AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I nod, wondering what it could have been.
Miranda reaches into her tote and pulls out a small, wrapped package, slides it across the table. “I was going to leave it under your tree.”
“It’s not your last day before Christmas, is it?” I ask, trying to keep the stress out of my voice. She’ll be gone Christmas Eve through the Twenty-Sixth. There will be another nurse from the agency, but it will be hard on my dad, and consequently on me.
“No, but I have it here so why not?” She slides the little box over to me.
“You shouldn’t have.”
She gives me a wave. “It’s just a little something.”
I open it carefully. Inside the box is a silver locket with a clear face on a long chain. Inside the locket there are tiny charms—a stack of books, a glitteringM, a small bear that looks like Puddles who has sat on my bed since childhood, a truck that looks like my Scout, a pen and a notebook. It’s so pretty, thoughtful. Heat comes up on my cheeks, making my scar burn.
“This is beautiful, Miranda,” I say, choking up a little. She reaches across to pat my hand. “Thank you.”
“You deserve nice things, Madeline.”
She’s always on me about trying to meet someone. She thinks my dad belongs at Shady Grove, a facility that would offer him twenty-four seven care until he gets better—or if he doesn’t. That I work too hard, spend too many hours in the shop, need to hire some more staff beyond my high school helpers. And she’s right, maybe. But I can come up with a thousand reasons why not to do any of those things. Maybe some of them are even true.
I get up from my spot at the table and walk over to the Christmas tree in our living room. The blue spruce reaches to the ceiling, branches bending with collected ornaments from generations of Martins—a bluebird my uncle Tommy carved from wood, an orb with sand from a beach vacation my parents took, ribbons from my childhood pigtails, one of my baby shoes painted pink, little photos in frames, a tiny glass schnauzer, a crocheted London Bridge, a hundred more.
I grab Miranda’s gift from the pile and hand it to her.
When she pulls out the sky-blue cashmere shawl, she sighs with pleasure, hugs it to her body. Then she breaks the seal on the long envelope beneath it. She closes her eyes a second after opening it, then looks at me.
“It’s too much,” she says.
“It’s not enough,” I counter. “Not for what you do for us. Day in, day out.”
Her husband Ernie is another selfless, giving human—a middle school music teacher who volunteers with the church, and conducts the youth choir. The big holiday concert is coming up, and Miranda’s daughter Giselle is the star soloist. Her voice. Its timbre and beauty fill the soul. Dad and I will go to watch her perform on Christmas Eve—after the other thing we do every year now.
Miranda and I embrace, exchange thanks, and then she’s gone, leaving the scent of jasmine in her wake, her old Jeep—kept alive by Badger—rumbling down the drive.
I check in on my dad who is snoring peacefully. On the bedside table is a framed picture of my mom and me. At three, which I think I was in that photo, I was a miniature version of her with the same serious dark eyes, razor straight black hair, mysterious smile. Sometimes, even now, I catch him looking at me and I’m not sure how, but I know he’s thinking about my mom.
I watch him a moment, the steady rise and fall of his chest. It’s been more than six months since his stroke. The doctors said that he’d recover, but maybe not totally. We all thought he’d be further along by now; he’s always been such a force, such a powerhouse. It’s hard to see him struggling to walk, communicate, eat.
“Good night, Dad,” I whisper.
My dad groans in his sleep, and I pull the door closed.
Then I head to my room, sit at my desk, open my laptop, and try to find online whatever it might have been on the news that upset my dad.
It isn’t long before I find it.
There he is. Those eyes staring back at me, daring me to be my worst self, my wildest self. His hair is shorn, eyes rimmed with fatigue, cheekbones jutting. The orange prison jumpsuit does not flatter. Gone is his beauty, and the arrogant ease with which he carried himself. But the burning intensity of his gaze has not cooled.
COLDCASEREVISITED
A decade later, convicted murderer Evan Handy still claims his innocence in the stabbing death of 17-year-old Stephanie Cramer. New evidence and the interest of famed cold-case investigator Harley Granger have sparked a fresh look into the murder, as well as into the case of sisters Ainsley and Samantha Wallace, two other girls gone missing the night Stephanie Cramer was murdered from the same upstate New York town in 2013. In a phone interview, Harley Granger said, “There are too many open questions and no easy answers. Evan Handy, with his history of violence, was the logical target for police. But it seems to me that other evidence was overlooked in the interest of a quick arrest. Meanwhile, Ainsley and Samantha Wallace remain missing, their family still seeking answers all these years later.”
I sit and stare at Evan’s picture for a while. He was my first kiss.Myfirst love, thoughhenever loved me.
I still remember that, what it felt like to love him, even as I run my finger down the scar from the cut he gave me.
I do a little more digging around online, looking for more information about Harley Granger, his new case. Finally, when I can’t keep my eyes open any longer, I change and crawl into bed.
Sleep is fituful. I dream of Evan Handy, my own personal boogeyman. I run and run. He never catches me, but I’m never free.
