40. Cliff
Chapter 40
Cliff
I wake up to a tickle on my foot. I kick the sensation and roll over on the couch, throwing the sleeping bag comforter over my head.
“Wake up, Dad,” Brittany whispers at the opposite end of the couch.
She tickles my foot again, and I tug my legs up into a fetal position.
“The birds aren’t chirping yet,” I murmur into my pillow. “If they’re asleep, we should be too.”
“But Santa came!”
“And I bet he’s tired after delivering presents,” I argue.
I hold up my palm to shield my eyes from the bright tree lights that kept me up all night. At one point, I unplugged them, but Brittany’s pitter-pattering feet woke me up somewhere between three o’clock and five o’clock as she plugged them back in. It was too much energy to get up and turn them off.
A finger wiggles into my ear. A shiver skitters down my spine. I bat the hand away.
“Up and at ’em, old man,” Emily says above me.
I peer up through my folded arms to find her perching on the couch’s arm with a steaming coffee mug.
I point a finger. “Is that for me?”
“Merry Christmas,” she says.
I bring the mug into my hands.
A CD case cracks open to the right of me. I shift to my other cheek and find Tracy placing what is most likely the Billboard Greatest Christmas Hits on the open stereo slot and sliding it back in. For sixteen solid years, we’ve listened to it every Christmas morning without fail.
“Dad, do you think Michelle and Rocket can come over?” Brittany asks.
I almost choke on my own air. Tracy’s head jerks to me. Even the beginning of “White Christmas” by Bing Crosby can’t make her expression pleasant.
It’s hard to make out her expression without my glasses, but I think I see a single eyebrow rise in question. When you raise children together for as long as we have, you form a type of unspoken parent language. A few years ago, I might have been able to decipher exactly what she’s thinking. Now, it’s a shot in the dark.
The front door slams inward, sending a snow chill into the living room as Carol thumps her boots on the welcome mat. A thick scarf is pulled up to her ears, and her wooly coat is covered in fluffy snow.
“Is that coffee for me?” she asks through chattering teeth, kicking the door closed behind her and snatching the mug from my hands.
I blink to myself, but I’m too sleepy to question it.
“Em, is there any coffee left?” I ask, swinging my legs over the side of the couch.
“Duh,” Emily answers, putting her finger into my ear again.
I swat at her.
“Dad, can Michelle and Rocket come over?” Brittany repeats.
I rub my palm over my face. “Heard you the first time, Britt Britt. Let me get some coffee, and we’ll see.”
I grab my glasses from the side table and blink through the remaining grogginess on my way to the kitchen. I hear Tracy following, the fwick-slap of her house shoes hitting the linoleum behind me.
I look out the kitchen window toward Michelle’s bedroom. There’s a curtain of snow falling between our houses, so it’s difficult to see if her lamp is on. I wonder if she’s already awake, making cinnamon rolls.
I sniff and cross to the cabinet. I pull down a mug, gesturing it toward Tracy, as if to say, Want one too?
She nods. I take down another—the one with the Burke’s Bakery logo—and shuffle over to the full pot gurgling on the counter.
Tracy clicks her tongue and sighs.
“If they want to invite Michelle, that’s fine,” she says stiffly.
I peer over, pouring coffee. “You’re kidding. This feels like a trap.”
Her lips straighten into a thin line, and she crosses her arms. “She’s nice enough.”
I snort. “It’s your holiday,” I say, grabbing the second mug and pouring more. “I’m not here to ruin Christmas with the girls.”
Tracy’s jaw tightens. “And I’m not here to ruin theirs. If they want your neighbor over, I’m fine with it.”
It’s uncomfortable, talking about Michelle with Tracy. The words are all wrong. Neighbor feels too casual. Then again, so do words like best friend or girlfriend .
Tracy clears her throat. “Cliff.”
“Hmm?”
“Call her.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
I don’t believe her, but Tracy’s gaze doesn’t break from mine for a solid few seconds. She’s either convincing me or herself. With a straightened back, she snatches her coffee from my palm—a small splash springing to the counter—and leaves the kitchen.
I cautiously walk to the phone, dial Bird & Breakfast, and lean the receiver between my ear and shoulder.
