| |
Rehearsals raged on. Two hours of timing, line reading, costume fitting, and choir practice rolled into a hairy mess of noise. With her shepherds out with a stomach bug, Kat had the handful of wise men pulling double duty.
Sam, also known as Joseph, ran lines with Hannah/Mary. He was having a blast hamming it up on stage but was a world away from being the humble stepfather of the Savior. He was a wild, sarcastic ball of wit dressed in a brown robe and sandals. Charmed by his comedy, the first twenty times he slaughtered his lines, Kat, now, fumed. Her hands shook under her clipboard every time he took the stage.
Late-coming families disrupted rehearsals and then needed guidance to their proper places. Early leaving families wanted Kat to email them anything they missed, by exiting an entire hour before time.
No one would listen to Kat’s begging introduction, during which she groveled for everyone’s attendance, every night, on time, for the entire time. No one seemed to care about the pageant. Yet, everyone in the community demanded it still took place.
Kat hosted entire conference calls that morphed from planning to complaining. Someone’s daughter didn’t like the itchy material of her camel outfit. Someone’s son thought his robe was too girlie and wanted a camouflage one instead. Then started the cries of: Why couldn’t the children dress in whatever costumes they already owned? How come the “Holy Family” was on the stage the entire time but not the angels? Turmoil seemed to echo off of everything Kat touched.
One kid was allergic to sheep and another to the bales of hay. Three families wanted to take part but would not make a single rehearsal due to basketball practice. They wanted their roles emailed to them, and a daily text shot their way with any new changes. One family couldn’t be on stage the night of the performance but insisted on rehearsing with everyone else.
Kat had an entire composition book filled with unique arrangements, personal preferences, and the calendars of every family in Honey Pot.
Kat’s family shared her frustration. It crinkled her expressions and wafted on her acidic breath. No amount of mints or tums could keep her reflux at bay. She often forgot to eat, living instead on coffee and random bits of Christmas goodies.
Her favorite Christmas traditions went ignored or put off until “later.” Cookie night established her family’s Christmas tree habit. Their tree was the single decoration up in the Miller home. Thad urged her, several times, to put up more tinsel and lights but she poo poo-ed his suggestions. She had pressing matters to attend to. The entire community depends on me nailing this pageant.
Now, her own child, blessed at being one of the main characters, was sabotaging her efforts. She couldn’t handle it. “Six more days.” She repeated this new mantra whenever the storm in her stomach sloshed. “Six more days and then never again.”
The Millers drove home to a dinner of macaroni and cheese with hot dog chunks. Jess hummed God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman while Sam interjected fart noises into the chorus. That was the final straw. Kat lost it.
She swerved to the side of the road, tossed the car into park and screamed. Loud and scary, her wordless holler terrified the children. Jess sobbed, swallowing the sound so as not to add to the tension. Sam, agitated by the outburst, kicked the back of the passenger seat and tossed hateful sneers toward his horrified sibling.
Kat witnessed it all and did nothing to stop it. Inside she raged. Cursing herself and the town and then herself again. By the time her emotions settled, she was numb and unable to feel any concern for her dependents or her fellow drivers. She pulled back onto the street and rushed home on autopilot.
Sam, the first to recenter, tucked Jess under his arm and led her to his bedroom. He curled around her on the floor and whispered prayers for their mother. Jess allowed herself to wilt on his shoulder and they huddled together, listening as Kat flung around pots and pans.
When Thad arrived home, Kat was too distraught to speak. He didn’t bother trying to talk with her. Their communication had been curdled with Christmas angst since Black Friday. He passed her by and found his children. They rushed to him. Thaddeus Miller prayed for something to straighten out Kat.
✽✽✽
The library was not a busy place during Christmas. Pottersville youth did not enjoy wasting away their vacations on furthering their education. They built men and forts when it snowed, played video games when it hailed, and enjoyed hiking on a day filled with light rain. Lightning meant more creative entertainment. Sometimes, movies at the theater, sometimes foosball in the garage, and sometimes less savory activities, but the library never made the list.
Emily paced the YA section, checking her phone for the time or a text. She eyed the book spines and flipped open the occasional hardcover. Emily considered taking a couple back with her to keep her story straight.
Mr. Mike was always looking deep into everyone’s activities. Since Emily’s mother was so close to reconciling with her daughter, Mr. Mike was extra attentive to her whereabouts.
Sometimes kids and parents could not bear to be apart for another minute. Often they would meet in private, for a quick hug and an update. Sometimes these meets were harmless. More often, they left emotional scars on the child. Either way, they violated court orders and could ruin the chance at a real reunion. Emily knew the risks and wouldn’t dare ruin her chance to go home. She stuck around town and chose to visit with friends as her main distraction.
Her friend was late. That was not unlike her. Emily resigned herself to wait for Ivy. She grabbed a vampire romance and a historical drama and headed to the comfiest looking armchair. She curled her feet onto the cushions and snuggled into reading. Entranced with her novel, Emily didn’t notice the sky darken, and the library patrons vacate. She finished the last chapter as the librarian announced closing time. Ivy still hadn’t shown. Emily huffed, dropped her book on the return rack, and drudged home feeling both anxious and abandoned.
