“Your dad’s not my patient,” I said to fill the chasm. “My shift was done at five, I was only there because —”
“I don’t need an explanation, Grace.” His words were clipped, but at least he got my name right this time. He bent forward to rustle in his briefcase.
As the engine roared to life — I mean roared, the truck desperately needed a new muffler — Bing Crosby crooned over the engine noise, “Please have snow and mistletoe, and presents under the tree …”
I twisted down the volume and glanced across the cab at Alexander, scribbling in a black leather hardcover notebook with silver-edged paper. “You said six weeks of cardiac rehab?”
I cleared my throat to revert to clinical Grace, but my voice came out raspier than I liked. “The doctors will decide, but it’s usually 6-8 weeks.” He scratched a note, sliding the ribbon into place and dropping the notebook into his leather briefcase.
Looking around the cab, he barely concealed his disdain at my rusty 15-year old Chevy Silverado with 200,000 miles on it, eyes narrowing at the hula girl Mallory had adhered the dash and named Yolanda.
As I pressed the clutch and left the parking lot, Alex's gaze tracked my hand on the gear shift, reluctantly impressed. “Haven’t driven one of those in a while.”
His tone sounded dismayed I would keep this old, rusty beast alive instead of trading her in for something newer, smaller, and easier to drive. I questioned that myself sometimes, when I spent more on repairs than I would on a new car payment.
I didn’t want to tell him that this truck was my last connection to my twin brother Elijah.
We bought it together to drive to college ten years ago. Eight years ago I'd taken it to drop him at the airport, not knowing it would be the last time we would talk because my entire life would implode four months later.
Now I couldn’t release my final connection to him, wherever he was.
Instead, I loving ran my palm along the dash. “They don’t make them like they used to.”
Alexander grunted in acknowledgment and dropped his forehead against the passenger side window. As we drove past my street, his head tilted to look down the road towards his aunt and uncle’s house, not knowing I lived in the apartment above their detached garage.
We turned onto Broadway and the sight took my breath away. The typically bustling thoroughfare was vacant, lit only by the Christmas lights strung up the lamp posts and around hanging wreaths. A flurry of snow drifted aimlessly in the beams of my headlights, giving the impression of driving through a swirling snow globe: The two of us alone in the world, living outside time.
I lifted a finger to point to the second-floor of a brick building, lined with twinkle lights to cast a soft glow. “The one with the arched windows is your sister’s yoga studio.”
His gaze followed my finger, eyebrows drawn in surprise, then fell to the dirty snow bank in front of it as he muttered against the glass pane, “I forgot how much snow you get here.”
“You should have seen it last week, seven inches in a day, but most of it has already melted,” I said, thrilled to have something to talk about, even if it was the weather. “And they’re forecasting another 8-10 inches on Friday.”
“But I didn’t forget how smug New Yorkers are about snow.".
I glanced across the center console at the soft lights reflecting off a subdued smirk. Was he … teasing me? Did he do that?
I shot back a soft barb. “Of the two of us, you think I’m the smug one?”
The left side of his smirk rose, the start of that dangerous grin. I snapped my neck forward to prevent being mesmerized and steering us off the road. “You don’t get snow in San Francisco?”
I couldn’t tell if his sigh was a wistful ‘I miss the snow’ sigh or an annoyed ‘what an idiot’ sigh. “Rarely, and it doesn’t stick. Mostly rain.”
“I can’t imagine Christmas without snow."
“You don’t have to shovel rain.”
I chuckled. “When was your last White Christmas?”
He brought his hand up to his neck, rubbing casually. “I think I flew home with Nick.”
His hand stilled, as if he wanted to take back his words about Nick, Mallory’s other brother, who was now a famous Emmy-winning actor. Mallory had never flaunted her middle brother’s fame — in fact, she didn’t mention it until his filming schedule slipped out talking with her parents. Apparently when he got famous, old ‘friends’ expected favors and handouts.
Based on his stiff posture, I wondered if Alexander kept a tight lid on the relationship. I had to tread carefully, wanting to show him I knew but didn’t care.
I licked my lips. “Before he got The Twelve?”
He stiffened and glanced across the seat, eyes narrowed.
“That would be seven or eight years ago. Since your last Christmas at home.”
He stared out the window. “Something like that.”
“Well maybe you’ll get a White Christmas this year.”
“Hopefully I won’t be here long enough to find out,” he muttered.
We drove in silence for the final half mile to his parents’ house, as Bing Crosby finished up with his chilling line, “if only in my dreams.”
I hadn’t been home in nearly eight years, either. Since that final Christmas, I’d been a reluctant holiday tag-along: first my college roommate’s family, then my ex-girlfriend Shannon’s family, now Mallory’s family. As I passed new dishes around a different table, I thought about my family’s traditions: Did Nanna still bake her famous pies? Did Mama make ham, or had she switched to beef?
I pictured them gathering around our tiny kitchen table, reaching over my empty place setting. The day I left, my oldest brother Isaac had been with his girlfriend’s family … was she still around? Had they given my seat to her, the way the Clarkes reassigned Alex’s seat to me? Had Levi and Elijah settled down with girlfriends or wives of their own? Was my parents’ house filled with nieces and nephews I’d never meet?
My heart longed for their cheerful celebration, indifferent to my absence. Would I ever again feel the sense of belonging that had been torn from me?
I pulled into the Clarkes’ driveway as Alexander’s eyes swept over his childhood home. A soft exhale passed his lips, the same relief I’d felt every Sunday for three years as I pulled into this driveway for movie night. After our first viewing of The Princess Bride, when Mallory realized how sheltered I’d been, she’d made it her mission to catch me up on pop culture. My apartment was too small and Mallory’s was too messy — she waved off her clutter as 'maximalist decor' — so we took up weekly residence on her parents’ sectional sofa.
I thought of all the times Helen welcomed my arrival with a warm kiss and request to weigh in on her pasta sauce seasoning. All the times Bruce took a generous slice of a new pie recipe I was testing and Mallory grinned in approval when he called me his favorite daughter.
