Part 28 (1/2)

Two days later, Meg and I had just gotten home from school when Mr. Mita knocked on our door, holding a four-foot-tall Christmas tree in a pot.

”I remember your mother always got these live ones,” he said, and we all glanced out the window toward the edge of the front lawn, rimmed with Christmas Trees Past in various stages of survival.

Christmas was my mother's holiday. Although she was half-Jewish, it was what they'd celebrated in her family, and she just loved it. Christmas music, all the TV specials, even eggnog. Toby and I got eight utilitarian gifts for Hanukkah-socks, sweaters, new parkas-and the good stuff on December 25. My dad was okay with that, and if Nana wasn't, she never let on.

When it came to the tree, Mom couldn't stand the thought of one being grown just so it could be cut down and die slowly with pretty gifts beneath it, then put out on trash day. We planted our trees on New Year's Day, and although I always thought it was ridiculous trying to dig a hole in the frozen ground every January 1, now I was so grateful we had.

”That's very sweet, thank you,” said Nana, but I couldn't tell if she meant it. Mr. Mita put the tree down in the living room and after he left, with a plate of Nana's cookies in his hands, Meg and I went into the garage to look for our Christmas decorations.

”Do you have a tree at your house yet?” I asked.

”Mom put up the fake one weeks ago. Which is a good thing, because now n.o.body even cares.”

”What did she say when she called this morning?”

”The usual. She wants me to come home. She swears my Dad's leaving tonight, so we'll see.”

I scanned the shelves of the garage until I saw the two big red plastic bins labeled XMAS and pointed. Meg grabbed the stepladder and moved toward them.

”Is she mad at you for not being there for . . . you know . . . her?” I asked.

Meg paused, then said simply, ”Yes.” In a series of quick motions, she hopped up on the ladder, grabbed each XMAS box, and handed them down to me.

Ironically, the first thing we saw when we opened the first bin was our electric menorah. When Toby was little he broke the nice ceramic one my parents had received as a wedding gift, and Mom went out and found the plug-in kind at half price during a post-holiday sale. During Hanukkah she kept it on the kitchen counter between the spice rack and the paper towels, and she and Nana had a fight about it every single year.

I showed the menorah to Nana, who actually smiled a bit when she lifted it up, then placed it on a table by the Christmas tree.

While Nana and Meg unpacked the rest of the bins, I took a break to check my email, which was something I did compulsively a little too often since David and I had started writing again.

My in-box contained one new item: a picture message sent from a cell phone. I knew you weren't supposed to open stuff like that if you didn't know the source, but I couldn't resist.

First, the words i thought this might remind you of something.

Then, a photo of a van parked alongside a road somewhere. It was an older model, with a small round bubble window near the back, painted with a purple and pink desert scene complete with howling coyote and cactus.

I laughed out loud, and remembered.

One painfully hot summer day years ago, Toby and I were sitting in a small patch of shade in our front yard, trying to come up with something to do. None of the other neighborhood kids were around because of the heat, but we'd spent the morning squabbling in the house and Mom had ordered us outside for a while. We were bored and grumpy and pretty much ready to kill each other when David suddenly appeared in our driveway.

”Oh cool, you're here,” he'd said. ”My uncle is visiting and he's going to put on a magic show, but I can't find anyone. You guys wanna come down and watch?”

Minutes later the three of us were sitting on the back steps of the Kaufmans' house, the concrete blissfully cool against our legs, watching David's uncle James do card tricks. He was David's father's brother, and everyone knew he was kind of a wandering soul. He'd dropped out of a PhD program and was taking magic lessons. But the thing we knew best was that he had this awesome vintage van with a bubble window, a mural of planets and stars airbrushed on the sides, which was then parked in the Kaufmans' driveway. It served as a perfect backdrop for his act.

Eventually Uncle James went back to school, got married, and moved to Virginia, but I always thought of him with that van and s.p.a.ce scene behind him. Maybe David did too.

The memory of Uncle James's voice cutting through the humidity and the emptiness of our neighborhood that day, of giggling at his jokes and gaping at his ”magic,” of the perfectly sweet lemonade Mrs. Kaufman served to us afterward, came back to me so sharply I had to put my hand over my heart.

”What's that?” Meg asked from the doorway, startling me. She was peering over my shoulder to the photo of the van on the computer screen.

I could have made up a lie right there, and I could have made it sound convincing. Instead, I just opened my mouth and told her, easily, calmly, the truth. About David, about the kiss in the woods, about his emails, about Thanksgiving morning, and now, about the picture of the van.

Meg didn't get mad that I'd kept these things from her, or even seem confused. She just took it all in, shook her head slowly, and said, ”Whoa.”

An hour later, Meg I were stringing lights around the dwarf tree when we got a call from her mom.

”Okay,” said Meg, expressionless, into the phone. ”Good.” She hung up and looked at me. ”Dad's at the Holiday Inn, so . . . I guess I should go back. She sounds lonely.”

”I'll walk you home,” I said.

We were silent as we made our way down the hill in the near dark, Meg with her backpack and me carrying her school bag. It was close enough to Christmas now that everyone on our street had put their decorations up, and the leftover snow sat so delicately, it looked painted onto the doorsteps and windowsills.

We live in a nice place, I thought as we walked. You'd never know by looking at it that behind any one of these doors there was depression and drinking and parents who don't love each other anymore. And surely there were other houses that held a roof over death and grief and tragedy. It was just that mine got all the headlines.

When we got within sight of the Dill house, Meg asked, ”Do you think we'll be okay?”

I thought about it, and how David might answer that question, and then said, ”We will if we choose to be.”

Mrs. Dill opened the back door for us and wrapped Meg in a big hug. They didn't move for a full minute.

The next day was the last day of school before Christmas break. For the past week, all anybody had cared about was who had gotten in where on their early college application. Everyone else who applied had received their decisions, so they knew I had to have mine. But I wasn't talking, and it was hilarious to watch them be too scared to come right out and ask me. In the end, it was Mr. Churchwell who spoiled the fun.

He pulled me aside as I was walking past the main office at the end of lunch period. ”Did you hear from Yale yet?” he asked me, trying to sound professional.

I couldn't bring myself to lie to him. ”Yeah. I got in,” I said casually.

”That's fantastic! I'm so proud of you!”

”I'm still working on my other applications, though.”

”You'll have lots of options, I'm sure.” And then he patted me on the shoulder, the kind of pat that wanted to be a hug but knew better.

Later, on the way out of seventh period, Joe touched me on the shoulder and I turned around.

”Congrats!” he said. ”I heard about Yale!”

News traveled fast.

”Thanks!” I said, trying to match his enthusiasm.

Joe looked at me nervously, then said, ”Listen, I'm sure the holidays for you are . . . well, they're not . . .”

”They're going to suck.”

”Yes, they're going to suck,” he said, smiling in relief, and I couldn't help but smile a little too. ”Do you want to get together over break? We could catch a movie. Or go into the city and see some of the decorations.”