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It’s a manila envelope filled with paper snowflakes and a folded note.
Dear Henry,
I’m so sorry for the way I acted last night. I never should have laughed at something that has made you so sad for so long. I feel like the worst because I am the worst, and I hope you can forgive me.
I will be keeping up a regular supply of bribes in hopes that you’ll see how sorry I really am. I also hope they help you feel like Christmas isn’t the worst. You have every reason to feel like it is, but I see it much differently since having Evie. Maybe her influence will help too?
Merry Christmas, Henry.
Evie has added a note in her careful seven-year-old printing:
Toodles taught me how to make these snowflakes. I know we don’t get White Christmases too much, but if you hang these in your windows, this will help! They will also decorate your house. It’s kinda plain for Christmas.
“Toodles” is what Evie calls her Aunt Grace. There must be at least three dozen intricately hand-cut snowflakes but putting them in the window will send Paige the wrong message. Hanging them up will say we’re back to normal or getting there. But that isn’t true.
I slide them into an unused drawer in the kitchen and head out on my walk.
I return an hour later, my head no clearer, but I’ve had one insight: after wandering a good bit of the town, there’s no question that Paige has the brightest display in Creekville. Cars are still coming through, slowing to a crawl in front of her place as I turn up my walk.
No doubt this didn’t happen last year, and I wish it wasn’t happening this year. I dislike the intrusion, and I’m sure the other neighbors aren’t thrilled either.
I go to bed grumpy and toss and turn all night, my poor sleep made worse when I dream three times in a row that I’m wrapping the same strand of lights around the sycamore in my front yard without ever finishing. I just wrap it, round and round the trunk, and nothing happens. I don’t run out of lights, and they never turn on.
I head into work feeling out of sorts. I even overslept for the first time in years, leaving myself no time to shave off the idiotic scruff Paige wheedled me into growing.
I make it to my class on time, but it’s certainly not my best day, and I fumble during the lecture in ways I haven’t since my TA days.
When Leigh walks into our small office after lunch, I don’t notice. I’m too busy staring blankly at my computer, reliving the sound of Paige’s muffled laughter coming through the vents.
“Hey, Hill,” Leigh says after a couple minutes. “You lost in space over there or what?”
“Hello.” I look up from my screen. “When did you come in?”
She looks amused. “About five minutes ago. You’ve been thinking hard. Noodling over something brilliant?”
I scrub my hands over my face, distracted by the feel of the stubble. It’s sharp. I don’t like it. I can’t wait to finish my afternoon class so I can get home and shave it off. “No. Sorry. I slept poorly last night. I’m off my game today.”
“Hmmm. I have to say, if that’s why you’ve got that shadow going” —she indicates her chin—“insomnia might be working for you.”
Perhaps I’ll keep it a few more days.
This is where I should keep the conversation going, but I’m honestly too tired. I’ll try tomorrow, but for today, I’m in survival mode. I give Leigh a slight nod and turn back to my laptop, forcing myself to go through my slide deck one more time to verify it’s at least comprehensible before my next lecture.
“I said, are you happy to be getting to the end of the term?”
I look at Leigh again and realize she’s repeating the question. “End of term? I suppose. It means grading a huge stack of papers though.”
“You can always give them a multiple-choice test and run the Scantrons. It’s a lot easier.”
I shrug. “I need to assess how well they understand the interrelatedness of the ideas we’ve covered, not how well they guess.”
A small smile plays around her lips. “I’m the same, Dr. Hill. I give them an essay exam, not a multiple-choice test.”
It’s custom on some campuses or even within particular departments for colleagues, even ones who have known each other for years, to address each other as “Professor” or “Doctor.” I’ve come to suspect Leigh only calls me Dr. Hill when she thinks I’m being formal. It’s her way of taking a sly dig at me.
“Very good, Dr. Riggins,” I reply. “That’s sound pedagogy.”
“I know that,” she says dryly, not realizing I’m teasing her back. It’s Basic Pedagogy 101.
