“He’s welcome to blame God,” I say, half joking. “If he still went to church, our priest might insist that he forgive me because that’s what a good Catholic should do. ‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.’”
“You grew up Catholic, too?”
I nod. “Well, my dad was Catholic, and so we all went to church mostly to keep him happy. James and I never took it all that seriously, but… I guess there were pieces of it that we liked. Mom was more agnostic than I think my father knew,” I say, laughing. “She was famous for flashing major eye rolls to me and James just before Communion. Dad caught her once, and she pawned it off as being irritated by an especially dry Communion wafer. She and I secretly shared a wish that they’d instead feed us small bites of the delicious bread from the French bakery down the road.”
Chris laughs. “Very sensible. So you hated every minute?”
“Sort of. I guess I liked the idea that… well, that there might be some kind of larger meaning to life or whatever. My mother was into that. She had a nonreligious spiritual side to her, if that makes any sense. She believed in the idea of fate and destiny. An interconnectedness and purpose in life.” I fidget with the zipper on my jacket. “Do you believe in that?”
“Not at all,” he says immediately. “Estelle was hooked from the first time she went to church. Which was mostly after my mother died, by the way. My father took us on holidays and whatnot, but Estelle made me take her every Sunday. I’d wait outside. Here’s the truth. We want to read too much into life because it’s convenient. Or fun. But there’s no imaginary, invisible man in the sky who makes things happen. There is no magical reason that we’re dealt what we’re dealt. Sabin was being a bastard last night, but he was telling the truth.” Chris has the same unromantic view of the world that I do. I suspect that neither of us wants a predictable march through life that includes things like marriage, kids, and a white picket fence. We both have histories that preclude wanting to seek out tradition.
“Take this man who brought you off the ladder,” Chris continues. “I know you well enough to say that you don’t think he was sent by God to save you.”
“No. He wasn’t. I don’t know who he was, and I have never seen him since that night, but it was him, not God or any other… illusory power… who tore me away from that fire. I give credit where credit is due. One human being made a choice, he acted, and I owe him my life. No god killed my parents, nearly killed James, and spared me. I know that, and I can’t go back and believe in things that I used to believe in… or that I used to want to believe in. I don’t know how much faith I had to lose that night, but whatever I had is gone now.” I take an incredibly refreshing deep breath. “And you understand that.”
“I do.”
I put my hand on top of Chris’s so that I am holding his between mine and look at him while he focuses on the road. “We want what’s real. Heroes are real.”
“Some,” he concedes, “but not all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m sure many people would consider my father a hero, but—”
“But not you,” I finish for him.
“No. Never me. And that, Blythe,” he says without taking his eyes off the road, “is reality. What is also reality is that I don’t have to see him again. I can make that choice.”
“What does your father do?”
“He’s an artist. All sorts of mediums. Sculpture, painting, you name it. The house was always filled with materials. Paint, plaster, sheets of metal. Wire. Lots of copper wire.”
Chris tightens his grip on my hand. I turn to face him and rest my leg on the cushioned bench seat. “What about winter break? If you don’t go home, what do you do? Thanksgiving is one thing, but you can’t stay on campus over winter break.”
He checks the backseat quickly and then says in a low voice, “Hawaii. But don’t tell anyone. They don’t know. It’s our new family tradition to go away for the month. Last year I rented us a place in Huntington Beach. I don’t tell them where we’re going until we get to the airport.”
“Oh my God, I love it. You guys are going to have a blast. Sounds kind of expensive, though.”
“I… I have access to money. My mother had money. A substantial amount. And her will, unbeknownst to my father, left all of her money to her children. I’m in charge of the trust.” He pauses. “What about you? What are your plans for break?”
“Just me and James. This year we’re going to the house we grew up in, not my aunt’s, like we always have. Kind of the first time we’ll be there in a long time. It’s going to be… weird.”
There is a deep roaring grumble from the backseat. “Where is my ginormous TV? Where is it? I need me some big plasma love.”
I smile. Sabin is awake. “We’ll be there soon.”
“HERE WE COME, STORE OF THE GIANTTVS!” he screams, planting a hand on top of Chris’s head and then mine and ruffling our hair. He leaves one hand resting on Chris’s shoulder as he sits back. “It’s a good day, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Chris and I say.
When we get to the mall, we fight our way through the crowd of frenzied shoppers to reach the department store. Sabin disappears into the mob while Chris and I spend twenty minutes assessing the television options.
“Which one do you like?” Chris asks.
“The black one with the big screen.”
He slaps my arm. “You’ve narrowed it down to twenty.”
