chapter
9

Reb didn’t come home from college until Thanksgiving. She was stunned and offended to find a completely different family. “Who are you guys, anyway?” Reb demanded of Michael and Lily. “I don’t even know you!”

Perhaps she had assumed that her family would stay exactly the same. She would dip into Lily and Michael and Mom and Kells and Nathaniel, as one dipped a toe into water at the pool, and they would be the same temperature, color and depth they had been before. But the force of a single day had changed Lily the way September 11 and the destruction of the World Trade Center had changed America. Some parts of Lily were no longer standing. Some parts of her were stronger. Michael—who was Michael after that?

Lily never knew. The busy, talky, dirty, exuberant little boy who left in August came back in body only. The kid who used to ride his bike off the shed roof and use his safety helmet for a kickball was gone.

At dinner Wednesday night of Thanksgiving break, Reb asked things like—“How’s your divorce support group, Mom?” an activity they had all forgotten about. It seemed a hundred years ago. Reb didn’t ask Kells anything. He was just so much furniture to her. And quickly, she lost interest in what other people might be doing, and shifted into talking about herself, her friends, her classes, her fun times and her wonderful wonderful perfect boyfriend, Freddie.

Reb had catapulted into a new world so demanding and rewarding and full of love that she barely remembered the existence of earlier worlds. Reb had gotten what Michael had hoped for. Perhaps it was too much to ask that out of one small family, two children could have their dreams come true.

The more Reb chattered, the more exhausted Mom and Kells and Michael and even Nathaniel became by her presence. But Lily had the odd sensation of falling in love with her sister. There was something enchanting about a person so sure that she had the best life on earth.

The joy of reunion lasted until nine-fifteen that evening, when the twenty-three-month-old in their midst was way past his bedtime. Since the evening Michael had come home and given him sleeping orders, Nathaniel had gone to bed easily. But the excitement of his big sister being here was too much. Although his eyes were red from rubbing, his mouth drooping, his shoulders sagging, Nate screamed and fought being taken to bed. Hauled bodily up the stairs, he gripped the railings and kicked the walls, refusing to lie down in his crib. When he got left there anyway, it was motivating; in two seconds he learned how to climb out. Mom and Kells grimly carried him back up again, and twice more he came stumbling and sobbing down the stairs. Reb said to Michael, “I thought I had a tough roommate. You must hate him.”

“He’s okay,” said Michael, which was immediately proved wrong as Nathaniel moved into full tantrum mode. Reb watched incredulously, as if she had known people were stupid enough to have kids, but hadn’t known she would be expected to tolerate one.

“I’ll take him up this time,” said Michael. “I’ll sleep with him.”

“No!” said Reb. “Mother! Ruining Michael’s life is not the solution to a spoiled brat. Discipline Nathaniel for a change!”

Mom did not look glad to have Reb home.

“He’s just tired,” said Michael, taking his little brother.

Upstairs, Michael squinched himself into the crib with Nathaniel and put his arm around his little brother’s back, both for comfort and to force him down. “Go to sleep now, Nate. I’m staying.”

In spite of the night-light, Michael had a dark moment, the dark of his first night in the new house, when York got torn from his arms, when the door got closed, when his father’s last words were “Grow up!” and Michael was alone in the dark.

“I’m staying,” said Michael again.

“Okie, Mikoo,” mumbled Nathaniel, and he slept, limp on his wrinkled sheets, and Michael felt a sort of terror for him.

Thanksgiving Day was very busy. Mom’s family came, Kells’s family came, even Dad’s family came, because of course they still loved Reb and Lily and Michael, and they were hanging on wherever they could. Mom roasted the turkey, because even she could shove a bird in the oven and take it out again later. The relatives arrived with enough dishes and desserts to feed another church picnic. All the grown-ups were careful and polite and accommodating so that mention of divorce did not raise its ugly head.

Most of the talking was done by Reb, correcting each relative and making them call her Rebecca now.

All the whining was done by Nathaniel.

When the Rosetti children were in the kitchen scraping dishes to go in the dishwasher, and Nathaniel was with his grandparents in the living room, hideously overdue for a nap, Reb said, “Michael, you have got to tell Mom you want my bedroom so you can be by yourself. Nate is too awful to bother with. I don’t plan to come home a lot anyway after this. You might as well have your own room.”

