Chapter 4 Twenty-Three Days till Christmas
4.
Twenty-three days till Christmas
It was late on Monday morning when Birdie clawed her way to consciousness, battling a hangover the size of New York’s trash problem. Next to her, Amy slept, her black hair spilling over a slightly grubby pillowcase. Dust motes floated in the bruised-yellow light seeping through the window. Birdie’s Brooklyn studio looked as it always did: recently burgled. Overdue bills crowded her fridge, and she definitely needed to do laundry. Keeping a place clean and tidy was more her sister’s speed. Birdie really wanted to pull the covers back over her head so her problems would give up looking for her and find someone else to bother. But alas. She wasn’t responsible for just herself. From his position at the end of her bed, her fat black-and-white tabby aimed his one good eye at her and yowled, sounding like a car engine slowly conking out.
Amy stirred, blinking blearily as she focused on Birdie, who saluted as cheerfully as she could. “Greetings and salutations.”
Amy yawned, rubbing mascara-smeared eyes. “Oh my god, my head.”
Birdie handed her a glass of water from the bedside table. “It’s an excellent head.”
“Speaking of excellent head…” Amy finished the glass. “Last night was—wow. Award-winning.”
“It’s nice to be nominated, but it’s even nicer to win.” Birdie addressed an invisible camera.
Amy giggled, then stretched with a groan. Her gaze roved over the signed posters of Birdie’s heroes (Steve Martin, Hannah Gadsby, Wanda Sykes) before landing on an old photograph taped to the wall beside the bed.
In it, Birdie, her older sister, Liz, and her younger brother, Rafi, all in black tie, flanked their mom, Babs, on a red carpet. Babs’s pile of coiffed strawberry-blond hair and trademark twinkle in her bright blue eyes were, evidently, recognizable.
“ Wow. ” Amy leaned closer to the picture. “I can’t believe your mom is Babs Belvedere. ”
Birdie didn’t respond, feeling the familiar suspicion that she was getting attention because of her mother, not her own appeal. Publicists and reviewers always underlined the Babs Belvedere association. It was a blessing in that it opened (some) doors and secured (some) meetings, but a curse in that Birdie was never considered as funny, charming, and quick-witted as her very famous parent. Because Babs was, well, Babs. Starting with the fact her three children were born to three different fathers. What can I say? Babs had joked a thousand times. Variety is the spice of life. And honey, I’ve always liked it spicy.
Amy looked from the photo of the glammed-up Belvederes to the dingy kitchenette and mismatched chairs. Birdie could see the question hovering on her lips. Some version of Why do you live like this?
Because Birdie was fiercely devoted to an independent creative career and had never accepted money from either parent, despite their respective offerings. She didn’t deny her mother’s wealth meant she’d always have a safety net. But, unlike some New York nepo babies who didn’t feel embarrassed using a credit card whose statement they’d never see, Birdie had paid her own way since moving out as a teenager. A decision that usually felt noble and great. Until recently. Being broke in your twenties was a rite of passage. In your thirties? Less cool.
“Hungry?” Birdie kicked her thoughts and the covers aside. “I need to feed my cat. Sadly, not a euphemism.”
Amy elected for a shower first. “Then maybe we can get some brunch? I have the day off.”
Brunch cost money. And was dangerously close to girlfriend territory. “Sorry, I have some stuff to do today.” She did not. “But I can make you my famous Sunday eggs? Even though it’s Monday.”
Amy pouted, nodding. “Deal.”
While Amy showered, Birdie shook some dry food into Mr. Paws’s bowl and unearthed a cast-iron skillet so old it remembered dial-up internet. She doused it in olive oil then hunted around the swampy inside of her fridge for eggs. Victory! A cardboard six-pack hid behind a stack of takeout. A six-pack…that contained only empty eggshells (ugh, why was she like this?). She was out of bacon, and the bag of day-old bagels she’d purchased for a buck last week were as hard as Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson.
Okay, coffee for breakfast. Coffee was the most important meal of the day, after all. Except she was also out of coffee. Now she’d have to fork out for a breakfast she couldn’t afford or send her lover off with nothing more than a handshake, and that just seemed rude.
How did everyone manage their lives with such seeming ease? It befuddled Birdie that she was expected to be excellent in her chosen profession and possess skills in money management and home organization and healthy eating and one million other things. These were the people who’d be smiling smugly from the onslaught of squeaky-clean holiday cards that’d soon be coming her way. High school friends and former comics who gave it all up for life in the suburbs with kitchens full of coffee and bacon and eggs. Birdie sank down at her tiny kitchen table, unexpected tears blurring her vision. Christmas was coming, but the endless twinkly festivity felt like a cruel joke. How the hell were things supposed to be joyful and jolly and bright? God, she just wanted a sign. A sign that the holidays could be—and it felt so ridiculous to wish for this—magic.
Birdie’s buzzer sounded.
She stared at it in surprise. Had the universe obeyed her wish and served up Cara Delevingne in an elf costume?
The buzzer sounded again. A woman’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Squeak! It’s me, let me in. I’m freezing my tits off!”
Better than Cara Delevingne. Because one minute later, Birdie’s favorite person in the entire world was standing on her doorstep with a black roller suitcase and a smile.
“Liz Fizz!” Birdie gasped, flying into her arms with such force, her sister laughed, stumbling.
“Hi, Squeak.” Liz hugged her tightly, then pulled back to examine Birdie’s face. “Is everything okay?”
Weeping over an empty egg carton? Who was she, Rafi? “Of course! I am hunky and dory, together at last.” Birdie nudged her embarrassing emotions off a cliff, focusing on her sister. “What are you doing in New York? I thought you weren’t coming back till right before Christmas.”
