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“I know you know that,” I say, finding a smile so she gets it was a joke.
“Well-played, Henry.” She stares at me for a second longer before turning to her work with another smile.
As I finish my class prep, I realize I have inadvertently used Paige’s strategy to attract Leigh’s attention. And given the fact that Leigh noticed my grooming and engaged with me more than usual, I have to acknowledge that Paige was, in fact, correct.
Interesting.
My second class goes well enough, perhaps because the post-lunch crowd is always a bit sleepy themselves, but I head straight to my car when I finish teaching. I won’t nap when I get home as it will only disrupt my sleep tonight, but I do want to be in the comfort of my own house for the spacing out that’s plagued me all day.
I must pass Paige’s house to turn into my driveway, and though I try to ignore it, I can’t help noticing that something about it is different. I pull into my carport, frowning, not sure what it is.
Cat has left a tribute—a dead lizard—and next to it is another offering from next door. I kick the lizard away to deal with later and scoop up the small box decorated with childish drawings of candy canes on the cardboard.
Inside, I find a candy cane made out of red and white pipe cleaners with a small actual candy cane, like the kind that comes in a long strip. A note on folded notebook paper with ragged edges reads, “Mom says Christmas is not your favorite. I got three candy canes at daycare, but I saved this one for you because it’s not broken.”
If it was as simple as liking the holiday as much as I like Evie, I’d already be wearing a Santa hat. But it’s not.
I set the box on the kitchen counter. I’ll at least use it to stir my hot chocolate later.
Their yard display catches my eye through the side window and I stop. I realize what’s changed. One of the big wooden cutouts is missing.
The one with Santa being pulled by his reindeer.
I stare at the space it used to be for several long moments before I turn my back on the window and continue to the couch.
Nice try, Paige. But it isn’t enough. Perhaps nothing is when the first person you’ve opened up to turns your pain into a joke, a funny story someone told her once.
I go back to the kitchen and put the candy cane with the snowflakes and shut the drawer tight.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Paige
Nothingisworking.
I’ve tried everything I can think of to get through to Henry. He doesn’t answer texts or knocks. The gifts we leave disappear inside, but there’s nothing further. No acknowledgment. Nothing.
I’d hoped that even if he couldn’t forgive me, at least he’d enjoy the gifts from Evie. I explained that he didn’t like Christmas, and it was hard for him because he had sad memories. Her first instinct had been to run over and comfort him, but I convinced her that he needed some space.
I hadn’t expected him to freeze her out too. It breaks my heart to see how hopeful she is each morning as she carefully sets her gifts on his doorstep, how disappointed she is when I have to tell her each day when I pick her up from daycare that we haven’t heard from him yet. But her heart is so tender that after five days without a word from him, she only says, “He must have a big sad.” And she begins plotting what to leave for him next.
It’s a long week. We’re busier than usual at the store, which is good. It helps keep my mind off increasing worries while I’m at work. But outside of work, they pile up just the same.
Henry has magical avoidance powers, and I don’t see him coming or going. I don’t catch glimpses of him inside his windows—not that I’m trying to creep on him. But it makes his house feel like a big, dark cloud hovering next to mine, and I wish I knew how to fix things.
By Thursday morning, I’m tired in the way I used to be when I’d come home after working a double at the diner in Granger. I’d collect Evie from Noah across the hall and listen to her chatter about her day as she splashed in the tub while I tried very hard not to fall asleep sitting on the floor next to her.
Thursday apparently doesn’t believe I’ve been punished enough yet, because it plays out like the Monday-est Monday. Evie wakes up complaining of a stomachache, but I’m sure she has a strong case of “I don’t want to take my spelling test,” so I walk her to school anyway.
I’m working by myself until our part-timer, Gary, a retired plumber, comes in after lunch because Bill and Lisa went to Charlottesville to celebrate his two-year anniversary of being in remission by getting his annual PET scan and spending the day in the city. This is fine until just after 10:00, when the school calls and my stomach sinks.
“Ms. Redmond, Evie threw up in class and she’s running a fever. When can you come get her?”
If I can’t get hold of Gary—and I usually can’t—then I can’t get Evie. That’s the answer. There is no one to watch the store if I leave. There is no one to watch Evie if I bring her home. The daycare won’t take her if she’s sick, and her emergency contacts are having a long overdue day to themselves an hour away.
But she also can’t stay at school.
I miss Noah intensely in that moment, but that’s pointless too. Even if he were here, he couldn’t leave his classroom at school to go get her.