“Merry Christmas!” Michelle’s customer service voice is enough to wake me from my blurry slumber. I could listen to her talk all morning. “Thank you for calling Bird &—”
“Merry Christmas, Michelle,” I interrupt with a low laugh.
“Cliff.” Her voice goes soft.
I love when her voice goes soft.
“What are you doing this morning?” I ask.
“Dad and Sara are sleeping.”
“And what are you doing?” I repeat.
I hear her smile as she says, “What am I doing, social planner?”
I set my coffee down, lean against the counter, and place one ankle over the other. “You’re invited to our Burke Family Present-Opening Ceremony.”
“Wow, is that a big deal?”
“Huge.”
There’s a beat before she asks, “Is Tracy fine with it?”
I smile to myself. “It was her suggestion.”
Silently, she murmurs, “This feels like a trap.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Well, I’m in pajamas.”
“So are we.”
“Let me?—”
“We have coffee,” I say. “So, put on those cute, fuzzy slippers of yours and get over here,” I demand with a grin. “Don’t make me come get you. And bring Rocket.”
“He’d get mad if I didn’t.”
We both hang up, and it suddenly hits me that I’m spending Christmas with Michelle. I feel like … well, like a kid on Christmas, I guess. I tuck my feet into house slippers, rip open the kitchen door, and trundle along through the snow.
By the time I make it past our rose bushes, Michelle is out the door with two bags in her hand and Rocket trotting by her side. She laughs when she sees me and laughs even harder when I tuck my arms under her knees, lift her over my shoulder, and carry her back to my house with Rocket barking the whole way.
When we’re back inside, I plop her down on the linoleum. She reaches out for my glasses with her free hand and adjusts them.
I wiggle them up and down with a smile. “You still like them?”
“Maybe.”
I want to bury my lips into her neck, but I have to pull away when I hear tiny footsteps pounding over the carpet toward the kitchen.
“Michelle!”
Brittany barrels into Michelle’s legs, nearly knocking her backward. She holds tight, hugging onto her as Michelle attempts to walk. Rocket bounces alongside them, his tail whooshing through the air, hitting against the breakfast nook’s legs.
“Did Santa come to your house?” Michelle asks.
“Yes! We haven’t opened presents but?—”
“You haven’t opened presents yet ?” Michelle gawks, looking at me with a broad grin. “Cliff, how dare you!”
“I’m revoking your coffee privileges,” I say.
“No, you’re not,” she counters.
I smirk and dutifully grab her a mug from the cabinet.
Brittany gasps. “Are those for us?”
I finally look closer at the two bags in Michelle’s hands. They’re illustrated in snowy cottages and horse-drawn carriages. Red tissue paper sprouts from the top.
“They are,” Michelle says.
The smile that bursts over my face is almost embarrassing.
She got my girls a gift.
“You didn’t have to—” I start, but Emily runs in, yelling, “She did!”
Michelle tells them which bag is theirs, and the girls snatch the presents, running back into the living room together. Following behind them with a coffee mug each, Michelle and I walk into the living room. It’s oddly domestic, but I love every second of it.
I sit on the opposite side of the couch from Michelle and Rocket—not too close in case the girls notice, even though Emily’s eyes swing from Michelle back to me with a broad grin. Tracy’s gaze follows, staring pointedly at Michelle.
Brittany and Emily rip into their gifts like animals.
New CDs quickly stack up for Emily. “Whoa, you got me The Smashing Pumpkins, Michelle?”
For Brittany, there’s a new Barbie, a Tickle Me Elmo, and finally, a rectangular box she shakes in her hand. She looks at me curiously, and I nod.
“Open it up, Britt.”
She slides open one side. Slick, glossy photos slide onto the carpet.
Her eyes shine bright as stars. “Santa got my photos, Dad!”
“See? Told you he’d listen,” Emily says with a smile, performing her older-sister duty of keeping up the Santa myth.
I think she enjoys it more than I do.
Brittany holds up the top photo. “Look! It’s Rocket!”
Rocket perks up at the sound of his name.
I laugh. Sure, the photo has Rocket, but it also has half of Brittany’s thumb in the shot.
“You’re a natural,” I say.
