The Language of Sparrows (12 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Hillary assumed April and Sierra would join the rest of the family for Christmas Eve. She was already rattling off orders to April on the phone about what to bring for hors d’oeuvres before April could tell her it wasn’t a definite thing. She wasn’t sure taking Sierra to Hillary’s was a good idea. Sierra was spending time with Luca, quite a bit of it, but April had yet to see the improvement she was hoping for in her daughter.

With Luca, she lit up, but otherwise, she kept to herself, averted her eyes, hid herself in oversize jackets and dark colors. And Hillary had a way of dictating every detail of a get-together that was only likely to make Sierra retreat further. April couldn’t tell Hill that though.

“Let me talk to Sierra, and I’ll call you once we’ve ironed out our plans.”

“Okay,” Hillary drew out the word. “We’re family, April. And it
is
Christmas.”

April tapped the counter. They
were
family. So maybe they hadn’t bonded like sisters in a movie, but Hillary was all she had left.

Nick called soon after and invited them for Christmas lunch at Luca’s. That was the encouragement April needed. Sierra could put up with Christmas Eve at Hillary’s if she knew they would spend the next day with Luca.

The candlelight service at Hillary’s church was serene with an extravagant choir that could have performed on any professional stage. The lights in Hillary’s gated neighborhood glistened, and April began humming “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” the last few blocks to the house.

At Hillary’s, the foyer and winding stairs were decked in tinsel, and a huge Christmas tree graced the living room.

“Sierra! I’ve missed you, girl,” Hillary squealed as she wrapped her in a fierce hug.

Sierra looked at April with a plea in her eyes. Hill might have figured out by now Sierra wasn’t a touchy-feely type.

“Come on, sweetie.” April loosened Sierra from Hillary’s grip. “Let’s put these presents under the tree.”

In the kitchen, April and Hillary dished dressing and cranberry sauce into Christmas bowls. Wes’s parents sat in the living room, enjoying the lights and their grandsons. April was pleased to see Wes had enlisted Sierra to hang mistletoe. There was something almost like a smile on her face.

“April,” Hillary said in a loud whisper. “Have you told her?”

April rolled her eyes. Surely her sister wasn’t bringing up suicide on Christmas Eve.

“No,” she said through clenched teeth. “I haven’t.”

Hillary stirred the mashed potatoes with a vengeance. “That girl is in serious trouble. Look at her. Her hair’s in her face. Her eyes are glazed. You’ve got to get professional help.”

April huffed out a laugh. If only Hillary could see Sierra on one of her bad days. It wasn’t as if April sat on her hands while her daughter grew worse. They’d tried a couple of antidepressant prescriptions when they’d first moved back to Houston, but they had caused Sierra to spiral into an even more frightening depression, and April had quickly ended the treatment.

During Gary’s worst times, April toyed with a theory that experimenting with cocktails of antidepressants and antianxiety medications initiated his more serious depressive cycles. She wasn’t about to begin that nightmare with Sierra.

Hillary moved closer to her. “Look, April,” she said in a sandpaper whisper. “Kids have a way of knowing things. It’s a good bet she knows deep down how Gary died. Until you start talking about it, it’s going to eat her up inside.”

April braced her hands on the granite countertop. Did Sierra sense that her father’s death hadn’t been an accident? Sierra knew what her dad had been dealing with. It was possible that on some unconscious level she knew. But Sierra was not in any frame of mind to take another blow. And for goodness’ sake, it was Christmas! April let out a deep breath.

After dinner, the family sat in the living room. The floor lay cluttered with gift wrap and boxes, and everyone admired their presents. Christmas carols played in the background. People laughed. It was all exactly the way Christmas should be.

But after Sierra shoved a half-eaten piece of pecan pie away, April ended the evening with a sigh of relief.

The next day they drove to Luca’s, a strawberry cheesecake in Sierra’s lap and fresh rolls in the backseat. They needn’t have bothered. The dining room table was overflowing with platters of sausage, bowls of sauces, pastries dotted with nuts, soup, cabbage rolls, and a braided loaf of bread glazed with honey. Scents of paprika and vinegar drifted across the kitchen.

Sierra’s eyes were alight.

Now
this
was Christmas.

The four of them sat down to eat.

“You’re quite the cook, Luca,” April said.

He gave a slight nod. “It is a hobby.”

Luca ate a few forkfuls of food but seemed to take all his pleasure in the company rather than the food. In the middle of a pleasant conversation, he gave a biting glance to Nick, who must have seemed too preoccupied with Luca’s plate. “You do not need to look after my eating habits, Nicolae. You have my oath. I will not waste away before the new year.”

