Her jaw was clenched so tightly that her teeth ached, but Stevie thought that was probably preferable to standing there with her hands balled into fists, looking like she wanted to punch somebody.
Her latest social worker, Natalie, a hideously cheerful woman who always insisted that whatever new family she stuck Stevie into could be “the one,” pressed the ornate, old-fashioned doorbell. A series of musical chimes rang somewhere deep inside the house. While they waited for Mrs. Kirby to answer the door—still so weird that her guidance counselor was going to be her foster mom—Stevie studied the fancy Victorian mansion in front of her. And that’s what it was—a mansion. Mrs. Kirby called it a “house,” but it was definitely more than that.
Beside Stevie were Hailey and Alissa, two young girls she’d just been informed were also going to be staying with Mrs. Kirby. They fidgeted and craned their necks to look around—but were absolutely silent. Stevie figured their stomachs were probably churning with the same emotions as hers: anger mixed with sprinkles of awe and heavy dollops of fear.
Eight-years-old and ten-years-old respectively, Hailey and Alissa were extraordinarily petite. They were like little fairies, unfairly placed in a cold, unfamiliar world—one dark-haired, one strawberry blond with coke bottle thick glasses. Stevie’s heart went out to them, much good as that ever did anyone. Her jaw clenched harder. Yes, Mrs. Kirby was a good person. But there was only so much even the best person could do, and the moment Natalie introduced Alissa and Hailey to Stevie and mentioned they were being fostered by Mrs. Kirby too, Stevie’s hope withered into a blackened, stringy thing. And that had surprised her—that she’d actually had a small tender morsel of hope in the first place. Was she totally stupid or what? She’d really thought she knew better by now. She wanted to say something reassuring to Hailey and Alissa. They were quiet, cute as buttons, and young. They stood a chance of finding a forever home, especially compared to her, but she said nothing. Little kids weren’t idiots, and from the bit Natalie said—and what she didn’t say—Stevie gleaned that these two had both been in the system a while already, hence their wariness. It didn’t matter how cute or sweet you were. There was no rhyme or reason to why some kids were born into love, or, at least, into families with the ability and desire to care for their offspring, while others got the opposite of those things. In fact, it was probably better—or safer, anyway—if you were a bit of an asshole like she was. At least she didn’t get messed with.
Stevie realized she had clenched her fists, after all. She forced them open and tried to look chill as the big shiny red door opened. Cozy heat and warm golden light spilled into the frigid evening air. And haloed by all that light was Mrs. Kirby herself, smiling and welcoming them in like she was genuinely excited they’d arrived.
“Finally,” she exclaimed. “You’re here!”
Stevie smiled despite her nerves. It was such a relief to be ushered inside. A huge part of her had been sure Mrs. Kirby would change her mind, positive her question that day in her office all those weeks ago, “How would you feel about coming to live with me?” had been asked out of kindness, not any sincere desire. And yet here Stevie was, days before Christmas, walking into a house that would’ve been the perfect setting for a Christmas movie, carrying all her worldly possessions. She hated herself for being so weak, but honestly, even if staying with Mrs. Kirby didn’t last long, it was better than the alternative—one that she knew better than to share with anyone. She was done with temporary placements and crappy group homes. There was a good chance her mom, AKA Marilyn, would show up again at some point. And if not? Well, she’d get a job or something. She had friends with street smarts—the only upside of the foster system, in her opinion. They’d help her find a place to squat until she could buy a secondhand car or something more permanent to stay in. She was only thirteen, but so what? Age was just a state of mind, right? That’s what Marilyn said all the time, anyway.
“Are you going to come in, Stevie, or do you need a minute alone?”
Stevie startled. She’d done that thing that so often got her into trouble at school: disappeared into her head. She wasn’t ignoring anyone or being “willfully disrespectful.”
She was just—doing it again. Rats!
She swallowed and tried to speak. Nothing came out. She cleared her throat and tried again. Successfully this time. “I’ll come in. Something smells really good. Thank you.”
“It’s roast chicken with veggies and mashed potatoes,” Mrs. Kirby said as if it was no big deal. “I hope you’re hungry.”
Stevie was always hungry.
