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“And you think you leaving is what would make Tom happy?”
“Well, it’s certainly not his ex-wife hovering nearby while he proposes to Lolo,” I joke.
“And yet, he chose to stay in New York. To help you. To bring you here for Christmas.”
“Well. Yeah. Because he’s angling for sainthood. You know how Tom is. Classic oldest child, always duty-bound to do the moral thing.”
Instead of responding, Bob tilts his glass back and forth, watching the Scotch swish gently from side to side, approaching the edge but never spilling. “You know, Tom and I have never talked much. I don’t know why. I guess because, of all the kids, I was still working so much when he was a kid. He and Nancy just became thick as thieves. He got so used to telling her everything, but when it came to me . . .”
Bob shrugs. Stops the swishing to take a drink. Resumes. “So I got real used to watching Tom. It was how I knew what he was thinking. Feeling. And because I’ve been doing it so long, learned to read him so well, I’ve come to notice that what’s on his face . . . sometimes it says a whole hell of a lot.”
I can tell Bob is gearing up to tell me something that my protective walls aren’t strong enough to handle at the moment, so I hurriedly try to deflect by leaning forward and lowering my voice to a joking whisper. “Bob. Are you trying to tell me you think you can read your son’s mind?”
He snorts. “Of course not.”
I sit back, relieved.
“I’m trying to tell you I can read my son’s heart,” Bob continues in complete seriousness. “And I could tell the second he got out of that truck. What he wanted? It wasn’t Lolo.”
THIRTY-SIX
KATHERINE
December 24, 3:00 p.m.
Before I can press Bob on what exactly he means by his bombshell revelation, his office door is burst open by Meredith’s girls, who are practically vibrating with the opportunity to show “Auntie Katie” their Santa pictures.
And Christmas spirit and sentimentality must be seeping from the Walshes’ surplus of Christmas ornaments like asbestos because I find myself a little watery-eyed to know that I’m still Auntie Katie.
Rationally, I know that Clara, the younger one, was tiny when Tom and I split and likely has only the haziest memories of me, but still . . .
Auntie.
My heart is growing three sizes after all. Because the sheer joy at being labeled a member of the family, even in a tangential way, is almost as strong as my joy at hearing Bob’s words.
Words that keep bouncing around in my head, even as I declare both of my nieces’ Santa pictures equally adept. My former nieces. Mustn’t forget that.
And yet . . .
“I could tell the second he got out of that truck. What he wanted? It wasn’t Lolo.”
“Come on, Grandpa,” Sophia says, holding out a hand to Bob. “Mommy says it’s time for It’s a Wonderful Life before dinner.”
“Did she now,” Bob says, climbing to his feet and taking his granddaughter’s hand, even though it’s covered in what seems to be frosting. “I don’t suppose I can put in a vote for National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation?”
“Oh, you can put in a vote,” Sophia says as she drags him out of the room. “But I don’t reckon it would do much good.”
Bob turns and meets my eyes with raised eyebrows. Reckon? he mouths.
“You too, Auntie Katie,” Clara says, trying to pull me from my chair. “The whole family watches.”
“Oh, you know what?” I say as I let her lead me from the room. “I need to grab something upstairs real quick. I’ll be down in a little bit.”
I start to wonder if lying to children on Christmas Eve counts as a deadly sin. And then I remember: Santa. The biggest lie of all. I’m good.
Even still, Sophia gives me a suspicious look. “What do you have to grab?”
Um.
“Pills,” I blurt out. “I got hurt pretty bad yesterday. I have to take some medicine for my head.”
That’s at least truth-adjacent because the mere idea of watching It’s a Wonderful Life in the same room as Tom and Lolo cuddled up on the couch is bound to give me a headache.
“I could tell the second he got out of that truck. What he wanted? It wasn’t Lolo.”
Damn it, Bob, I think as I stomp up the stairs. Do you not know me at all? I don’t deal in wishes and dreams and unicorns. I can’t afford to have people running around, planting seeds of hope, derailing a perfectly adequate life . . .
Obviously, the medicine I got from the hospital was taken along with my purse and suitcase, but in the shared hallway bathroom I find a bottle of Advil in the medicine cabinet. I help myself to a couple, which I swallow with some water scooped from the sink.
