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“What’s she need to talk to him about?” Frankie asks.
“None of your business, Little Miss Nosy.”
“You don’t even know, I bet.”
I’m pretty sure I do, though.
More sure when Caroline’s end of the conversation gets loud enough for me to register that she’s angry, though I can’t quite make out the words through the door.
Then I can make them out just fine.
“For the fifth time, I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. I’ve already made a decision, and I’m not going to just wait and see how I feel in a few days. I already know how I feel. That’s why I’m informing you of my feelings.”
“Stay here,” I say to Frankie.
I find Caroline sprawled on the bed, hands and legs flung wide, scowling at the ceiling. “No,” she says. “No! I don’t accept that. I knew you’d say it, and I hear where you’re coming from, but I don’t accept it.”
I sit down on the bed, prop my back against the headboard, and extend my legs over top of hers.
She reaches out to find my hand.
The conversation takes a nasty turn, and every time she raises her voice, she squeezes my hand tighter.
“Not listening to me.”
“No, Dad, I hear you, but no.”
“Damn it, Dad, it’s got nothing to do with him!”
She doesn’t say anything too ugly to take back, but she’s upset enough that her voice cracks, and I can tell she’s not getting anywhere with her old man.
Eventually, they start cooling down. I’ve never heard anyone argue loud enough to be audible through a closed door and then, ten minutes later, work back around to, “Merry Christmas, Daddy.… I love you, too.”
Caroline hangs up and shifts onto her side. I lie beside her. She turns her face into the bedspread, letting her hair conceal her expression.
“Are you crying?” I ask.
She sniffles. “No.”
“It’s okay if you’re crying.”
“I’m not. I’m gathering my strength to fight another day.”
“Okay. Does you gathering your strength but not crying mean that now would be a bad time to give you your Christmas present?”
Slowly, she sits up. Her eyes aren’t red, but her throat and cheeks are flushed.
I think if she’s going to be president, we’ll have to work on her poker face at some point.
“You already gave me a bunch of presents,” she says.
“Those were from Frankie.”
“Since you paid for them, they were from you. I love my scarf.”
She wore it earlier over her pajama T-shirt—orange and blue and red, with silvery threads shot through it. It looked good.
Felt good, seeing her wear something I’d bought her.