Dinner surprised Stevie by not being as awkward as she feared. The food was delicious—and plentiful. Mrs. Kirby, who asked them to call her Maddie, insisted they should eat as much as they wanted—and seemed to mean it. She smiled when Stevie gobbled up seconds, then thirds, of creamy potatoes with to-die-for gravy. And when Stevie asked, “Is this gravy homemade?” Maddie gave a full-on grin. “You bet. I can teach you how to make it sometime if you want.”
Stevie did want that. She wanted that a lot—and even if it would never come to pass, it was very kind of Maddie to offer.
There was another girl at Mrs. Kirby’s too, a fifteen-year-old named Jo, who’d arrived the night before. Jo was the type of girl that Stevie found intimidating at school: well-spoken, tall and slim, and somehow polished and put together looking, even though, at a second glance, her clothes were almost as ragged as Stevie’s. She seemed nice, though—and smiled shyly at Stevie more than once, which was not how most pretty, obviously smart older girls usually reacted to her baggy jeans, gray sweatshirt, board shoe wearing self. At best, she was invisible to them. At worst—well, there was no “worst” anymore. They’d learned the hard way to leave her alone.
The rest of the evening was surprisingly comfortable too. Stevie had stayed at places where after meals, heck, during meals, people were as silent and expressionless as stones—and about as friendly. But Maddie was the same way in her home that she was at school. She had this gentle, no-pressure way of letting you talk or not, whatever you were more comfortable with, that Stevie appreciated, and that put them all at ease. And she told funny stories and asked interesting questions but didn’t try too hard.
When no one could eat another bite, Jo offered to help with the dishes, and Stevie got up too, starting to clear plates.
Maddie insisted she didn't need any help with the dishes, saying she’d take care of them later, adding lightly that maybe there would be a chore chart or something in the future.
Stevie was crestfallen. Maybe it was dumb, but she wanted to do the dishes—wanted to give back in some little way, to not just be a total freeloader. Maddie must have sensed as much because she nodded Stevie's way. “Of course, if you really want to load the dishwasher, you can, but tonight’s supposed to be a special treat. I don't want you to feel any pressure.”
Stevie knew it was stupid, but she practically jumped up from the table.
There was something very weird and nice about doing dishes while other people chatted in a friendly, homey way. Maddie outlined possible plans for the next few days, including going shopping in town for little gifts for each other. Then she suggested, almost shyly, that it was her family’s tradition—one she’d like to continue if they were game—to write letters to Santa.
Write a letter to Santa? Stevie hadn't written a letter to Santa since, well, since she was much smaller than Alissa and Hailey, put it that way.
But she felt so grateful to be in this cozy place, surrounded by greenery, twinkling lights, and not just one but two huge Christmas trees, that she couldn't help but get caught up in the excitement that Alissa and Hailey were obviously feeling.
As they were getting paper and picking pencils, Jo caught Stevie’s eye and quirked one eyebrow the tiniest bit, not rudely and not in a making fun of Maddie way, but just enough to say, “I know, right? Pretty weird!”
And it was a bit weird, yes, but it was also just one more thing to like about Maddie. That she saw the four of them, a collection of unwanted mutts, as people who should get to do something as simple and fun as write to Santa. That she would act like there might actually be a chance, any chance at all, for the four of them to have wishes that came true.
They each settled in various parts of the house to write. Stevie chose the “family room,” which, as far as Stevie could tell, was just a word you used when you had more than one “living room” and needed to distinguish between the similar spaces. Initially, the huge armchair set near a legit, 100 percent real fireplace that crackled cheerily away seemed the perfect place to jot a note. Now, however, contemplating the sheet of ivory stationery lying atop the hardcovered book she was using as a makeshift desk, Stevie wished she hadn’t just loaded the dishwasher. She should’ve scrubbed the pots and pans too. Anything would be better than staring at a blank page.
She chewed the end of her purple pencil lightly, then caught herself and stopped. She didn’t want Maddie to think she was mistreating her property.
Okay, here goes nothing, Stevie finally decided. With great resolve, she bowed her head and joined the other girls who were quietly scribbling away in various cozy spots around the big Christmas tree.
