Hand Me Down (7 page)

Deborah opens the door. “Cock a doodle-doo!” She steps over me and Jaime and opens the blinds. “Good morning, it’s time to rise and shine,” she sings. “Good morning, I hope you’re feeling fine!”

Ashley and Jaime moan and roll over in their blankets. I reach over and tug Jaime’s eyelashes. “I’m awake,” she says, slapping my hand. “Geez.”

“Get up, get showered, get dressed,” Deborah says. “Merry Christmas, girls.”

Downstairs, it’s like watching a sheepherding competition in which several sheep think they’re the dog. We’re all wearing our Sunday best: Dad’s red-and-white candy cane tie matches his red-and-white eyes, Crystal’s green knit dress is belted with a gaudy gold belt, and Brianna is decked out in a green corduroy dress with white lace trim and collar. White tights end in white shoes, and a green-and-white bow sits in the orange hair that makes her look more like Dad than we do. She looks like the Christmas leprechaun.

I pat her head and say, “Merry Christmas, lassie.”

“Don’t mess up my hair,” she says.

Deborah’s hair is a darker orange than Dad’s, more red, but not enough for her to look good in the burgundy dress she’s wearing. Winston wears a black suit, white button up shirt that barely contains his hanging gut, and a deep red tie.
How corporately festive.
Their seven-year-old son, Matt, looks uncomfortable in an identical outfit.

Deborah says, “Okay, coats on, everyone.”

“We’ll follow you,” Crystal says.

“There’s no reason to take two cars,” Deborah says. “We’re all family now.” She puts her arm around Crystal’s shoulder and leans in so their faces are close together, their cheeks almost touching. I hide a smile when Crystal cringes.

“I appreciate that,” Crystal says. “But I’d still like to drive. David?” She walks out the door holding Brianna’s hand, and Dad follows, his black Converse high-tops shuffling across the tile entryway. He turns around at the door. He says, “Girls?”

Jaime and I look at each other and know this day will be rough. Dad is rehearsing already and whatever his attention-hoarding show will be—interrupting performances at church, starting fights, prank calling our friends when we spend the night at their houses instead of his are a few previous hits—it’s guaranteed to be embarrassing and unavoidable once it starts.

Jaime and I squish into the backseat of Crystal’s Camaro with Brianna, wrinkling our almost matching blue dresses, Jaime’s with white buttons down the front. We sit on pages ripped from coloring books, Happy Meal boxes, and crumbled Ritz crackers. I pull a plastic Garfield out from poking my butt and Brianna elbows me. On Brianna’s other side Jaime says, “Ow,” so I think she got a sharp little elbow in her ribs, too.

As we’re leaving the Cranleys’ cul de sac behind their shiny tan Explorer, Crystal says, “Is your sister always so bossy?”

Dad says, “She’s trying to include us.”

“I’m not a charity case,” Crystal says. “If she’d wanted to make nice, she could have made the dog sleep outside.”

“She doesn’t know about your allergies.”

“I told her when I got here. I bet if it were Linda”—Crystal nearly spits Mom’s name—“your sister would have spent hours vacuuming and buying pillow protectors just to prevent one tiny sneeze.”

Dad rolls his eyes. “Don’t start.”

Crystal’s nostrils flare. “I also told her about Brianna’s lactose intolerance and asked her to get dairy-free eggnog.”

“Aren’t eggs dairy?” I say.

“They put eggs in eggnog?” Jaime says. “Gross.”

“Duh,” I say. “Why do you think it’s called eggnog?”

Dad turns to us and says, “What do you think a nog is?” His private Christmas Eve party hangover is fading. His eyes are more open and less red, and he smiles as he says, “A nog is a blow to the head, so a traditional eggnog is really served with an egg to the face.”

“Mommy, can we throw eggs?” Brianna says and looks at me and Jaime with a Cheshire cat grin in baby teeth.

During the church service, Deborah leads the three-member gospel team with her acoustic guitar hooked up to an amp. As she sings, her glasses slide down her short nose. Her hair fans out like an orange dandelion tuft behind her slightly dipped head, and her eyes shoot back and forth from the music stand to her unpainted nails and pale fingers on the dark brown guitar frets. She says a quick prayer after fifteen minutes of songs and yields the floor to a man wearing a dark suit and a tie with a manger scene and glowing star of Bethlehem.

He says, “How about a round of applause for our wonderful gospel team!”

