Chapter 15 #2
By the time we left the hotel, the gray sky had brightened to something less funereal, and the snow had transformed from crystalline flourishes into the more pedestrian, commuter-friendly slush.
We’d traded the sanitized conference room for the backseat of Brad’s car.
For a stretch of about forty-five minutes, I let my thoughts meander, my body angled toward the window, chin on fist.
I’d known where we were going the second we took the exit off the tollway.
Even with my eyes mostly unfocused, I’d mapped out the subdivision from muscle memory: the red light with a combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell on the corner, the left at the stop sign with the ornamental pine, the low-slung stone wall that demarcated the “executive” section of the neighborhood from the plebeian one.
And then there it was, Sawyer and Paul’s house.
A two-story Craftsman, all sharp angles and energy-efficient windows, its roofline spiked with glossy green icicle lights.
It was the same house I’d bought for Viv and baby Sawyer years ago, when I thought permanence was the answer to the world’s problems and that I could secure it with thirty-year fixed-rate mortgages and quarterly property tax payments.
I squirmed, actually squirmed, as we turned into the driveway.
My knees banged up against the seat in front of me, and I tried to stop, but the restless, itchy panic only grew.
I understood, in that moment, that I’d rather be anywhere else than here, and that of all the places I least wanted to be, this was number one.
And how ridiculous was I? Being this scared to face my sixteen-year-old niece. Grow a pair, Alison.
“Relax.” Alaric’s voice was low and soothing. He reached across the bench seat, placed his hand on top of mine, and squeezed. “It’ll be good.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My throat was—again—locked up, every word stuck behind a bottleneck of anxiety and self-recrimination. This was becoming a chronic condition for me. I should’ve asked Quinton what time of doctor he was. If he’d been ear, nose, and throat, he might’ve helped.
In the silence, I let myself replay my phone call with Sawyer last Saturday, during which I’d managed to commit not just the sin of disinterest, but the subtler yet bigger one of attempted bribery. I wondered if she’d even want to see me.
“Do you actually think she wants to see me?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the house, its small porch, the pretty wreath on the door.
“I do. And I think, if you took a moment and really thought about it, you’d realize that Sawyer always wants to see you.”
A long, unspooling silence followed, interrupted only by Brad’s careful parking and the engine’s quick death rattle.
Alaric exited first, and I heard him thank Brad before coming around to my side.
I got out and, before my nerves could recalibrate, immediately began scanning the house for evidence of life.
The first thing I saw was the same battered garden gnome that had presided over the front walkway since Sawyer was three, its paint now faded to a mournful grey-ish pink and the left hand broken off at the wrist. There were three steps up to the porch, and as I climbed, I made the mistake of glancing at the narrow, frosted window beside the door.
For a flash, I saw my own reflection. I looked like someone who’d just been indicted.
Alaric joined me on the porch, but instead of ringing the bell, he said, “Hang on,” and jogged back to the car. He popped the trunk and, after a moment of rearranging, pulled out a giant, glossy bag. It was bursting with presents.
He jogged back up the walk, bag in one hand, then stopped and waited for me to say something.
I did not say something. I stared at him, unblinking.
He tried again. “Sorry I keep asking, but are you okay? I know this is hard.”
I nodded, eyeing the bag. “Did you buy presents for everyone we’ll see today?”
“Yes.”
I put on a cartoonish frown. “Alaric, I know I am bad, but you’re making me look even badder.”
He seemed to be fighting another smile, as usual. “How so?”
“I’m unprepared,” I said. “I didn’t bring anything.”
“I signed your name on the cards.” He lifted the bag slightly. “These are from both of us.”
For the second time in as many minutes, I was speechless. I stared at him, letting the implications permeate.
That was. . . he—it was . . .
I couldn’t believe how amazingly thoughtful that had been of him. My heart warmed.
“What?” he said, eyes wide. “Is that okay?”
“If there were mistletoe out here. I’d kiss you right now.”
My words seemed to surprise him, but they also made his smile spread. “The mistletoe isn’t out here. It’s in the house. If you find it, you can kiss me then.”
I laughed, for real this time.
Not a second later, the front door swung open even though we hadn’t knocked yet. A figure appeared, silhouetted in the sudden golden light, and for a second, I thought my heart had stopped, the way it does when you see someone you love in a place you’re not expecting.
Sawyer stood there in a t-shirt and sweatpants that only teenagers can wear without irony. And here’s the thing no one tells you about the dead: they haunt you. Not as ghosts, but as echoes in the faces of the living.
Sawyer looked so much like Viv that it physically hurt to look at her. The cheekbones, the hair, the posture—somewhere in her smile was the memory of my sister, alive and full of opinions
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she said, her voice three parts disbelief and one part pure glee. Something in my chest unknotted. She looked from me to Alaric, then back again, as if making sure it was real. “You actually came!”
Sawyer jumped forward and gave me a hug. A full-on, air-squeezing, spine-compacting hug. I managed to return the gesture, gripping her tight and breathing in the scent of her hair.
After a few seconds, Sawyer let go and stepped back, cheeks flushed. We shared a smile. “How are you, kiddo?”
Alaric cleared his throat, and Sawyer turned to him. “You’re Alaric, right? You’re the one who called?”
He stuck out his hand and she took it for a shake. “It’s good to meet you.”
“You too!” My niece’s words launched out of her like fireworks. “Come in. Come in. Are those presents? Are they for me?”
Alaric nodded and handed her the bag. She beamed at both of us, spun on her heel, and jogged inside, yelling, “Aunt Alison is here with her hot boyfriend and they brought me presents!”