Dear Santa,
You already know who I am, but in case you've forgotten (as the jaded side of me says you obviously have), my name is Stevie Fox. I am thirteen. I am staying at Mrs. Madeline Kirby’s house for a while. She’s my guidance counselor at school and is the person who figured out my mom bailed (again). She didn’t think it was “appropriate” for me to live alone in our apartment and called social services. Not gonna lie. It kind of pissed me off, but I get she was just doing her job. Also, rent was due, and since I had (have!) no money, I would’ve gotten busted anyway.
Her husband and daughter were killed in an accident. I heard some teachers talking about it at the gossip factory, aka my school. That’s only relevant because it makes me think she knows how life can really suck and how there’s nothing you can do about it. Also, it makes me feel like things could be worse. My mom isn’t dead, after all.
Maddie (she asked us to call her that, so I’m not being disrespectful) also noticed that every foster home and group home I got stuck in sucked worse than the last one.
It’s weird that I'm looking forward to Christmas this year. I’m okay if it lets me down, but I really hope it will be nice for the other girls, especially Hailey and Alissa because they’re little.
Stevie contemplated her cramped handwriting, forced herself not to cross anything out, and flipped the page. Jo, who was also nestled in the family room, almost out of view beside the big Christmas tree, still seemed to be writing, so Stevie wrote some more, too.
Maddie said this thing at dinner about being grateful. It kind of freaked me out—that she would still be grateful after everything she’s been through. She’s a good person, and anyone who gets to stay with her long term is super lucky. I know that’s not me, and I get it, but I’ll try to follow her example anyway. I’m grateful that I'm here right now. I already know I'm going to be a really hard worker and that I’ll be able to take care of myself, but getting to stay at Maddie’s, even for a little while, is a much-needed break.
Sincerely,
Stevie Fox
P.S. Maddie says we’re supposed to ask for something. I don’t cook very much, but I think I would like to. Food is good—makes you grow and all that (though I’ll probably always be a short dwarf), but even better, it makes me feel good. And when you eat with other people, it just feels . . . good. (I’m sorry I keep using the word “good” so much. My English teacher would definitely give me marks off for not being specific, but you’re Santa and this isn’t for marks, so SUCK IT, Mr. B!!!) Anyway, back to the point. I think you've eaten enough milk and cookies in your life, that you probably have a really kick-ass cookie recipe. So yeah, I would like your favorite Christmas cookie recipes. Yeah, that's right. It being Christmas, this being a wish list, I am asking for not just one cookie recipe, but all your faves. (Ha ha! I’m so greedy, hey?)
P.P.S. I totally get it if you can't share your recipes with me. No worries.
It was late when they finished their Christmas letters, so Maddie took them on a tour of the rest of the house, including their sleeping arrangements.
Even though Stevie didn't know Jo very well at all, the second-floor room Maddie chose for her seemed perfect. It looked like a study—or what she imagined a “study” to look like having only ever read about them in books. Jo looked shyly excited too, and Stevie’s stomach squeezed with happiness. It was nice when something worked out.
Then Maddie showed Alissa and Hailey their bedroom, also on the second floor. She said she thought they might enjoy rooming together more than being alone in separate rooms, and from their matching smiles and the little giggle that Hailey let out, she was right.
While the other girls washed up and brushed their teeth, Maddie pulled Stevie aside. “The room I have in mind for you is on the main floor like mine.”
Stevie had no idea what to expect and swallowed hard as she followed Maddie back downstairs, then toward a heavy oak door that opened just off the kitchen of all things.
Maddie’s hand rested on the door’s small antique knob, but she didn’t open it right away. “This room is a bit . . . unique. I think it was a pantry of some kind, but that it also did double duty as a room for kitchen help or a live-in maid or something.” Maddie laughed. “Not that I'm implying I expect or want you to be my maid. I just thought there was something, I don’t know, sort of homey or nostalgic about the room that you, with all the reading you do, might appreciate. The bed is built into the back wall, and there's a big old apple barrel beside it—over one hundred years old. It kind of amazes me. Through all the renovations and changes in owners this house has seen, no one ever got rid of. And the room still smells softly of apples, even after all these years. Plus, there’s a big built-in bureau—”
Maddie interrupted herself with a gusty inhale. “I’m talking your ear off! Just come and have a peek.”