✽✽✽
“I don’t have a daughter, woman! I’ve told you that twice. I will tell you one more time, and then I’m going to get mean. I... don’t... have... a... daughter!” In a dirty t-shirt and cargo shorts, Ivy’s stepfather belly bounced Lydia off of his front porch. A woman standing in the threshold of the screen door stared into the yard, processing the scene and hiding her alarm.
Lydia almost fell, rear first, onto the browned lawn. She couldn’t fathom the man’s belligerent behavior. Even his mailbox tractor attacked her. As soon as Don turned away, she took a quick picture of his house with her cell phone.
Her funny bone injury electrified her arm. She rubbed it and noticed next door’s kitchen curtain swing into place. Lydia walked to the turquoise front door and slipped a post-it through the mail slot.
I’m a friend of Ivy’s. Do you know where she is? Lydia
Her telephone number acted as a postscript. Sounds of mounting frustration rumbled from the house next door. Lydia hurried to her car and sped away. She had no destination. She only wanted off the same street as Don, the disgusting rage machine.
She pulled into a drive-thru and ordered a beverage. Her nerves were frayed and scattered. Ethan would be livid if he figured out Lydia was hunting down a missing person alone. Her buddies would happily join in, but it was Christmastime, and she was the only one without family obligations.
Riddled by inner debate, Lydia drove back to Honey Pot. Why should she worry about Ivy? If Ivy needed or wanted her help, she could’ve called. Now, her phone was out of service. She struggled between worry and apathy the entire ride home.
Worry won out. She couldn’t keep silent. She needed to find that girl. Something was wrong.
There had been thefts, small, and huge. Then an abandoned car that led to nowhere, a bloody sleeping bag, and a name tag. Lydia expected Ivy’s stepfather to be a painful person to encounter. Ms. Annie told her as much, titling him “The Treasure.” But his true nature was shocking.
Ms. Annie had only hinted at the level of upheaval her home life counted as normal. Lydia remembered how concerned over Ivy her grandmother had been. She was determined to help the girl get free from Lewiston and dependency on Don Hooper. Ms. Annie would have succeeded. Lydia had not a doubt. If she lived just two years longer. It was not to be. Now, her missing granddaughter was in more peril than either woman considered plausible. There was one last lead for Lydia to track down.
✽✽✽
Kat’s hair was in a messy bun, not in an online tutorial, designer, messy bun fashion but in an I haven’t washed my hair for a week, re-sprayed, and repined messy bun style. Lydia tried not to stare at her friend’s haphazard hair day horror. But it kept drawing her attention. Throughout Pastor Dean’s blessing over the Senior Center, her eyes shot undeterred to the tangled nest. Lydia completely missed the ending amen. She still had her head bowed when Emily approached.
“Hiya, Lydia.” The teen threw her hands in the air and waved. Though only ten feet away from her friend, she continued to rally until Lydia returned the gesture.
She must have enjoyed dinner. Lydia felt instant guilt. She asked Emily to dinner only to pump her for information about Ivy. Seeing what a small amount of attention could do, she wanted to get to know Emily for Emily and not for clues in her investigation. The girl smiled and shimmied over to Mr. Mike, gathering up gifts to hand out to the elderly.
“Mike’s calling you.” Emily motioned to the tall, muscular man standing near the piano. Lydia nodded and walked over.
“Emily hasn’t stopped talking about the other night.” His gray eyes pierced into Lydia’s chocolate ones. Mr. Mike was always searching out motive and intent in the volunteers that served his kids. He was always on guard and doing what he could to prevent disaster. He was straightforward and direct when examining adults who affected the lives he rescued. Lydia shrunk back as he dove into her thoughts.
“Emily will not make it back to her mother before Christmas. It would be great if you would host her for the holiday. Nothing special needs to be done. Just someone for Emily to be with. I’ll even send a couple donated gifts to you ahead of time. It wouldn’t cost you more than lunch and a headache.” He glanced toward Emily and grinned. “Man, can that girl talk!”
Embarrassed she’d never considered hosting a teen for Christmas, Lydia agreed to the idea. Even if Joan were at home, inviting one more for the day wouldn’t be a bother. “I’d enjoy that,” she responded.
Mr. Mike examined her face once more before he slapped his hands together in approval and said, “I’ll set it up.” Then he walked away as if the conversation never happened.
Lydia joined Kat and the teens. She watched kids without parents love on parents without kids. Kat and the younger children decorated the huge plastic tree, dusting it as they worked.
Emily read to Mrs. Lloyd, the center’s oldest resident. She repeated and reemphasized the same paragraphs and pages until the geriatric acknowledged the effort with a soft pat on Emily’s knee. Emily was a good girl. Lydia wasn’t naïve enough to assume Emily was always helpful and cheery. Trauma begets drama. Sometimes hurt people live hurtful lives.
Emily hosted a lot of both trauma and hurt. Though Emily welcomed Lydia to the party, she spent the last hour avoiding her. Even her reading to Mrs. Lloyd appeared a diversion from a direct conversation. Lydia let it go. Maybe she’d pushed too hard at dinner. She’d send her one formal and fancy invitation to Christmas dinner and then call her a few days later. Perhaps, the distance would shrink by then.