Michael was horrified that Reb didn’t plan to come home a lot. He wanted to deliver a response that would please Reb, so that she’d change her mind and come home a lot after all, but he had not figured out how to please Dad and he could not marshal a plan to please Reb, either. He only knew he would never ask Mom to give him Reb’s room.

Because for Nathaniel at least, Michael was joy.

Lily hadn’t been able to sleep off her rage against Dad. She couldn’t shop it off or run it off, eat it off or party it off. She hadn’t even been able to smash it with a bowl. But she knew she and her sister would stay up all night, and at last, to Reb, Lily could confide everything. Reb would understand and care and give advice and make everything better. If she could just tell Reb, and have Reb cry with her, she wouldn’t be so angry.

And God. Lily wanted to talk about God.

Lily had tried to get rid of God. She told God she hated Him, didn’t believe in Him, wasn’t listening to Him again. But she could not crawl out from under religion. She turned her back—there it was on the other side. She slammed the door—there it was in the next room. She closed her mind—there it was in her heart.

“Reb,” she began.

“Shut the door tight,” said Reb. “I’m totally exhausted from Kells’s relatives. You forget when you get a stepparent that you have to tolerate yet more grandparents. I don’t like them much. And Nathaniel! Listen, Lily, come visit me. You need a rest from Little Prince Whiny. You’re so smart, you can skip a few days of school. You’ll love it at my college. You’ll love Freddie. Actually, you’ll love not being here. And what’s the matter with Michael? He used to have a personality. Take a train up to Rochester or make Kells buy you a plane ticket. He might as well be good for something.”

Lily flinched. Reb didn’t notice. “Kells isn’t so bad,” said Lily finally.

“Let’s set a date. How about the second weekend in December?”

“But doesn’t Christmas break start about then? Won’t you be headed home only a few days after that?”

“No. Don’t tell Mom, but I’m spending Christmas break with Freddie. Four whole weeks. I was going to split my vacation between here and there, but I’ve changed my mind. I forgot how messy Mom is. It’s like living in a Laundromat. Plus Nathaniel! Ugh. And I can’t wait to see Texas. Did I tell you about Freddie’s house there?”

Twice, thought Lily. But she said, “No. Tell me about Freddie’s house.”

Sunday morning when they went to church, Michael was amazed to find that it was no longer Thanksgiving. It was the first Sunday in Advent. It was still November, yet here they were, skidding into Christmas.

In Sunday school, Michael’s teacher discussed the Star of Christmas. Had it actually been a comet? Maybe the juxta-position of two planets? Had there been a star at all? Probably the whole thing was a myth, giving simple peasants something sparkly in the midst of their dreary lives.

Only a minute ago, Michael had believed in Santa. He did not want to hear that the Christmas star was just another con game. He decided his Sunday school teacher was a loser (there was evidence of this already) and he stopped listening.

He was taking Christmas seriously, the way it needed to be taken.

Dad didn’t remember my birthday in October, thought Michael, but that’s okay. He was busy and he’s still mad. He forgot that I would be nine years old. But nobody doesn’t remember Christmas. He’ll remember Christmas.

Michael thought about UPS.

FedEx.

The post office.

That company wonderfully named G.O.D.—Guaranteed Overnight Delivery.

He hoped the presents from Dad would be delivered by G.O.D. Dad would write a Christmas card too, and Christmas morning, Dad would call. Probably he’d call earlier, to make sure the box came. Everything would be all right, because that was what Christmas was, the day when everything was all right.

The following morning was Monday, and in school Michael’s teacher carefully wrote the date on the board and Michael saw that it was the first of December. Wild excitement seized him.

From then on, every day the moment he got home, he would check both the front and the back steps for packages. His father’s handwriting was a square linked print, and he always used black ink.

The days plunged off the edge of the calendar, throwing themselves at December 25.

On television, advertising gave Michael hope. Dad was seeing these things. He couldn’t help connecting the ads to Michael.

The days diminished in which Dad still had time. Eight more shopping days! the television would scream. Seven! Six!

Once Michael wept. He was just lying there on his back, while Nathaniel slept on the other side of the divider, and then Michael’s face was covered with tears and his pillow was wet. He had promised himself never ever to cry again, and here his eyes were crying without him.

On December 24, they went to the earliest Christmas Eve service, the one for really little kids who had to be in bed by eight. The only way Nathaniel was going to bed by eight was if Michael went with him. Michael had been feeling numb all day. He might as well feel numb in bed.

