The Twelve Days of Dash & Lily(2)

It’s always the ones who believe who are hurt the most when things go wrong. She didn’t want to talk about it, and I didn’t have the vocabulary to make her see it differently. She said she wanted me to be the place she escaped to, and I was flattered by that. I was supportive, but it was the passive support of a chair or a pillar, not the active support of a human being holding another human being upright. As her grandfather was in and out of hospitals for operations and complications from operations, in and out of physical therapy, she and I spent less time with each other—less time wandering the city, less time wandering the corners of each other’s thoughts. Exam time passed in a blink—then came summer. She got a job as a volunteer at the rehabilitation clinic her grandfather was going to, just to be with him more, and to help other people who needed it like he did. I felt guilty because I spent the same period shuttling between vacations with my respective parents, my father trying to outdo my mother’s Montreal trip with an ill-begotten jaunt to Paris. I wanted to yell at my father for taking me to Paris, then realized what a brat I sounded like, yelling at my father for taking me to Paris. Mostly, I wanted to be away from him, and home with Lily.

Things were better with the new school year. Grandpa was walking again, was starting to shoo Lily away for her own good. I thought she’d be relieved. She acted like she was relieved, but there was still a part of her that was afraid. But instead of questioning it, I went along, thinking if we pretended all was well, there would come a moment when it would switch the groove from being a half lie to being a more-than-half truth, and then ultimately it would be the whole truth.

It was easy to think that we were back to normal, with school in full swing and all of our friends around. We had plenty of good times, able to wander the city and forget the city at the same time. There were places within her I wasn’t reaching, but there were plenty of other places I could reach. The part of her that laughed at the way certain dog owners looked like their dogs. The part of her that cried at TV shows where restaurants were brought back from the brink of being condemned. The part of her that kept a bag of vegan marshmallows in her room for whenever I came over, just because I once told her how much I liked them.

It was only when Christmas came closer that the cracks began to show.

—

It used to be that the Christmas season would shrink my heart to the size and substance of a gift card. I hated the way the streets would clog with a thrombosis of tourists, and how the normal thrum of the city would be drowned out by tinny cliché sentiments. Most people counted down the days till Christmas in order to get their shopping done; I counted them down in order to get Christmas over with, and for the bleaker, more genuine winter to begin.

There’d been no room in my toy-soldier heart for Lily, but she’d forced herself in anyway. And she’d brought Christmas with her.

Now, don’t get me wrong—it still struck me as pretty bogus to pay lip service to generosity at the end of every year only to go all generosity amnesiac once the calendar page turned. The reason Lily wore it well was because she wore her kindness all year round. And now I was able to see it in other people, too—as I sat waiting for Langston at Le Pain Quotidien, I saw this perpetual generosity in the way some of the couples looked at each other, and a lot in the way that most of the parents (even the exasperated ones) looked at their children. I saw pieces of Lily everywhere now. I’d just seen fewer of them in Lily lately.

Clearly I wasn’t the only one, because the moment Langston sat down, he said, “Look, the last thing I particularly want to do is break bread with you, but we’ve got to do something, and we’ve got to do something right away.”

“What’s happened?” I asked.

“There are twelve days left until Christmas, right?”

I nodded. It was, indeed, the thirteenth of December.

“Well, with twelve days left until Christmas, there is a big gaping hole in our apartment. You know why?”

“Termites?”

“Shut up. The reason there’s a big gaping hole in our apartment is because we don’t have a Christmas tree. Lily usually can’t wait until Thanksgiving leftovers are through before running out and getting a tree—she feels that in this city, all the good ones are taken early, and the longer you wait, the more likely you are to get a tree that isn’t worthy of Christmas. So the tree is up before the first of December, and then she spends the next two weeks decorating. On the fourteenth, our family has a big tree-lighting ceremony—Lily acts like it’s an age-old family tradition, but the truth is, she started it when she was seven years old, and now it just feels like an age-old family tradition. Only, this year—nothing. No tree. All the decorations are still in boxes. And the tree lighting is supposed to be tomorrow. Mrs. Basil E. has already ordered the catering—and I don’t know how to tell her that there isn’t a tree to light.”

I understood his fear. The minute their great-aunt—who we all called Mrs. Basil E.—opened the door to their apartment, she’d be able to smell the lack of a tree, and would not hide her displeasure at the breach.

“So why don’t you just get a tree?” I asked.

Langston actually smacked his forehead in amazement at my daftness. “Because that’s Lily’s job! That’s what Lily loves to do! And if we get it without her, it’s like we’re pointing out that she hasn’t done it, and that will only make her feel worse.”