15

A CRAZY KIND OF CHRISTMAS

When I go downstairs on December 24th, I discover that decorations have taken over the house: There’s a garland and a crèche on the mantle, a big plastic snowman in the front yard, and white lights strung everywhere. It’s way more decorations than we usually have.

“Did you stay up all night doing this?” I ask my mom while she hangs mistletoe between the living room and the kitchen. “The house is drowning with holiday spirit.”

“It’s Christmas, Meals. We should try to have a nice holiday.” She blinks her eyes and I know she’s trying not to cry. “The twins having been looking forward to Christmas since July.”

I keep it to myself that the holiday overload makes Toby’s diagnosis seem sadder and walk around the pine-scented house in a daze. Everything feels different, wrong, and unreal. Even Kepler is off. She can’t get comfortable in her usual spots and has no interest in her peanut butter Kong.

After lunch, when my parents have left to do last-minute shopping before picking up Toby and I’ve cajoled Sam and Kepler to watch A Christmas Story with me, Ray calls.

“Hey,” I say. I feel happy to talk to someone who isn’t related to me. “What’s going on?”

“Work is horrendous. This is like the first time all day that I’ve had time for a break. What’s going on?”

“Toby’s coming home.”

“Really? Awesome. When?”

“Today.”

“So he’s okay? Better?”

“I guess. I guess he’s okay enough to come home.”

“I can’t wait to see him,” she says. “Do you think it will be weird?”

I close my eyes. Is it going to be weird to see my brother for the first time in eighteen days? Is it going to be weird to see my brother, the schizophrenic? My brother, the mentally ill person? My brother, who sees and hears things that don’t exist?

“Meals? You there?”

“I’m here. What are you doing tonight? CinnaYum! closes early, right?”

I know Ray knows that I totally blew off her question, but because she’s Ray she just goes with it. “I’m here till four. My mom is going to her sister’s, but there’s no way I’m spending Christmas there.”

“Yeah.” Part of me wants to invite her over. Thinking about her alone in her house, smoking, watching bad TV, and looking for eBay deals makes me feel bad. But the other part of me, the bigger part, is scared that it will be weird with Toby back.

“My break is way over. I should go sell more cancer-causing sugary shit to the drones.”

That’s what Toby said, I think with a start. That’s a Tobyism! “Okay. We’ll do something soon.”

“For sure. Tell Toby I can’t wait to see him.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“You too.”

After A Christmas Story ends, I go up to my room and dig out the documentary Abdi lent me. He actually drove past me waiting for the bus, parked his car, and ran out to give it to me. It was weird and a little embarrassing, but I guess kind of nice, too. I remember when his family moved here, because the elementary school made huge banners welcoming Abdi and his siblings and there was a big article in the paper about their journey from Somalia to life in a small upstate town. It seems random that I just started talking to him this year. “All right, Sherman’s March,” I say to Kepler. “Let’s see how awesome you are.” Honestly, I just want to be distracted from looking at the time every five seconds.

Although it starts slowly, I start to get into it. It begins with this Southern filmmaker Ross McElwee talking about how he’s going to make a movie about General Sherman’s march through the South, but then it turns into this film mostly about him meeting women and traveling to the places Sherman went. It’s not like reality TV at all; he’s really thoughtful. What he says doesn’t sound at all scripted or rehearsed—it just sounds truthful. I also like how he has the camera linger on seemingly random shots, or moves it to something unexpected, like a bunch of little kids pressed against a screen door, when the action is someplace else. It’s kind of weird, but honest and smart. It’s interesting that a white girl from upstate New York and a guy from Somalia could both like it. I learn from Wikipedia that the filmmaker is an old guy from North Carolina who teaches at Harvard. After it’s over, even though it’s long, I kind of want to watch it again, but Sam yells, “Toby’s home! Toby’s home! Toby’s home!”

I take a deep breath and walk downstairs, where my brother is standing in the middle of the living room, holding his backpack. He looks a little pale and more unshaven than I’ve ever seen him, but pretty much the same. Sam and David stare at him like he’s just landed from outer space.

My grandmother comes out from the kitchen and gives Toby a huge hug, but I lamely just pat him on the arm.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” I tell him. “I totally missed you.”

He nods.

I wonder what would happen if I gave him a movie quote, but I don’t.

“Do you want something to eat?” my mom asks.

“How about something to drink?” my grandmother adds quickly. “I bought you Coke.”

Toby sits down on the couch and starts bouncing his knees up and down. “Coke is good.”

“Can I have a Coke?” David asks. I have to give him credit that he never stops trying to get in on the action.

“No,” my mom says.

My grandmother comes back with Toby’s soda.

“We’re having pulled pork and garlic mashed potatoes for dinner tonight,” Sam tells Toby. “We chose it because it’s your favorite.”

“Thanks.”

I wonder if he remembers that, other than the year my dad got the flu, we haven’t had a single Christmas Eve when we didn’t have Lobster Newberg.