Despite the father-son tension, the meal went well.

April insisted on filling everyone’s glasses, as her mom and grandmother had done every holiday meal. Everyone talked lightly. There was laughter.

At the end of the meal, Luca raised his glass in a toast. “To celebrate the birth of our Savior.”

Glasses clinked.

After lunch, Nick and April began to clear the table and ran soapy water in the sink. Luca and Sierra moved into the library. April watched them out of the corner of her eye as she moved back and forth between the dining room and kitchen. They looked at one of his bookshelves, both animated, talking, even laughing. Sierra gave no half-smiles to Luca.

Nick came beside her at the sink, taking dishes as she put them in the drainer and drying them. His nearness made her feel a little unsteady. But that was pure silliness. He was Luca’s son, a friend. That was all.

She looked up at him. “A man who helps with the dishes. I
am
impressed.”

He laughed, lines crinkling around the corners of his eyes. “Don’t get any big ideas. I’m just keeping you company.”

They looked away from each other and turned back to the work at hand. They spoke quietly, both keeping attention on the scene behind them, listening for the words that reached them from the library.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” April said, “but I think Sierra might be as good for your father as he is for her.”

“It does seem so.”

When the clean-up was finished, April and Nick sat at the kitchen table discussing work, art, places they’d been. Though both were drowsy from the big lunch, time passed quickly. She looked up in surprise to find the afternoon light dimming as it came through the window and the crows beginning to caw. It bothered her how much she liked sitting across from Nick, close to him, chatting. The very air seemed sharper when she was around him.
Friend,
she reminded herself. Goodness knows, there was no room in her life for anything more.

When Nick took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, she stood to give Sierra notice. “Five minutes, honey.”

Nick walked them to the car. “Take care, April,” he said, and with a nod to the other side of the car, “You have a good one, Sierra.”

He held the door for her and closed it when she’d buckled her seat belt. After a sleepy wave, he turned back to the house. April started to pull out of the driveway, then stopped. She’d forgotten her bread basket.

“I’ll be right back,” she told Sierra.

The door still stood open. April started to knock but couldn’t help but stop when she heard the men’s voices inside.

Luca’s muted voice, weary and rough as gravel, carried from another room. The library? “There is no need for you to stay now, Nicu. The women are gone, and I know you do not wish to be here. Go home to your own empty life.”

April drew a breath. It wasn’t exactly a jackhammer of a word, but the unkindness wasn’t in keeping with the old man she knew.

“Merry Christmas to you too, Dad,” Nick said.

She heard a rustle as someone stood, and then Nick was in her line of vision, picking up a half-filled water glass from a side table.

“I forgot my bread basket,” she said quietly.

His face was drawn tight. “I’ll get it for you.” He went into the library and quickly returned. “Merry Christmas, April,” he said, as he handed her the basket, but the merriness of the day already felt like a handful of dust. He watched from the doorway as she walked back to her car and pulled out of the driveway.

At home, a lump sat under the welcome mat. April pulled out a wrapped gift and flicked on the light switch inside to read the label.
To Sierra. May your Christmas be bright. Feliz Navidad & all that. Carlos.

April weighed the present in her hand. It felt like a book. That meant it must be from someone who understood Sierra reasonably well. It was so much more her style than the gaming system from Hill.

April handed the present to Sierra. “Who’s Carlos?”

“Someone from school.” Sierra carried it off to her room.

A boy from school. Probably every other parent with a teenage daughter dreaded those words. But to April, they were a ray of hope. She prayed for anything—well, almost anything—to bring life back to her daughter’s face.

Before they went to bed, April and Sierra ate a bowl of granola together in their pajamas. April gave her a smile, trying to draw one from her daughter.

“Good night, beautiful,” she said.

“Night.” A fleeting smile crossed Sierra’s face.

Not tired enough to sleep, April rummaged through her closet and pulled out a box of photos. She sat on her bed, sorting through them. Mostly they were of Gary and Sierra. The photos had once been her pride and joy. She lifted out one of Gary with Sierra in his lap. She was about six. He had circles under his eyes, as dark as war paint, and he leaned back in the recliner, his eyes closed. Sierra didn’t seem to mind. She snuggled against his chest like a newborn.

Even in Gary’s decline, he’d shown tenderness to Sierra. There were times April kept Sierra away from him, afraid the collapse of her father would be too frightening.