Their church is small, only a dozen or so people here today besides us, and we all sit as we clap and Deborah and her band join
us in the pews. Their pastor is taller than Pastor Ron, but he’s not as interesting to listen to as he spews a speech about sacrifice in a monotone that doesn’t seem to register that Christmas should be celebratory.

In the row behind the adults, Matt only has eyes for his Game Boy, and Ashley, Jaime, and I play hangman on blue-lined paper I ripped from the journal that was a gift from my aunt Tammy. She said writing is a great tool for dealing with pain, but I don’t write much. I carry the book with me to keep my hands busy with doodling, and because it reminds me of her. Ashley guesses “P.” I draw a head dangling from the already penciled noose.

Brianna starts whining and kicking the pew in front of her when she sees Dad eating her Snickers bar. “That’s my candy,” she says.

“David,” Crystal says. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I paid for it.” He shoves the last bit of chocolate into his mouth as Brianna starts to cry.

Deborah elbows Dad but he just sits there, smile on his face, chewing and staring beyond the pastor to the big wooden cross mounted on the wall and the metal crown of thorns perched on top of the dark wood at a forty-five-degree angle.

Crystal says, “Hush, baby. Listen to the preacher.”

Jaime guesses “R” and I draw curled hair on the stick figure.

“You always do this,” Deborah says under her breath. “Nothing is sacred to you.” Dad shrugs and Deborah crosses her arms across her chest. Brianna’s crying gets louder, shriller, and less authentic. “Fix this,” Deborah hisses.

Dad finishes chewing and swallows. “We’ll get you another
candy, lassie,” he says, ruffling Brianna’s hair and working his tongue to get the nougat and caramel off his teeth. Fire ignites in Brianna’s eyes and she takes big gasping breaths in between cries, gearing up for full tantrum mode.

Ashley guesses “B” and I give our stick woman a shoe. Brianna gets so loud the pastor stops talking and whispers to Crystal, “That little girl might want to behave if she wants to stay on Santa’s nice list.”

Brianna sobs louder. Ashley plugs her ears. Deborah covers her face with her shaking hands. “No Santa?” Brianna says, standing up, her cheeks and eyebrows quaking. “No presents?” She makes little fists, opens her mouth like a bullhorn, and screams.

“Now this is a show,” Dad says.

“Of course, you’ll get presents, honey,” Crystal says. “He didn’t mean that.” She squints at the pastor, but Brianna is beyond calming. She wails and stomps her white patent leather Mary Janes. She shakes her head back and forth so fast her green-and-white bow dances a jig in her flailing hair.

Dad smacks his lips and swallows the last of the candy. “I guess church can be fun.” He swivels his head to look at us and grins. “Maybe we’ll make this a regular thing, girls.” He pats Deborah’s leg twice like that makes it official.

Deborah glares at Dad with a rage I imagine is backed by memories of noogies, jagged haircuts, and countless other torments of the rotten older brother who became my father. She says, “Not everything is about fun, David.” She jerks her head toward the exit and says through gritted teeth, “Maybe Brianna would calm down if she got some fresh air.”

“Y,” Jaime says. “Dysfunctional family!” I shush her and fill in the missing letters in our game. She whispers, “I got it.”

“Damn straight,” Dad says.

Deborah’s jaw drops. “David!”

“Fine,” Crystal says and stands on her fat-heeled sandals with stocking seams showing at the open toes. “Thanks for all your help.” She grabs still-screaming-and-thrashing Brianna and says, “Some family.” She marches out the back double doors, which are cheap aluminum and make a tinny clang when they close instead of the resounding boom you’d expect if this was a movie.

“I’m so sorry,” Deborah says. She turns to the congregation, says she’s sorry again, and then scoots so low in her seat only a tuft of red hair is visible from behind.

After the service, Crystal’s Camaro is gone from the small gravel parking lot. The rest of us ride back in the Cranleys’ SUV. “The nerve of your wife, David,” Deborah says.

“I miss Aunt Linda,” Ashley says.

Winston says, “You never should have left her, David.”

Deborah says, “He didn’t leave her,” at the same time Dad says, “I didn’t.”

“He may as well have,” Winston says.

“Thanks, man,” Dad says. “Merry Christmas to you, too.”

“A man takes responsibility for his actions,” Winston says.

Dad mutters, “Walrus.”

Crystal and Brianna are on the front porch playing jacks when we pull into the driveway. Deborah clears her throat and shakes her head, her orange hair fluffing out like a lion’s mane. “It’s Christmas,” she says. “The most wonderful time of the year.” She opens
the passenger door, a smile stretched too wide across her face. “Okay, troops,” she says, standing like a doorman at the edge of the metal frame. She sweeps her arm in a gesture for us to move out. “Let’s go celebrate the birth of our Lord!” she says like an infomercial announcer.