“Are you tired?” my mom asks.

“A little.”

“Do you want to take a nap? We won’t eat for an hour or so.”

Toby stands up. “Yeah. Maybe I will take a nap.”

“Okay,” my mom tells him. “Have a good rest, honey.”

How can Toby Anderson be practically speechless? I want to do something, I want him to do something, but instead I silently watch him leave. Then I drag Kepler on a walk she doesn’t want to go on.

Two hours later, Toby still hasn’t emerged from his room. Sam and David are delirious with hunger and my dad looks like he might punch someone. He keeps wanting to wake Toby, but my grandmother and mother tell him not to. I walk past Toby’s door about ten times, wondering if I should knock, but I don’t.

When he finally comes downstairs, he seems clueless that he’s made the rest of us wait for so long. He picks at his food, says very little, and then, instead of joining the rest of us to watch A Charlie Brown Christmas, he goes up to his room.

“It’s been a long day,” my grandmother tells my parents. I think she means it’s been a long day for Toby so they shouldn’t blame him for not wanting to hang out.

My dad nods in agreement. “I’ll say.” I think he means that he’s had a long day since he picked up his oldest child from the psychiatric ward of the hospital.

My mom doesn’t say anything, and for a minute, I feel the sorriest for her.

My parents are not dumb enough to make Sam and David wait for Toby to open their Christmas presents. The four of us watch them tear into their gifts, leaving a sea of wrapping paper under the tree.

By noon, when the twins are already bored with their new games and the dishwasher is humming with breakfast and lunch dishes, I notice that my mom keeps looking upstairs.

I pause Die Hard. “I could go knock on his door.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “The books I’ve been reading say it’s important that . . . that he have his own space. I don’t want to bother him. But he should take his meds.”

“I’ll knock,” I say to her. In the movie version, I tell myself as I walk upstairs, the sister knocks on her brother’s door and reminds him to come down for Christmas.

There’s music coming from Toby’s room so I force myself to knock.

“What?” He sounds annoyed.

“It’s me. Can I come in?”

There’s a pause and a softer, “Okay.”

I open the door. Toby still hasn’t shaved and is wearing ratty blue sweatpants and a baggy white T-shirt. His room has an artificial orange smell since my mom cleaned it last weekend. She didn’t throw anything away except the obvious garbage, but she put all the papers into folders and stacked them neatly on his desk on top of all his notebooks. She also washed, folded, and hung up all his clothes. I wonder if he noticed or thanked her.

“What are you doing?”

“Writing,” Toby says.

“Yeah?”

“I’m writing a book.”

“Really? That’s cool.” I feel like Toby is the same old Toby. He’s so the kind of guy who would just write a book. The same way he taught himself to juggle, do cartwheels, and play guitar.

He shrugs. “It’s okay. I have a lot of work to do.”

“Well, I’m sure you can do it. So, Sam and David opened their presents ages ago.”

“Today’s Christmas, right?”

“All day.”

“I didn’t buy anyone any presents.”

“‘I know how you feel about all this Christmas business, getting depressed and all that. It happens to me every year. I never get what I really want.’”

Toby looks at me blankly.

“It’s what Lucy says to Charlie Brown in A Charlie Brown Christmas.” Why did I say “depressed”?! He just came home from the hospital! Why would you go bombarding him with random quotes? You weren’t going to do that! “Sorry. Totally random.”

He shrugs.

“I did horribly with the present-giving this year, too. No one cares. We all understand . . . You’ve been away.”

“To the loony bin. The fifth floor. The psych ward.” He puts air quotes around “psych ward.”

I’m not sure how to respond. “Did Mom and Dad tell you I’m finally taking Driver’s Ed?”

“That’s nice. I’m not supposed to drive Prudence till they get my meds right.” He rolls his eyes.

Thinking of Prudence just sitting in the garage nearly brings me to tears. But I’m not about to start crying in front of my brother. I take a deep breath. “I just started Die Hard aka Best Christmas Movie Ever. Want to watch it?”

Last year Toby would have said something like, “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker. Do I want to watch it?” But this year he just shakes his head no. “I’m kind of busy.”

“I saw this random documentary yesterday. Sherman’s March. You’d like it. That guy Abdi Osman lent it to me. Want to watch that?”

He shakes his head.

We don’t say anything for a few minutes. Toby turns up the volume on a song I’ve never heard.

“I’m so happy to have my music back,” he says. “It sucked not having any music. It helps me, you know, to have music to listen to.”

“Yeah.” Am I supposed to ask him about his illness? What do I say?

“Do you want to come downstairs? Dad made bacon.”

He shrugs. “I guess.” He turns to follow me out of his room. I’m a little surprised that he’s not changing out of the sweats, but I guess nothing should surprise me anymore.

