Chapter 10
I wake up to an elbow jutting into my nose. Shock registers first, then searing pain. My eyes instantly start watering.
“Ouch!” I cup my tender nose with one hand, the other reaching out blindly in the dark room. It connects with something solid.
“What are you doing?” The voice is gravelly—sleepy, though irritable—and belongs to my sister. Why Amelia’s annoyed is beyond me. I just took an elbow to the face!
“What am I doing?” I reach to turn on the bedside lamp, but all I find is emptiness. I shift closer to the edge of the bed, straining to find the lamp. A moment later I’m half lying on the floor, my legs and feet tangled up in the sheets.
A light snaps on, and I blink against the brightness. Amelia’s on her stomach on the bed, peering at me over its edge. “Are you okay?” She bites her lip, a telltale sign she’s holding back laughter. When I close my eyes and groan lightly, her tone changes. “Seriously, are you okay, Libby?”
It’s then I hear “Let It Snow!”—the tune mechanical, music box–like—and I’m not sure where it’s coming from. But then everything slows down, the way it does when you experience déjà vu.
That’s the Christmas lamp.
I kick at the sheets entangling my feet before getting to my knees.
On the other side of the bed is the illuminated, music-playing table lamp Amelia clicked on.
It’s made to look like an old-fashioned candy-cane-striped lamppost, with a faux candle inside and swirling snowflakes.
It’s playing the Christmas carol on a loop, and familiarity washes over me again.
“Where did that come from?” I ask Amelia.
She frowns, following my gaze. Her hair is in a messy bun atop her head, a satin scrunchie trying its best to keep the blond curls from falling out. It looks different, her hair, but I can’t sort out why.
“The lamp? Mom, if I had to guess,” she replies.
I take in the rest of the room, now understanding why I couldn’t find the lamp’s switch when I reached out. The bedside table it sits on, and everything else in the room, is in the wrong place. We’re in Amelia’s childhood bedroom. Our rooms are side by side, and mirror opposites.
“Did she buy a new one?” I walk over to the lamp. There’s a price tag from Everhart’s on its base. I scour the lamppost, looking for signs the ceramic has been Krazy Glued back together, but there’s no damage. It’s in perfect condition, nary a fleck of chipped paint or cracked ceramic.
“I don’t think so…” Amelia watches me warily from the end of the bed. “What’s wrong with you? Did you hit your head when you fell out of bed?”
“I did hit my head.” I run fingers across my forehead, where the goose-egg lump should be. “After Mary Piggins ran around…”
My voice trails because there is no bump, nor can I find any point of soreness. Either I’m a super healer, or… Or what, Elizabeth?
“Mary Piggins?” Amelia asks. “What does that have to do with hitting your head?”
“I don’t… What?” I reply, confused by her questions. The way Amelia looks at me—part incredulous, part anxious—is making me nervous.
“What do you mean, ‘what’?” Her frown deepens. “Did something happen last night?”
Did something happen last night? My frown matches her. “You were there… though maybe you didn’t see it? There was a lot going on. With the snow. And the tree lighting.”
“Tree lighting… okay, you’re clearly not fine,” she replies, her voice going up an octave. “Maybe this is some vomiting-induced memory loss? Something to do with electrolytes?”
“Electrolytes?” Vomiting-induced memory loss? I scan my body. I feel fine. Normal, except for my racing heart and acute confusion.
Music-playing lamp still in hand, I pause to take a few deep breaths. The last thing I remember is the tree lighting ceremony, and Mary Piggins getting loose in the excitement of the snowfall, and then barrelling into me, and Amelia was about to get—
I spin towards her. “Why are you here with me, and not with Beckett?”
“Beckett Livery-Quinn? Why would I be with Beckett?” Her fingers tap against her tightly crossed arms. “And technically, you’re here with me —this is my room. You upchucked all over your bed. Super dégoutant, d’ailleurs, Libby. Translation: super disgusting, by the way, Libby.”
“Do I have the flu?” Upon reassessment, my head throbs mildly, but when I place a palm to my cheek, the skin is cool. Plus, my stomach is fine. No body aches. I may not be sick, but something is off here. Very off.
“Not the flu. Food poisoning. Bad sandwich, you said.”
“Food poisoning…” Yes, right. I did come home with food poisoning. “But that was days ago. Before the wedding. I’m fine now.”
Amelia’s mouth drops open. “Wedding? Whose wedding?”
The words your wedding are preparing to come out, but I hold them back. I don’t understand what’s happening, but I have the sense that this is not the thing to say.
When I don’t respond, Amelia gives a curt nod. “I’m getting our parents. They can deal with this,” she says, before leaving her bedroom. I stay where I am and try to get ahold of myself. My breaths are shallow. My vision narrows, and I set the lamp down and sit on the bed.
“What is going on here?” I say out loud. Why does everything feel… off-kilter? Why was Amelia so weird when I brought up her wedding, and Beckett, for that matter? Did something happen after Mary Piggins knocked me off my feet last night? I can’t make sense of anything.
“Let It Snow!” continues playing, and the sound of it grates on my last nerve.
As I reach to turn off the lamp, I overshoot and knock it sideways.
I try to grab it, but I’m not quick enough.
I curse when I hear the sounds of ceramic breaking.
Then curse again with panic when it dawns on me that this also happened last year .
See, this lamp made an appearance last Christmas, when I came home for those couple of days to check in on Mom after her ankle fracture.
The lamppost did crack in half, but I wasn’t the one who broke it…
Amelia did. We were discussing how Mom and Dad should renovate our museum-like bedrooms, since it had been years since we left home.
“Turn them into a gym, or a reading room, or at the very least take down our teenage-crush posters and other paraphernalia so they can become guest rooms,” I said, and Amelia laughed before replying, “Speak for yourself, Sissy. I still like seeing Bif Naked on my bedroom wall.”
Mom’s latest Christmas acquisition—the lamp I just broke—was on Amelia’s nightstand, and we debated making it “disappear.” With its relentless one-bar holiday song playing every time you turned it on (with no way to have light without the music), it was getting tedious.
Amelia picked up the lamp to pretend-smash it to the ground, but it slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor.
We stared at each other for a full five seconds, eyes wide the way only two sisters who just did something their mother would not be happy about can look.
We confessed to Mom the lamp was “accidentally” dropped, and Amelia and I spent the afternoon meticulously Krazy Gluing the broken pieces back together.
So how could I have broken it again? The only explanation is that Mom replaced it, and this was a brand-new one.
I’m staring at the lamp’s ceramic base, cracked in half, when another Christmas carol begins playing.
It takes me a few seconds to recognize the tune, but then I hear it: “White Christmas.” Coming from my cell phone, resting on the windowsill.
The screen is lit up with an incoming call. But I never changed my ringtone, preferring the standard one that mimics an old-fashioned corded telephone. So why is my phone playing “White Christmas”? I wish Amelia would get back up here. I have a lot of questions.
Taking my still-ringing phone from the windowsill, I unplug the charging cord and glance at the screen: Austin
I stop breathing, but my heart beats faster.
Should I answer it? Let it go to voicemail?
“Calm down, Elizabeth. Calm down .”
It doesn’t work—I am decidedly less calm, if that’s possible, and the only thing running through my mind is, Why on earth is my ex-boyfriend calling me?