The chancel of the church was one big wonderful stable, filled with real animals brought from farms and backyards. There were a donkey, a goose, four rabbits, two sheep and a pony. Michael loved animals. Sometimes he wanted to be a veterinarian. He pretended that Mom wanted pets this year, even though she insisted that their lives were too chaotic and nobody was home to love and feed and walk a pet. Maybe tomorrow under the tree Michael would find a puppy and some kittens.

It suddenly came to Michael that Dad had mailed the big box of Christmas presents to Mom. And Mom had hidden it away with all her gifts! In the morning, under the tree, there would be presents wrapped with shiny paper and tied with ribbons and bows. Plastered all over them would be gift tags. In Dad’s big square black linked print, each tag would say:

To Michael

With Love,

Dad

It didn’t matter what was in the boxes. There didn’t even have to be boxes. He just wanted the words.

Christmas Eve had a limited number of sermon topics, and since everybody actually came to sing Christmas carols and watch the children watch the animals, the sermon had to be short.

Lily had tossed religion in the trash, but Christmas Eve didn’t count; it was perfect on its own. You didn’t have to believe any of this stuff to be totally happy.

The donkey was making an amazing racket. Mom called it braying. Lily thought it was the sound of being strangled alive. The goose, rabbits and sheep looked on in silent astonishment while the pony ate the hay in the manger and the children’s choir giggled. The Baby Jesus, who actually was a baby, waved at his real mother in the front pew. Nathaniel, who loved to wave, shouted “Jesus! Over here!” which was just how Lily felt all the time.

Dr. Bordon spoke of the inn, and how it was full, and how some hearts were too full of themselves to see that there were empty hearts all around that were in need.

Lily watched Michael. He hadn’t sung the carols. He didn’t see the three kings. He seemed unaware of the candles lit after the last carol, while everyone promised to hold up the Light of the World.

His heart is empty, thought Lily.

She was going to start bawling. It was a good word for the kind of sobbing she wanted to do, the way “bray” was a good word for what the donkey was doing. Lily wanted a huge raw sound to come out of her, and tears by the bucket, the kind of crying that left you with more headache but less heartache.

She too had expected love at Christmas.

But at least on Christmas morning Lily had the joy of sharing Christmas with a two-year-old. Nathaniel was thrilled by the wrapping paper and the ribbons and the great and wonderful privilege of ripping it all off. An especially fine box (containing a set of red fire engines) was just the right size to sit in while Michael pelted him with crushed wrapping paper balls. No one could coax Nathaniel to bother with the fire engines themselves so that they could take a photograph and send it to the giver.

Reb had taken up knitting at college. She had made Michael a yellow cap and mittens with his initials stitched in green. When they all telephoned Reb in Texas, Michael said, “The mittens are very lovely, Reb. Thank you for all the time it took to make them.”

Michael—who previously would have used stupid old mittens as tinder for a bonfire in the snow! Lily hated how old Michael was this year.

When Nathaniel opened his mittens and cap, he was puzzled and quickly moved on to more rewarding gifts. “Say thank you,” prompted Mom when it was Nathaniel’s turn on the phone with Reb. But Nathaniel remained silent.

“He’s a little young for the joy of hand-knits,” Lily told her sister, but Reb didn’t laugh.

In the late afternoon, as always, friends, neighbors and relatives came by for dessert.

But the relative Michael cared about did not call.

All day long, all through dinner, all into the evening, he still believed the phone would ring. Because nobody doesn’t remember Christmas.

Around eleven o’clock at night, some kids from Mom’s band showed up and serenaded her with “Jingle Bells.” Everybody came in for hot chocolate with marshmallows. Michael stayed close by the phone, in case the racket of all those instruments and all that talk drowned out the ringing that mattered.

Finally Lily said to him, “It’s twelve o’clock, Michael. Let’s go to bed.”

Twelve o’clock.

So Christmas had come. And gone.

Slowly, silently, he followed his sister up the stairs, and at the top of the stairs Lily turned right to go into her bedroom while Michael turned left to go into the room he shared with Nathaniel.

Lily went into her room.

She looked out the window at the sparkling lights on roofs and trees.

She opened the window to let chilly snow-tonight wind blow in.

Lily said to the birthday boy, “It’s midnight, Jesus. And you’re wrong.

“There are no friends at midnight.”