“PRESENT PATROL coming through,” Donna announces, the packages spilling out of her arms.
I jump up from the couch to assist but my head shakes from the movement. Hangovers are a bitch, as far as I can tell. I never want to drink that much again.
“Merry Christmas, Donna,” Dad says, over to greet his sister with a hug. She sets down her purse on the dining room table, still dressed in her scrubs. “I can’t believe you had to work today.”
“I always have to work.”
She enters the kitchen and fills up a plate with meatballs and pasta salad that Dad prepared as part of our annual Christmas tradition—Angela, me, and him opening presents in the living room then watching Christmas movies all day. We started the tradition the year Mom died, because Dad hoped to get our minds off Mom dying, and it worked, as best as it could. We’re up to Christmas Vacation this afternoon, Clark Griswold trapped in the hole in the attic floor, lamenting his choices in life.
“Frozen?” Donna says as she takes a seat at the dining room table, plastic fork inserted into the center of her meatball.
“No, I woke up Christmas morning and made them fresh,” Dad says, several layers of sarcasm spilling from the sides of his mouth.
“Ass,” Donna says. He only talks that way with her, like he saves up any attempt at humor for his sister. Not us. “Where’s Angela?”
“On the phone with her boyfriend,” I say. “They’ve been separated for an entire day now so she’s been on the phone with him all morning.”
I’m pissed because she woke me up at the butt-crack of early to join Dad downstairs with the presents, despite my hangover. I took a long nap that did little to stem the pressure on my temples. Thank god Donna came.
“Good for her,” Donna says, mouth half-full with meatball. Dad’s “cooking” is fine but it doesn’t compare to the pernil or the rice or the sausages and peppers and cake—I think there was cake. After Courtney kissed me. “Is he visiting for the holidays?”
“They are supposed to be going to Philly for New Year’s,” Dad says, pulling out a seat at the table across from Donna.
“And you’re okay with that?”
Donna digs into the store-bought pasta salad. Mom would always make homemade meatballs that stewed on the stove all Christmas morning, filling the house with the unmistakable scent of garlic and onions and Italian seasonings, and by the time we got to dinner I’d devour several plates of pasta with oversized meatballs that were never frozen and perfectly sauced. Even Sharane’s mom’s cooking doesn’t compare.
“He’s supposed to stop here to pick her up so at least I can meet him.”
“Oh, that’s perfect,” Donna says. “I’ll come over and meet him too. My New Year’s plans right now are day shift at the hospital followed by a fresh box of wine. Unless this guy I met last week calls me back which I don’t even know if I want him to because men are disgusting pigs who don’t call back if you don’t put out on the first date—”
“Donna,” Dad says, jerking his head toward me.
“Relax,” she says, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Cyrus has heard everything I’ve got to say.”
“I guess,” Dad says. He’s given up trying to control Donna at this point. Or Angela even. All he has left is me. It’s annoying.
“Anyway, get ready for me on New Year’s Eve,” Donna says. “Are your poker buddies coming?”
“Not sure,” Dad says. “But most of them have wives so if we do have something, it’ll just be the single guys.”
“Oh,” Donna says, pausing before the last meatball on the plate. “No, never mind. Your friends are gross.”
“Gross how?”
“Just, you know.” She reaches back to pull her hair into a ponytail, wrapping it up into a knot faster than I thought possible. “They’re men.”
“Well, you know, if you want a boyfriend you might have to make an adjustment in your assessment of men.”
“She could go lesbian,” I chime in.
Courtney and I exchanged numbers before we left and he texted “Happy Christmas” this morning but I was sleeping. I haven’t responded yet.
“Ehh, I tried that in college,” Donna says. “It didn’t take.”
I laugh and Dad frowns at the thought, or maybe the discussion, even though it’s a discussion he should be comfortable with. He has a gay son. We just never talk about it.
“How’s the boyfriend front with you, Cyrus?” Donna says. “Are you and Cody still—”
“Not—no,” I say.
We never got into a fight—it’s just, it hasn’t been the same. Since Jeff left, nothing’s been the same. And it’s too hard to think with the leftover rum spinning through my brain. I wish I’d puked and gotten it over with.
“What happened?” Donna says, setting down her fork and turning her chair to face me on the sofa.
“Nothing,” I say. “But he doesn’t call as much.”
“Do you call him?”
“Sometimes,” I say.
I keep hoping he’ll call me first, like we used to. Every day, like we used to. But I blew it when I told him about Jeff and me, and then after Jeff left, I got so depressed I didn’t answer when he called or when I did, I wasn’t brimming with conversation. I know it’s my fault. I’ve tried calling a few times lately, but he hasn’t gotten back to me. It’s been a couple weeks.
“Have you heard from Jeff?” she says. She just goes and says it. Dad lifts his coffee cup, which I’m pretty sure is empty, and coughs.
“I saw him this morning,” Angela says, bounding into the room from the bottom of the stairs, in the same shirt and sweats she wore to bed last night.
“What?” I say.
“I saw him at Sheetz getting coffee.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No.” Angela shakes her head. “I was already at the checkout line with our breakfast sandwiches so I just waved.”
“Yeah.” She nods. “Why?”
The vomit begins to gurgle in my stomach, all of a sudden with the scent of the meatballs.
“Haven’t you talked to him?” Donna says.
I shake my head.
“Really?” Angela says.
I look to Dad because I don’t know where else to look. I’ve been waiting three months for him to come back, for some kind of contact, because he didn’t respond to any of my letters and now it’s Christmas Day and he saw Angela at Sheetz and he hasn’t even messaged me. I pull out my cell to check whether I’ve inadvertently turned it off because I’m too hungover to think but it’s there and it’s on, two messages from Mindy and three from Sharane. Courtney messaged again.
Not Jeff.
“You should go over there,” Donna says. “You should talk to him.”
I want to. I do. But he hasn’t even attempted to contact me.
“At least find out how long he’s home for,” Donna says. “Maybe you guys can hang out?”
The first letter I wrote explained how I waited for him, how I had the money from the bank and that I was going to go to Brooklyn with him. Then when he didn’t respond, I thought maybe that scared him so I sent another letter, asking how he was and that I was thinking of him, the way I can’t stop thinking of him, and maybe that scared him too, or maybe he never got my letters so I called the admins at the school to make sure the students could receive mail and they said they could. But I never heard back from him.
“I will,” I say, looking at Dad because if I look at Donna, I know I’ll cry and I’ve been trained by society not to cry in front of my father. But Dad’s got that look like he’s sad for me, like he wants to help but he can’t. No one can.
“How about we open your presents?” Donna says.
“Okay,” I say, focused on the television. The Griswolds are about to light up the house with the decorations. I fish out my phone as Donna distributes the presents, dropping a box next to me.
Hey, I type. I’m sorry for everything. But I waited for you. I hope you know that. Can I please stop by and say hi?
I stare at the screen until the iPhone’s designation turns from Delivered to Read. Angela opens up her present and runs over to hug Donna, and the Griswolds’ neighbors are stumbling all over themselves, blinded by the lights. I’m staring at the screen.
The little dots that show he’s responding light up for a second—a split second—then disappear.
I’m sick of waiting.