Thirteen
Maddox
2018
“Is that a birthday present for Kristmas?”
I flick a glance at the white box tied with a red ribbon I stole from Mia’s gift wrapping table on the seat beside me before flicking another one at the rearview mirror. Maggie is sitting in the back seat of my truck, secured in her car seat, but she’s craning her neck as far as she can in an attempt to see over the back of my seat.
“Yes.” I wait for her to ask me what it is. Where I got a present for Kris on such short notice. She doesn’t. She just sits back with a smug smile.
“I bet she likes my card better,” she says, waving the hand-drawn birthday card at me like it’s the Golden Ticket. “I used colored pencils and my special markers.”
I give her a low whistle. “You went all out, Magpie,” I say around a laugh as I dip off the highway, taking Lindburg’s only exit.
“That’s because Kristmas is special,” she says, aiming her gaze out her window. It’s not a question. It’s a fact. She doesn’t really expect an answer, so I don’t give her one. Mainly because I can’t. I can’t say what I feel without giving Maggie the wrong idea about what this is. About why we’re here.
This is a one-time shot. After today, I don’t expect to see Kris ever again. And we’re here because I’m an idiot. A stupid, soft-headed idiot who took one look at her and caved because I couldn’t stand the thought of her spending one more Christmas alone. Not when it’s her birthday too. Not when I could be there for her, even if it’s only once.
Turning onto Main Street, I go slow, minding the speed limit and the bustle of pedestrian traffic that flows up and down the sidewalk. Lindburg is one of those picturesque, postcard towns. Gas lamps and Gazebos. Cobblestone walkways and Gingerbread trim. I don’t have to look to know that it hasn’t changed. I don’t have to look to know I hate it here now as much as I did growing up.
“Magpie?” I say it carefully, need to make her understand what’s happening here. That none of this is real. That it won’t last. “Kris and I are just friends?” It’s a lie. A dirty, rotten lie but I tell it to her anyway because I don’t know what the truth is and even if I did, I don’t think I could say it to her out loud. “You get that right?”
“No.” I watch her brow crinkle, collapsing around the edge of her beanie. “She’s your best friend.”
I told her that once. More than once. When I was deployed, I’d call her when I could, shooting for bedtime so I could tuck her in over the phone. One time she asked for a bedtime story and there I was, stuck in some hot, dusty desert, not a kids’ book in sight. But I didn’t want to disappoint her so I told her about the time Kris and I got the idea to make a mud pit so we dug a hole in my backyard, big enough for the two of us to sit in up to our necks and filled it up with water. Somehow, over the years, stories about Kris became our thing. Even when I was stateside and had access to books, she didn’t want them. She wanted to hear about Kris. She became a legend. A larger-than-life myth, like the Tooth Fairy or Santa Claus. More than once, I’ve been accused of making her up altogether.
Part of me wishes that were true. That I did make her up. That Kris isn’t real. Because if she were just some made up fantasy in my head, she wouldn’t have to power to gut me the way she does, every single time I think about her.
“She is, Magpie,” I say, turning onto the street Kris and I grew up on. I can see our houses, side-by-side at the end of the cul-de-sac. “But we’re grown-ups now.” I park on the street, in front of my old house, and kill the engine. “It’s different.”
She frowns again, gaze still aimed out the window. “If you say so.” Her breath puffs against it as she leans her forehead against the glass. “Can we go inside now?”
“Sure.” I decide to quit while I’m ahead, popping my door open before scooping the gift box off the seat next to me. Moving around the rear of the truck, I open Maggie’s door and pull her out of her seat. As soon as her boots touch the sidewalk, she takes off, crunching through the snow, halfway up the walk before I can even get her door shut.
As soon as she’s on the front porch, she stops and waits, gesturing impatiently for me to move faster. Light and music spill through the windows. Jackson 5’s Santa Claus is Coming to Town. The tree they bought at the lot stands in front of the living room window, a bare sentry, waiting to be dressed. When I’m finally beside her, Maggie smooths her gloved hands down the front of her coat before squaring her shoulders and ringing the bell.