As we file out of the SUV and walk toward the door, Crystal stands up and brushes off the butt of her dress. She props a hand on her hip and sneers. “I could have jimmied your lock, but I thought it was more polite to wait.” She smiles at Dad. He smiles back. Crystal turns to Deborah. “Not that you deserved my hospitality after the way you treated us.” She steps aside so Winston can unlock the door.

Deborah’s eyes bulge, and she looks like a ball of wax in a lava lamp, her face growing bigger as she puffs her cheeks so big it seems painful.

“Yeah,” Dad says. “What happened to ‘the guest is always right’?”

“That’s the customer, David,” Winston says. He places his beefy hand over Deborah’s and says, “My wife tried her best to make you feel included.”

“Whatever,” Crystal says, pushing past him into their house. “Thanks for being so accommodating. I can’t wait to get the hell out of here.” Her thick heels clomp on the tile as she walks away.

“I guess we’re leaving,” Dad says as Deborah gapes at him. “Girls, go get your stuff.”

“I’m sorry,” I say to Deborah as we hurry past her.

“Don’t be sorry,” Dad says, straightening his shoulders to stand taller. “Be strong.” He raises his fist for emphasis as we head upstairs. Jaime and I collect our underwear and pajamas and
tennis shoes and toothbrushes and are still shoving clothes in and zipping our packs closed as we walk out the door.

“You girls are always welcome,” Deborah says. “Don’t forget your Bibles.” She hands us our still-wrapped gifts.

“Not us, though, right?” Crystal stomps out the door and across the driveway, carrying a bag full of presents in one hand and pulling silently crying Brianna along with the other.

“We won’t be joining you next year, sis,” Dad says, wobbling as he hoists two duffel bags onto his shoulders.

“Why don’t you let the girls stay for today?” Deborah says. “They don’t need to spend Christmas in the car.” I can almost hear the unspoken ending to that sentence:
with you.
When I was six and we left Dad for good in the middle of the night, Mom knew Deborah would take us in. We lived here for over three months. Deborah babysat me and Jaime with Ashley so Mom could go to Al Anon meetings, and she lied to Dad when he called demanding to know where we were. Deborah’s loyalty to Mom bore the price of Dad’s anger, but she probably helped save our lives.

Dad tosses the bags into his truck bed. “Girls, this gravy train is moving out!”

I catch Deborah’s eye. “We’ll be okay,” I say.

“Are you sure?” she says. “I can keep you here until your mom can come.”

“I’m sure,” I say. At least, I’m sure he’s sober, which means our odds are better than usual.

Deborah hugs me and Jaime, her perfume too sweet and fruity. She tucks a hand under each of our chins and says, “I love you, girls.” She kisses the tops of our heads. “Be safe.”

Dad shouts from the azalea bushes at the edge of the driveway, “I’m peeing in your flowers.”

Winston says, “Grow up, David.”

“I don’t think he’s kidding,” Deborah says, rolling her eyes. “Inside, kids.” Ashley and Matt wave at us as they scurry into the big house they’ve lived in since they were born, to their own rooms and stable lives.

I hear Dad zip his pants as Jaime and I climb into his truck. “Thanks again for your hospitality,” he says loudly and laughs.

Deborah blows us a kiss and then rushes into the house, her eyes watering. Winston stands in the doorway glowering through his thick black-rimmed glasses at Dad. “Your sister loves you, David,” he says. “But you are no longer welcome here.” He slams the door.

Through two car windows I see Crystal smile a malicious and content, lips-curled up at one-edge smile like a gloating cartoon villain. Her car starts and in two seconds she’s speeding down the quiet neighborhood street.

My arm goes around Jaime’s shoulders.
So much for a nice family Christmas
. I think of Mom and Noah with Terrance and his family, and my heart aches at the thought that we will never spend another Christmas morning at home with Mom just the three of us girls, eating cinnamon rolls and scrambled eggs, cuddling together on the couch to open handmade gifts like fuse bead key chains and threaded pot holders, and once, a crystal vase Jaime and I spent months coveting and secretly bought at Raley’s with saved babysitting money when Mom wasn’t looking. The blue glass vase still sits on her bedroom bookcase.

Dad hops into the cab and brushes off his hands. “See, Liz,” he says, “how much fun life is living with your dad?”