I creep closer, then slowly slink onto the window seat, beholding this insidious weed that once infested the hedge maze. Where my mother first entered the hedge maze. The trapped teens,too. Mesmerized, I reach out my hand and touch one of the leaves.
My mother’s voice doesn’t rise within me.
Neither does Lily Vandenberg’s.
I experience no visions.
Just a faint hum, like it’s coming from somewhere in the distance, outside my window.
Or perhaps, much closer.
The air crackles.
A shock of heat shoots up my arm.
My dad calls my name from downstairs.
I jerk away and clasp my tingling fingers.
“You almost ready?” he shouts.
“I’ll be right down,” I call back.
I turn around and gape at the plant in my window.
The glowing dots are gone.
The air has returned to normal.
But my fingers still tingle. Adrenaline courses through my veins. Because here is the answer I’ve been looking for. A rift was about to open right here inside my bedroom.
I’m sure of it.
This strange plant growing in my mother’s sour cream container has given me a way into the Overlay.
We arrive with our Jell-O salad still in its mold. It’s 11 a.m. and the house smells like Thanksgiving—roasted turkey, rosemary and sage, freshly baked rolls, nutmeg and toasted pecans. My stomach rumbles approvingly as Tony Bennett croons about treetops glistening and children listening for sleigh bells in the snow.
Other than my ugly Christmas sweater and Dad’s ugly sweater vest, it’s the only hint that Christmas season is upon us. There’s no tree with tinsel. No twinkling lights around the windows. No stockings hanging from the mantle. Mrs. Calloway firmly believes each holiday should have its own turn. So Christmas decor remains in the crawl space until they return from visiting Mr. Calloway’s parents in Bedford. Like every other year, they’ll leave early tomorrow morning and return late Saturday night. On Sunday after church, they’ll invite me to go with them to Pine Haven tree farm, and within a twenty-four hour span, this same home will be transformed into a winter wonderland.
Her only exception?
Christmas music on Thanksgiving.
Twig’s seven-year-old twin cousins streak past us in a blur of maniacal laughter, so chaotic Dad has to lift the Jell-O mold over his head.
“Stop running!” Mrs. Calloway’s sister scolds from the kitchen.
With a cackle, they zoom down the hallway.
Mrs. Calloway takes the Jell-O mold and Dad slips off his coat.
“Oh my.” She laughs. “That is quite the vest.”
“It’s tradition,” he says ruefully.
“Dad’s a sucker for tradition.” I clap him on the shoulder. Truth is, I’m the sucker. We’ve been wearing ugly Christmas sweaters on Thanksgiving for as long as we’ve been eating this Jell-O.
A loud shout rumbles up the stairs.