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The rest of the day drags, which I remind myself happens every year, not just this one. I get the usual Christmas presents: money, gift cards, three movies that were on my Amazon wish list, a bag that I sort of like from my grandmother, and SmartWool socks. Toby doesn’t seem that interested in his presents, and after everything is unwrapped he excuses himself.

My mom looks at him. “Where are you going?”

“My room.”

My grandma shakes her head. “But you just came down, honey.”

“It’s Christmas, Toby,” my mom says.

Toby shrugs. “Do I have to stay?”

My mom tears up. “Well, you don’t have to. But we’d like you to.”

Toby ignores her and heads upstairs. After we hear his bedroom door close, my mom covers her face with her hands.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Sam asks.

“Do you boys want to go skating?” Harry asks. “We’ll have the Huguenot pond to ourselves.”

“I hate ice skating,” David says. “My feet always freeze and I don’t have hockey skates. Can’t I play Xbox hockey?”

My dad shakes his head. “Wear extra socks. You’re going skating, boys. Thanks, Harry.”

“My pleasure,” Harry says.

“I’ll get my things,” my grandmother says. “Want to join us, Amelia?”

“No thanks, Grandma.”

After the skating contingency leaves, I throw Kepler’s new squirrel toy to her out in the yard. After a few minutes she refuses to give it back and plops herself down on a mound of snow to chew it alone. I go back inside and up to my room. Feeling very Sam-like, I hang my face over the edge of the bed. There are a few dust bunnies next to the schizophrenia books my dad gave me. I imagine picking them up and reading something, but my phone rings.

“Happy birthday, little baby Jesus,” Epstein croons in a bad Elvis impersonation.

I laugh. “Yeah. Happy birthday, baby Jesus.”

“How’s it going? Good loot?”

“Money, gift cards.”

“Me too. And a new and improved iPad mini.”

“That’s pretty good for someone who’s half-Jewish.” I feel like I’m going to cry all of a sudden.

“Are you okay, Amelia? You sound funny.”

“Yeah.” It comes out in a snort.

“Sure? You sound upset.”

I take a deep breath. “No, I’m okay. Toby came home. Yesterday.”

“He did? That’s great.” It’s weird how much Epstein sounds like Ray. Because they don’t get it, I think. Normally if someone had a broken leg or pneumonia it would be great for them to get out of the hospital, because they’d be recovered. I think about how everyone in my family is totally miserable right now. Except maybe Toby. He seems clueless.

“It’s terrific,” I say miserably.

“I just read a very interesting book,” Epstein says cheerfully. “It’s called Henry’s Demons. And it’s written by a father and son—they alternate chapters. The son, Henry, is schizophrenic. Like Toby.”

A whoosh of cold air swirls from my heart into my stomach.

“It was really insightful,” Epstein says.

Why is Epstein reading books about schizophrenia? And why is he using words like insightful?

Impulsively, I hit end. I can’t believe I just hung up on my boyfriend. Because he read a book? What’s wrong with me?

I call him back. “Sorry,” I lie. “I lost you for a second.”

“That’s okay. I was babbling. Do you want to come down for New Year’s Eve? Holden wants to organize a party, but it’ll probably be the usual crew hanging out.”

I think of the walls of books in Epstein’s apartment and the way the sun looks in his room at five o’clock. Even though it’s in the middle of a city, it seems especially peaceful right now. “That would be fun,” I say. “But I’m not sure I can. You know, with everything. I’ll ask my mom.”

To my surprise, my mom says it’s totally fine for me to spend New Year’s Eve in the city with Epstein. She and my dad will be at Ginger’s for a prix-fixe dinner, and the twins are spending the night at Ryan’s, because my grandmother and Harry have dinner plans with friends. But my mom is planning to leave Ginger’s before ten, and my grandmother won’t be out that late either, so Toby won’t be alone for too long. Not that it would really matter, as he’s barely left his room all week.

I feel like the kid in The Sixth Sense and my brother’s the ghost. Or maybe he’s the kid and we’re all ghosts to him. Either way, I feel like someone has died.

“You really think it’s okay?” I ask my mom.

She’s sitting in front of the big mirror on her dresser, tweezing her eyebrows. “Staying home won’t do anything. Go see Epstein. Your last visit got cut short. You can have a life, Meals. It’s good for you to go out and do things.”

I swallow hard. I know that I didn’t cause Toby’s schizophrenia, but I also don’t feel good about going and doing things. “Epstein’s friends are having a party. Maybe Toby would like . . .” But I don’t finish the thought. If this was last year and Toby was still Toby, I’d offer to bring him with me, which he’d never agree to anyway, because he would have had plans. Last New Year’s he had three or four parties he needed to “make an appearance” at. But, if for some reason he did go with me, everyone would have loved him. Ramona, Chloe, and Holden would all get big crushes on him and Epstein would finally know what I meant when I said my brother was so cool. Last year Toby would have been the life of any party in any city, but this year I can’t imagine him going anywhere at all.