“You’ll read about it in English next year … Existentialists believed we live in an indifferent, uncaring universe. That life is basically meaningless and we’re all essentially alone,” she went on. I wasn’t sure how something that sounded so depressing could get her so charged up. “So I’m going to try to refute that—that we’re not essentially alone, that it IS possible to truly know other human beings. That the universe DOES care—and sometimes it’s even out to get us.”
I can’t prove it, but I’m convinced now that she was talking about underhearing. By then, she’d been living with “that” for nine years.
If I’d been Shiri … if I had Uncle Randall for a father and I’d been underhearing his thoughts for years, totally unable to control it … maybe she had good reason to feel like the universe was out to get her.
On Christmas Day, my mom cooks up her usual huge brunch, complete with pancakes and a mystery-meat casserole. We light up the interfaith tree and open our small presents, and Mom laughs out loud at the bright-pink beaded curtain. In the evening, my dad sips at a beer and falls asleep in the armchair, while Auntie Mina and I cuddle up under a blanket and watch A Christmas Story, drinking hot chocolate and eating popcorn. Shiri loved that movie. It’s almost like she’s there with us, giggling next to us on the couch. It’s almost like old times. Almost.
Auntie Mina’s phone rings late that night, when we’re cleaning up the popcorn mess and rinsing the hot chocolate mugs in the kitchen sink. It’s Uncle Randall. She insists on talking to him and goes into Dad’s study, closing the door on him when he tries to follow. She emerges a few minutes later, her face tear-streaked but set. Dad asks her what happened, but she refuses to talk about it. Exasperated, he goes into the kitchen and bangs dishes around, cleaning up the pots and pans from dinner.
The tension builds over the next few days.
Uncle Randall calls her phone, every day. One morning at breakfast, my dad sets his coffee mug down and asks bluntly, “Why do you keep talking to the man?” He fixes her in a steady gaze, a muscle working in his jaw.
Auntie Mina shifts a little, not quite meeting Dad’s eyes. “He’s just trying to help me get my resignation paperwork done. I have some unused sick days that they owe me. I should be able to use that money to help out here until I find a teaching job.”
“You know that’s not necessary,” my dad says.
“But we’re very glad you’re following your bliss,” my mom puts in. “And that you won’t be working at the same place as Randall. That was never good for you two.”
“Understatement of the year,” I mumble into my plate. It wasn’t just “not good,” it was stifling. But Uncle Randall saw her quitting as evidence that she’d had this long-term grand plan to leave him. She can’t seem to see how suspicious and vindictive he is.
She claims, even now, that he isn’t still harassing her.
He hasn’t called our home phone or dared to show up in person yet; at least, not that I know of. But he knows Auntie Mina’s here. It’s only a matter of time.
The chocolate-chip cookies are fragrant, golden-brown, and perfect. At least they were when I threw them onto a paper plate and covered them with foil. I’m walking fast, but I know they’re going to be stuck together by the time I get to the Dohertys’ place.
I won’t need to worry about it, though. I’m not staying for the party, no matter what Spike says. I refuse to hang around and make nice with Cassie. Or any of the others—it’s not like they’ve tried to call me. Elisa just gives me this apologetic little look every time we see each other at school, and when I try to say hi, she finds an excuse to run off. Fine.
I walk faster.
Spike, at least, has been more or less his old self. So I’ll make a brief pre-party appearance. I need a break from my house, anyway. Mom and Auntie Mina have been in the living room all day filling out job applications. My dad has been in his office with the door closed, preparing his classes for the spring semester. Mom keeps trying to get him to come out and “be sociable,” but all he says is, “Ah, you guys don’t need me.”
I don’t blame him for feeling useless. Mom’s been a force of nature. She made Auntie Mina an appointment with the counselor; she’s helping with the job applications, the trial separation. And Auntie Mina keeps looking at me with these sad eyes, as if there’s anything I can do other than remind her of what she’s missing.
It’s nice to get some air, even if it’s chilly winter air. It’s almost dusk, and the streetlights are starting to come on. As I hurry past the empty neighborhood park and cross the street to Spike’s house, my phone buzzes.
It’s a text, from Mikaela. Mikaela, who I haven’t seen in the week and a half since our big fight. She did send me a text on Christmas Eve: SORRY I WENT NUCLEAR. HAPPY CORPORATE GIFT-BUYING HOLIDAY. I wasn’t sure how to react. She was so livid at the solstice party, I assumed she didn’t want to talk to me anymore. I sent back a one-word reply—THX—but still, I haven’t been quite ready to forgive and forget.
And now she wants to invite me to a New Year’s Eve party at Cody’s house as if everything’s just fine. Maybe she’s over it, but I’m not sure if I am.
For now, I push her to the back of my mind and knock on Spike’s front door. Mrs. Doherty opens it and almost bowls me over with a big, floral-scented hug.
“Sunny, it’s marvelous to see you. Do I smell cookies? You really didn’t have to bring anything.”
“I’m just sorry I can’t stay,” I say. I even mean it, a little. I wouldn’t mind hanging out if it was just Spike and his parents.
“Did you walk? You sweet girl. Let me get you something to drink.” Mrs. Doherty ushers me into their spacious living area and puts my cookies on the kitchen counter with the other food. The counter, which separates the kitchen from the living room, is covered with dishes of nuts, bowls of chips, vats of dip and salsa, trays of vegetables and cheeses. A huge cooler of sodas is open on the tiled floor next to the counter.
Spike walks in from the backyard, where I can see another cooler of sodas and a scattering of folding chairs set up next to the patio furniture.
“Dude, Mom. It’s like a Costco exploded in here.” He grins at his mother and then wiggles his eyebrows at me. “Hey. You brought more food?”
“Oh, you’re going to complain about that? I can take these yummy, fresh, delicious chocolate-chip cookies back home with me if you don’t want them.” I press my lips together, trying not to smile.
“I never said that.” He heads straight for the plate of cookies and grabs three. “Wanna check out the setup in the back?”
I accept a glass of Coke from Mrs. Doherty and follow Spike out the sliding glass door and into their spacious backyard.
“Welcome to my palace of decadence.” He gestures extravagantly at the hanging strings of white lights illuminating the back patio, the little metal lanterns decorating the raised wooden deck where Mr. Doherty installed a hot tub last year.
I try to look suitably impressed. Inside, though, I’m feeling sad. Not quite nostalgic, but I’ve had some good times here.
I wonder if Spike told his mom why I haven’t been around lately. Maybe she’s talked to my mom. Probably not, though. They used to be on the PTA together when we were kids, but I’m positive they don’t talk much anymore.
Sometimes it seems like the world is full of dead friendships.
I’m not going to let this bother me. I stuff my feelings down, deliberately relax my tense shoulders. Spike’s quiet for once, fixing one of the strings of lights back into place. The backyard is empty except for us, and peaceful. A breeze whirs lightly past my ears, I shiver, and then—faintly—I hear voices: