The Twelve Days of Dash & Lily(12)

“The party?” I replied. “Is there anything I can do?”

Lily shook her head. “I think everything’s ready. It’s not really a party. It’s just a tree lighting.”

I saw my father’s present unopened on her desk. I picked it up and shook it. Something rolled around inside.

“Well, at least it’s not a check,” I said. “It required at least some thought. His or someone else’s.” I shook it more furiously. “I hope it’s not breakable.”

“Stop,” Lily said.

I stopped.

“I have something for you,” she said. “You don’t have to open it now. And you don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to. Ever. I just—well, it’s just something I thought I’d give to you. But you’re under no obligation.”

“It’s a leather miniskirt, isn’t it?” I asked. “You killed me a cow and turned it into a miniskirt for me!”

From the horror on her face, you would have thought I’d guessed correctly. Which, I’m sure, led to some horror on my face. Which lightened Lily up a little.

“No cows were hurt in the making of this sweater,” she assured me.

And I thought, Oh, boy. Sweater.

It’s not that I didn’t think Lily could knit a sweater. I thought Lily could make anything she set her mind on making, whether it be a five-tier cake or a macramé Madonna. But sweaters…living in New York City, I had a very complicated relationship to sweaters. When you were outside, they were fine, even preferable, keeping away the big chill. But inside? When the temperature suddenly skyrocketed to ninety degrees? Sweagatory—sweaty purgatory.

Lily went to the base of her bookshelf and picked up a tissue paper–wrapped package. “Here,” she said, handing it over.

I stopped to ponder what kind of wild night between a Kleenex and a piece of 8-by-11 had led to the birth of tissue paper. Then I ripped it to shreds and opened up the sweater within.

The first thing I noticed was how huge it was—at least two X’s past XL, with room for an extra reindeer if it happened to need shelter underneath. Then I noticed how Christmas it was—even though Lily was giving me a sweater for Christmas, it hadn’t occurred to me that it might be a Christmas sweater. The snowflake on the front looked like it had been woven by a spider who’d gotten a little too fly-drunk the night before. And then there were the birds. Doves, I thought. With our names on them. Lily’s dove had a sprig of olive tree in its mouth. Mine was just kind of lurking.

“Oh, Lily,” I said. “I mean, wow.”

I knew she must have spent a lot of time on it, so I said, “You must have spent so much time on it!”

I knew it matched her own Santa-positive outfit. So I said, “We match!”

I knew it had been a hard year for her, so I mustered full-blast cheer to say, “I’m going to put it on right now!”

She started to tell me I didn’t need to do that, but I blocked out all her protestations with the miles of sacrificial yarn that passed over my ears. When I finally found the head hole, I surfaced and took a breath. From far away, I must have looked like a deranged mitten.

“I love it!” I said, rolling up the sleeves so that my knuckles could get some air.

“You do not love it,” Lily said. “I told you not to wear it. It was the thought that was supposed to count.”

“No,” I said. “This is much more than the thought. I have never, ever had anyone knit me a sweater before. Not my parents. Not my grandparents. Not the great-aunts in Florida who have way, way too much time on their hands. Certainly none of my friends. This is special to me.”

“I didn’t knit it all. I just…repurposed.”

“Even better! Less of a wool footprint left on the environment! That’s brilliant!”

I was in danger of putting the clamato in exclamation—not even remotely palatable—so I dialed it down.

“Really,” I told her, reaching over for her hand, making her look at me to see my sincerity. “This is one of the best things I’ve ever gotten. I’ll wear it with pride. Dash-and-Lily pride.”

Once upon a time, this would have made her smile. Once upon a time, this would have made her happy.

I wanted us to be upon that time.

“You really don’t have to wear it,” she said once again.

“I know.”

Before she could say it another time, before the sweat line moved below my forehead, where I could feel it gathering, I walked to the door. Turning back, I asked, “You coming?” Then I added, “I’m sure my mom would love to talk to you. And your father’s looking a little lost in the kitchen.”

Now Lily’s attention seemed to focus. “My father? In the kitchen? That’s not—I mean, he only goes in there when he needs a snack.” She stood up, stepped forward. “If he’s trying to help, we need to stop him. And was my mother in there? She’s even worse.”

“I didn’t see your mom,” I assured her.

We walked down the hallway. When we got to the kitchen, we found it empty.

“I don’t think he did any damage,” Lily concluded after a quick scan. Then she looked at me. “And speaking of damage—I’m sorry about your parents. I was caught up in the spirit of inviting people, I guess. I honestly don’t know what I was thinking. I got confused between what I wanted to happen and what I should have known would happen. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. I know it’s not helpful.”