“Change of plans.” Her tall, neatly presented older sister held up a paper bag. “I bought coffee and breakfast sandwiches. Have you eaten?”
Birdie fist-pumped. “Holy guacamole, I love you.”
Liz stepped inside. “I love you, too.”
“I was talking to the sandwich.”
Liz chuckled and hung up her coat. Where Birdie was messy, Liz colored inside the lines with flattering neutral tones. But beneath her big sister’s unassuming exterior beat the heart of an insanely talented writer and ambitious boss-bitch showrunner who’d spent the year crushing it in L.A. Liz’s unexpected presence was like sinking in front of a crackling fire on a cold and blustery night.
Birdie cut her breakfast sandwich in two, offering half to Amy after she came out of the shower. Liz, who had very little experience with casual sex, was the most flustered out of them all.
Amy accepted the sandwich to go. “Nice to meet you, Liz. Maybe I’ll see you again?”
Liz blushed. “Sure. I mean, maybe? I live in L.A., so…” She trailed off, staring helplessly at Birdie.
“You’ll have to excuse my sex-starved sister,” Birdie said, snorting laughter as Liz whacked her arm.
“See you around.” Amy directed a kiss at Birdie’s mouth.
Birdie swerved her head so the kiss landed on her cheek. “Happy holidays, lady. You’re the best.”
Liz watched Amy leave in fearful bemusement. “Don’t you find one-night stands so awkward ?” she asked Birdie, unwrapping her sandwich. The smell of melting cheese and crispy bacon filled the small kitchen. “Both going your separate ways like you just shared a cab instead of a bed?”
Birdie shrugged. She’d never had a long-term relationship. Wasn’t in her DNA. “So, Liz Fizz: What brings you to town?”
As they ate, Liz explained she had to figure out the second season of her show, as soon as humanly possible. “But I can’t focus in L.A.”
“Why not?”
Her sister glitched for a microsecond. “Too many holiday parties. I’m heading up early to Mom’s to work from there. And I was hoping,” she wheedled, “my very favorite sister in the whole world might come with me.”
“Now?” It was December second. Birdie usually wouldn’t head up for another couple weeks.
Liz nodded, hopeful. “Do you have any shows booked? Any auditions?”
Birdie cringed. The effort it’d take to land a new manager—inviting them to sets she had yet to book, to see new material she had yet to write—loomed like a specter who cared about professional development. “Not exactly. Is Ma home right now?”
“She’s in Connecticut till tomorrow—something about an audition. Whaddya say?”
Birdie took another bite, examining her somehow-put-together-after-a-red-eye older sister. This was all out of character. Liz Belvedere was as spontaneous as linear time. She’d never had trouble “focusing” before—Liz could put on headphones and work through a raging house party, which, sadly, Birdie had witnessed more than once. Liz had been distant much of the year, which Birdie understood as a side effect of living her greatest professional dream. But was something else going on? Birdie narrowed her eyes. “Why are you really here?”
Liz demurred, tucking her curtain bangs behind her ears. A nervous habit. “I told you: work. Please? It won’t be any fun if you’re not there. You’re Mom’s favorite.”
“We both know Raf is the favorite.”
“You love Christmas,” Liz reminded her. “You’re a sucker for Santa hats.”
“A fan girl for festivities,” Birdie agreed, finishing her sandwich. “A nerd for nativity.”
Their mom’s place was huge and clean and well stocked. Plus, the Catskills was not crawling with her many exes…managers or otherwise. It wasn’t running away from her problems. It was running toward temporary reprieve from them.
“Okey dokey, Mrs. Claus,” Birdie announced, “I’m in. Saddle up the sleigh.” Then, as if it’d just occurred to her, “You know Dasher, right? And Dancer? You’ve definitely met Prancer and Vixen.”
“Pack.” Liz pointed to Birdie’s closet, smiling.
“Comet? Cupid?” Birdie called over her shoulder. “Tell me you know my boys Donner and Blitzen!”
—
Half an hour later, Birdie stepped onto the cold Brooklyn street shouldering a backpack, two tote bags of dirty laundry, and Mr. Paws’s elaborate cat carrier. In her neon-orange puffer, Snoopy Christmas sweater, and rainbow-print scarf, Birdie was a spot of color against the flat gray of the sky. Her sunglasses were oversized and deliberately ridiculous: chunky eighties frames that looked like sci-fi ski goggles.
Liz examined her phone. “I figure we Uber to the nearest Enterprise and rent a car.”
“Rent a car? Why would we rent a car?”
“No.” Liz’s expression was a mix of surprise and dismay. “Don’t tell me…”
“We have a perfectly serviceable car right here,” Birdie said, gesturing down the street. “We have Ray.”
Ray was an early-nineties station wagon so antique it had wood paneling and a cassette player. Yes, it was a gas-guzzler and a beast to park, but it was cool and kitsch and Birdie never wanted to give Ray up.
A familiar-looking orange parking ticket was tucked under the windshield wiper. Birdie stuffed it in her pocket—a problem for later—and patted the hood proudly. “Hop in.”
Her sister looked openly horrified. “It’s not a car—it’s a sight gag!”
“It’s the Millennium Falcon of its generation,” Birdie corrected, placing her cat carrier and luggage in the back seat.
Liz climbed into the passenger side gingerly. “When was the last time you changed your oil?”
“No one needs to change. Everyone’s perfect as they are.” Birdie slid into the driver’s seat, revving the ancient motor to life. “Bring on Christmas in the Catskills, baby!”