this day, this season, was the most wonderful of every other time of the year. Children counted down the days to Christmas. Parents overloaded their credit cards to make the day perfect and regretted it for months later. We dressed it up with lights and tinsel and stars and festive fa-la-la, determined to ignore whatever pain or heartache we were experiencing because, well, Christmas was wonderful.

Or so everyone said and sang. And hoped and demanded.

When had Christmas been wonderful? The day came again and again after Pepper died, but I’d never recaptured any sense of joy, no matter how many years separated me from the loss of my sister. There was no “wonderful” in Geoff’s Christmas. Or Jillian’s. And if Johanna was honest, she’d admit to some disappointment woven through her Christmas expectations, too.

Maybe wonder-filled Christmases were only for children . . . whose hearts hadn’t been broken by life.