Brittany continues pushing through the photos. I skimmed the stack before wrapping it. There are crooked shots of the inn and Rocket’s snout. There’s one of me at the bakery, arm deep in the oven. Some are from Halloween, but most of those ended up blurry from the flash.
Carol scoots behind her and looks through them over Brittany’s shoulder. Laughing, she grabs one and holds it up. It’s Michelle and Carol sitting on the front porch.
“Paparazzo,” she teases.
“Oh, look, there’s Josh,” Tracy says, joining in.
I can tell she feels left out. She points to a photo tossed closer to the fireplace. In the picture, Emily and Josh are curled on Bird & Breakfast’s couch under a big blanket.
Tracy tilts her nose up. “I can see how you two get into trouble.”
Emily goes stiff as a board. “What?”
Tracy shrugs. “Just remember to be safe.”
Her wide eyes instantly dart to me and Michelle.
“You told her?” Emily snaps.
Michelle’s eyebrows rise. So do mine.
“You promised you wouldn’t tell her.”
“Tell me what?” Tracy cuts in. Her face is turning red at the same rate Emily’s cheeks are suddenly draining of color.
“Tell her what?” I ask too.
Then, it hits me. I can feel my own heart sinking as I uncomfortably adjust on the cushions. I glance at Michelle, whose eyebrows stitch inward. She probably realized it seconds before me. The pregnancy test.
“Em …” Michelle says, but the word fades off.
“We didn’t,” I finish for her.
Emily’s posture falters as the realization suddenly settles in.
“You didn’t tell her?” Emily whispers.
Michelle quickly shakes her head, pulling in her lips.
Emily’s shoulders drop, and she breathes out a small, “Shit.”
“Emily Theresa Burke,” Tracy snaps. “Language. You tell me what’s going on right now.”
I immediately pinch my eyes closed. That type of demand will get her nowhere with Emily, and predictably, Emily scrambles to stand with a glare pointed at her.
“I’m not telling you anything,” she snaps.
Tracy’s ears are bright crimson. “But you told her ?”
For a moment, I’m confused. But then I follow her line of sight to Michelle, and heat from my chest rises up my throat to my cheeks.
Michelle is stunned to the spot, but hidden beside her is a very tight fist.
“Her name is Michelle,” Carol points out.
Tracy’s mouth gapes in a scoffing laugh. “I don’t care who she is.”
“Trace …” I warn.
This is escalating quicker than I’d like, and even Carol’s eyebrows get more furrowed by the second. Poor Brittany sits on the floor, confused, holding photos and smearing her fingerprints all over them.
“I should know what’s going on with my daughter before someone else does,” Tracy says.
“You’d know if you ever talked to me ,” Emily spits back.
Tracy pinches her eyes shut, ignoring Emily to say, “I should at least know before that … that?—”
I rise to my feet without thinking. My heart is pounding. My knuckles are white from clenched fists, painfully forcing my nails into my palms. My chest is on fire.
“I’d watch what words come out next, Trace. Before we all say something we regret. Something the girls shouldn’t hear.”
The room turns cold. Jimmy Boyd’s “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” slices through the living room. The fireplace lightly pops. Wrapping paper awkwardly crinkles as Carol sets down a present on the ground.
Tracy’s eyes blink up at me, her lips wide and parted. This fight feels too much like old times. Useless, instigated arguments. But that I can handle.
Words against Michelle?
Not in my house. Not anywhere.
Emily audibly swallows. “I’m going for a walk.”
Tracy’s head jerks to Emily. “In the snow? No, you aren’t.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” Emily sneers.
“I’m your mother .”
Emily blows out a breath. “Psht. Whatever,” she says as she strides past me.
I sigh. “Em, it’s cold.”
“I don’t care.”
“It’s snowing.”
“I don’t care!” she repeats louder.
“Fine. I’m gonna have to follow you.”
“No!” Emily yells, walking quickly from the living room.
Stumbling to stand, Tracy also yells, “I’m coming too!”
“Fuck off, Mom!”
Tracy’s whole body jerks backward. She looks like she got slapped across the face, blinking over and over. Stunned to silence.
Damn it, Emily.
“I’ll be back,” I grumble, striding from the living room.
Emily slams the back door shut. The blinds crack against the glass. I rip it open again and step out into the cold after her.