Stevie's mind reeled. She honestly would’ve slept on a pullout in Maddie’s living room and thought herself awesomely lucky. She fully expected the “unique” room to be great because how could any space in this house not be—and yet she was still unprepared for the burst of emotions that sizzled through her when Maddie clicked on a light and Stevie followed her over the threshold. She gasped.
“Are you all right?” Genuine concern laced Maddie’s voice.
Stevie could only nod. Then she felt a smile start all the way down in her belly and spread through her body with a tingle. She understood what Maddie meant; it did look like it had probably been servants’ quarters at some time in history—but quarters designed by someone who had appreciated their servant, at least.
The entire space, from floor to walls to low ceiling, was constructed of gleaming, time-burnished wood. In the soft light of the overhead bulb, each crook, cranny, and surface glowed a warm welcome. On the far end of the room, which was ten steps away, if that, the built-in-bed—a nook really—that Maddie had mentioned, was made up with soft white linens, a poufy duvet (also in white), and three plump pillows.
Stevie turned slightly and there, just behind her, beside the door, was the built-in “bureau” Maddie referred to. Stevie was glad to have a name for it because she would’ve just called it a dresser. The mirror had gold detailing around its edges that caught the light and sparkled.
Maddie waited, expecting a comment of some kind, Stevie guessed—but she couldn’t speak. Could only gawk some more, take in yet another detail.
The two walls running between the bureau and bed were not actually “walls” at all. They were floor-to-ceiling shelves. And there was the awesome apple barrel, near the head of the bed, like the most perfect bedside table ever. Stevie closed her eyes for a minute. Yes, Maddie was right. The softest hint of summer ripened apples kissed her senses. She opened her eyes again.
“This is really where you want me to stay while I’m here?”
Maddie gave her a searching look. “Is that all right?”
Stevie’s face flamed. “All right? No, it’s perfect. So cozy and snug and . . . ” She’d been about to add safe, but that sounded so lame. “I . . . love it.”
“Me too! I could never bring myself to change it or remodel it. The only changes this room has seen since the house was built was that someone installed a light and an electrical socket, long before my husband and me—” Maddie’s voice cracked a little on the last word, and Stevie thought she knew how Maddie felt. Grief and missing a person punched extra hard sometimes, usually when you least expected it. “Anyway,” Maddie continued after a breath, “I’m especially glad now that I didn’t change it. It must’ve been meant for you all along.”
The casual comment did something funny to Stevie’s sinuses. She coughed and turned away from Maddie. As lovely a thought as that was—that something good could’ve been meant for her all along—and as much as she’d enjoyed every minute of her night here at Maddie’s house, guilt suddenly soured Stevie’s stomach. Wherever Marilyn was, she was definitely not having as nice a time—and whether she did a crap job of it or not, Marilyn was her mother. Wasn’t Stevie meant for her all along?
“Um, I’m really tired. Can I go to bed now?”
“Of course, honey.” Maddie’s head tilted as if silently adding, “Are you okay?”
Stevie pretended she didn’t notice the silent query, said thanks, and slipped back to the main entrance where her backpack and a small black garbage bag holding all her other belongings sat by her jacket and sneakers.
She had just finished brushing her teeth in the main floor’s washroom when there was a light tap on the door.
“No rush at all, but do you need anything before I go up to check on Alissa, Hailey, and Jo?”
Stevie spat into the sink. “No. I’m good. Thanks.”
After a moment, Maddie spoke again. “Okay, sweet dreams. See you in the morning.”
Stevie carefully rinsed the white ceramic basin, making sure not one speck of toothpaste lingered. She waited until she heard Maddie’s footsteps on the stairs, then slung her pack over her shoulder, scooped up the garbage bag, and eased out of the bathroom. Checking both ways, she zipped down the hall, slipped through the dining room, and found the kitchen.
Finally, she was tucked into that little room and burrowing into that crisp, clean nest of a bed. Her sinuses were still full, and her eyes were itchy and hot. She stared up at the inky blackness above her and willed away dark thoughts. Forced herself to imagine, instead, all the kinds of desserts and dishes the person who’d stayed in this room before her might have made with all those apples once stored here.
