She presses her hand to her heart and shakes her head, then jerks it toward the stairs. I follow her down.
“He was pretty much asleep when I slipped out,” she tells Sara as we walk into the family room. “But I couldn’t get his Christmas wish out of him.”
Sara sighs and her shoulders droop slightly. “Thanks for trying.”
“Don’t worry, Sara,” my mom tells her. “Put something new and shiny enough in front of him on Christmas morning and he’ll be fine. Especially if it makes obnoxious noises.” She points to me. “Ask me how I know.”
Sara gives her a smile that looks so tired I want to tell her to go tuck in with her twins. “That would work with Gage, but Rome is a different situation. He hasn’t been himself since Dean deployed, and the only thing that seems to make him feel better is talking about how Santa is going to bring him his wish. But he barely believes. One of the other kids at preschool whose family doesn’t do Santa told him Santa wasn’t real, and now Rome is fixated on it. It’s like he’s hanging all his happiness on proving Santa is real, and his test is whether Santa can bring him a wish only he knows about.”
My dad shakes his head. “It’s probably not much comfort, but that’s a pretty sophisticated test for a four-year-old to come up with. Smart boy.”
“Don’t I know it,” Sara says. “They’re both like that. That’s why they’re hard.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Mrs. Bixby says. “They save all their creativity for getting into trouble.”
“They were on top of Liz’s car in the driveway when I got home today,” Dr. Bixby adds. “Said it was a better stage because it was higher. I asked them better than what, and they said—”
“The kitchen table,” Mrs. Bixby interjects, “because that’s what I had just chased them off of, and they snuck out while I was busy wiping off their muddy footprints.”
“They’re so hard,” Sara says, with a deep sigh.
“Honey, you’re doing great if you get them to adolescence,” Dr. Bixby says. “After that, you should probably send them to work with Dean every day. Let the army whip them into shape.”
“I’m not sure they’re ready for that level of combat,” she says.
“The boys could handle it,” Dr. Bixby says.
“I meant the army’s not ready,” Sara says.
“We’ll figure it out,” Taylor tells her after she’s done laughing. “Rome will spill to Santa next Friday, and between the four of us, we’ll be able to beg, borrow, or steal whatever it is Mr. Groggins tells us Rome wants.”
“I’ll help,” I say. “Even if it means going into any of the DC suburban supermalls, I can do it.”
“A man who will brave the malls two days before Christmas?” Mrs. Bixby says. “Not all heroes wear capes.”
“Count us in too,” my mom says. “I’ve got the gifts for Zeke’s kids already, so I’m itchy for another present procurement project.”
Sara looks from one face to the next, drops her eyes to the ground, sniffles, and takes a full ten seconds before she can look up again. “Thanks, y’all. Sincerely.”
“Enough of that,” Dr. Bixby says, rubbing his hands together. “I’m ready to kick butt and take names.”
We warm up with Ransom Notes, which has Sara in tears of laughter within twenty minutes, and Taylor watches her sister with a mixture of amusement and relief. I catch Taylor’s eye, and she smiles at me. I wonder if that smile is saying the same thing I’m thinking: that it’s been too long, that it was dumb for me to half-consciously avoid coming back home, that this feels right. That all is well.
My parents win the game and Dr. Bixby finally interrupts their gloating to inform them that they get to pick the next game and the teams.
They bend their heads toward each other. Watching them scheme together reminds me I never should have gone this long without a visit.
They straighten, and the gleam in my mom’s eye tells me what their choice is before she even announces, “Charades.”
This is met with a hoot from Taylor, a groan from Sara, and the Bixbys shaking their heads. Charades is not the right word for the way our families play this game. Maybe full-contact sport? That should probably be played in an octagon? That fits better.
Anyway, my parents pick the teams, and it’s parents against children.
I have been inside a tank rumbling into enemy-held territory that was less noisy than the next twenty minutes.
My parents—as usual—are the instigators, with my dad—the honorable and dignified town doctor—crawling around the floor at varying rates of speed, standing and swimming and maybe . . .
“Is he eating air hamburgers?” Taylor asks as her parents holler things like “Michael Phelps having a stroke” and “broken windmill.”