Stevie stretched in the luxurious bed, loving the smooth cotton against her bare legs and reveling in the scent of coffee wafting to her room and the soft clank of dishes from whoever was already up and puttering in the kitchen. It was one of the best parts of this bedroom, the homey feeling of being included—when she wasn’t even in the room yet!
Suddenly her eyes flashed open. It was Christmas morning! She was hit with very conflicting feelings: Excitement. Disappointment. She was thrilled the big day was here. She, Jo, Alissa, Hailey, and Maddie had been looking forward to it so much. The downside to its arrival, however, was a biggie. It meant, no doubt, that her time here would wrap up soon.
The last few days had been a lovely, surreal blur of shopping, baking, playing board games, and visiting with Maddie's mother, Claire. There were so many highlights that Stevie couldn't have picked any particular favorites. No wait, that was a lie. Three things did stand out.
The first occurred when Stevie helped Hailey decorate a sugar cookie, and Hailey had looked up at her with a big grin instead of her usual tentative smile. “I always wanted a big sister with hair like mine.”
Her comment made Stevie choke on her cookie. Hailey's hair was a lovely strawberry blond, so soft and shiny and gently curly that she looked like a little angel. Stevie's mop was definitely more carrot than strawberry—but she didn't want to put her low self-esteem on this precious kid, so she just smiled. “I used to daydream about having sisters too.”
Her words made everyone go quiet for a second. Then Jo and Alissa both exclaimed, “Me too!” at the same time. The whole table laughed.
The other really special moment wasn’t a moment at all; it was a constant so wonderful it made her heart hurt even though she was happy to be a part of it. Stevie was awed by Maddie and Claire, Maddie’s mother, and couldn’t help but watch them. They were like some really funny, really heartwarming, really educational TV show or something. She didn’t have any experience with other adult daughter/mother relationships, and she didn’t know if Maddie and Claire were the norm or what, but studying them made her think. She hadn’t been enough for her mom obviously, and/or, one could argue, her mom was bad at the whole parenting thing. But in her mom’s defense, Marilyn had never had anyone like Claire around to love her either. That was what was so cool about Maddie and Claire. You could see their love for each other, even when they were teasing each other—maybe especially then. For as long as Stevie had been with Marilyn, it was always just the two of them. She couldn't help but wonder. . . . Maybe if Marilyn had someone like Claire in her life, things would have gone really differently than they had. But that was too sad for Christmas.
Stevie popped out of bed and smoothed down the beautiful flannel nightie Maddie had given her the night before. Feeling like a little kid, she bounced into the kitchen to help prep a breakfast feast to enjoy after gift opening.
“Merry Christmas!” Hailey and Alissa yelled the second they entered the room, making her grin.
“Merry Christmas, weirdos,” she muttered back—and everyone laughed. It made her feel silly and warm inside. Instead of side eying her, they seemed to totally get her sense of humor.
“Perfect timing!” Maddie announced. “Let’s open presents.”
Stevie was touched by Hailey’s gift: a little notebook with a fox on its front cover. Even more adorable was Hailey’s shy whisper, “I thought you’d like it because of your name. Get it?”
“I do get it. Good one,” Stevie whispered back, “and I love it. Thank you.”
Stevie immediately knew what she was going to use it for: writing out any recipes or cooking instructions Maddie gave her, so she could keep them always.
Jo had gotten her a little gift too: a rechargeable flashlight. The others seemed mildly surprised by the gift, murmuring, “Oh, nice . . .” in a not quite convincing way as if relieved Jo hadn’t gotten them flashlights. But Stevie laughed with loud, surprised delight—at the gift, but also at the bubbly glee rising up in her. She and Jo had an inside joke! She’d read about inside jokes before but had never had one. The first thing Jo said when she saw Stevie's wonderful room their first morning was, “It’s perfect, but you need a light to read in bed!”
After the last gift was opened, they all galloped back to the kitchen and did the final work toward their Christmas breakfast feast. And that was highlight number three. Stevie loved every minute of being directed by Maddie about how to do this or mix that, and she was beyond thrilled when Maddie asked if she could follow a recipe.
“I think so, yeah,” she said—and Maddie got her to make blueberry waffles all by herself! The chore took on even more special significance when she discovered that blueberry waffles for Christmas brunch were part of Maddie and her husband and daughter’s holiday tradition.
Later that night, while everybody played with their gifts and visited some more, Stevie replayed the day, recalling each moment in as much detail as possible, wanting to commit it all to memory, so she could pull it out again and again in the future. It wasn't the gifts that made the day so special. It wasn’t even the food. It was that she'd never been surrounded by people who were so happy to be together. Even when she was quiet, lost in her thoughts from time to time—or the others were—it felt like they all belonged. And suddenly, just like that, it was too much.
Stevie needed to be alone. She asked Maddie if she could go sit on the porch for a bit.
“Of course. Let me get you a blanket.”
Stevie hadn’t been outside in the big wicker rocking chair for long when Maddie joined her, two cups of hot chocolate in hand.
“I know the last thing you probably want right now is something else to eat, but I thought hot chocolate out on the porch, surrounded by the crispy snow and the stars above, felt extra Christmassy.”
Stevie smiled. It really did.
“Also, I wanted to check in with you. It’s been such a wonderful Christmas for me, but it feels bittersweet too. I wondered if it’s the same for you.”
Stevie nodded. That was the thing about Maddie—why she was so loved not only by her but by all the kids at school. She just . . . got you.
“I don’t know.” Stevie gestured at the big house behind her, its windows glowing with Christmas lights and shadows of its happy occupants flitting past here and there. “This is all so great, but it also sucks, you know?”
Maddie nodded.
“Part of me feels awful having fun when my mom probably isn’t . . . and when, like, I don't know where she is.”
“I get that.”
“She’s not a totally bad person, you know. She’s not.”
Maddie nodded again. “I know.”
“And when you asked if I would like to live with you and I said yes, I meant it. I really did. But I also know it's not possible.”
Maddie’s head tilted as if Stevie’s last comment confused her. She sank onto a bench beside the wicker rocking chair and pulled a piece of Stevie's blanket over her lap.
“What do you mean ‘not possible?’”
“Just that, well . . .” For a second, Stevie couldn't find the words, but then she spoke in a rush. “Jo, Alissa, Hailey . . . They don't have moms. They don't have families. They’re free to live here with you forever if that's what you all want. But that's not how it is for me.”
Maddie looked down and was uncharacteristically quiet for a long time.
Here it comes, thought Stevie. I'm right. My mom’s already shown up again, or Natalie’s told Maddie I have to go back to a group home or something because I have a parent. Maddie probably just wanted to spare me the bad news until after Christmas because, of course, she’s nice like that.
Finally, Maddie spoke. “When I asked if you wanted to live with me, Stevie, I wasn’t just asking out the blue. I’d already asked Natalie how it would work and if it would be possible—not because I care whether the arrangements will be difficult—no matter how difficult they are, I’ll see them through—but because I didn't want to disappoint you again. You've already had enough disappointments for a whole lifetime, and then some.”
Stevie tucked her half of the blanket around herself a little more tightly and waited for it. “But?” she asked.
“No buts. For as long as your mom is not here, this is your home. And if, when, your mom shows up again, we’ll take it from there. If you need—or want—to live with her again, I want you to know you’ll always have a home here with me too.”
“Really?” It sounded to Stevie like Maddie was saying that she was going to be there for her from here on out, no matter what—that it didn't matter what the details were. Everything would just be okay. Maddie would always watch out for her.
She hadn't realized she'd expressed that thought aloud until Maddie squeezed her shoulder and said, “Yes, that's exactly what I mean. You got it.”
Stevie had watched a lot of Christmas specials on TV. She'd sang Christmas carols and heard a zillion of them on the radio. She'd read countless books containing Christmas “themes” as Mr. B. would say, but until that moment, she’d never understood how truly merry and perfect—and life-changing—a Christmas really could be.
“I’m . . . I’m just going to sit out here a little while longer,” Stevie said.
“You bet. Take all the time you need.” Maddie got to her feet—and was almost at the door when Stevie whispered, “Maddie?”
“Yeah?”
Stevie swallowed against the hard lump in her throat. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Aw, sweetie . . . you’re so welcome. Merry Christmas.”