My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories(52)

“Are you getting him cookies?” the younger sister asks of the older. “I was going to sleep, but I remembered I didn’t give him any cookies.”

And the older sister, without missing a beat, replies, “I’ll go get them.”

She leaves for the kitchen. Riley, unable to help herself, stares at the presents under the tree. I remember doing the same thing with the presents around the menorah—trying to calculate which ones were for me, and what could be inside. My mother would often wrap things in boxes larger than they needed, just to throw me off.

“Where do you go next?” Riley asks me.

“Nebraska,” I reply.

She nods.

Lana comes out of the kitchen with some Pepperidge Farm cookies thrown on a plate and a glass of milk.

“Here you go,” she says.

I take a cookie. It’s a little stale.

“Best cookie I’ve had all night!” I proclaim for Riley’s benefit.

I can see Lana wants to cry bullshit. But she keeps it to herself.

“Well, then,” she says, “I guess it’s time for you to go.”

“To Nebraska!” Riley chimes in.

The weird thing is, I want to stay. Now that we’ve gotten here, now that at least one of them knows who I really am, I want to remain a part of this. I want Lana to offer to wake Connor up. I want the four of us to eat cookies until sunrise.

“C’mon,” Lana interrupts my thoughts. “Nebraska is waiting.”

“You’re so right,” I say, moving toward the door.

“Not that way!” Lana gestures to the chimney. “This is the only way up to the roof.”

I can feel Riley’s eyes on me. Although I’m sure there is one somewhere, I can’t think of a rational explanation for me to use the door.

So I head over to the fireplace. It looks like it’s never been used. I lean in and see the chimney isn’t very wide. I lean back out and make eye contact with Riley.

“Off you go to bed!” I cry.

Riley starts to wave. Lana mostly smirks.

“Safe travels,” she says.

I don’t know what else to do. I crawl into the fireplace. Then I pull myself up into the chimney and count to two hundred—which is roughly the number of cobwebs I’m surrounded by. For one scary moment, I think my stomach is going to keep me wedged inside, but there is a little room to maneuver—thankfully Santa hasn’t been having cookies at all the stops. There is dust on my tongue, dust in my eyes. Surely, there are better ways to enter and exit a house? Why doesn’t Santa just park the goddamn sleigh in the driveway like a normal guest?

I hear Lana wish Riley good night. I hear both doors close. Quietly, I pull myself out of the chimney and shake as much dust as possible from my suit, causing a hoarder’s snowfall on the carpet. Let Lana explain that one.

My work here is done, I think. But the thought feels hollow. I know I can’t leave without seeing him. That wasn’t the plan, but none of this was really the plan. I can’t be in his house without letting him know I was here. It will all be unfinished, otherwise.

The house has retreated into its nighttime breathing of whirs and clicks and groans. I step carefully for a moment, then stop: There is no way that Riley will have fallen asleep by now, and the path to Connor’s door leads right past hers. So I stand still, and realize how rarely I ever stand still. I have to quell any desire to be participant, and recline into the shape of a total observer. My phone is back in the car, the weapon with which I usually kill time. Unarmed, I look around. The Christmas-lit room appears lonely in its pausing; something is missing, and I am not that something. There are books on the shelves, but I cannot read what they are. They are a row of shapes leaning. On one shelf, the books are guarded by pairs of small figurines. Salt and pepper shakers. Somebody’s collection.

I let the minutes pass, but by thinking about them, I make them pass slowly. This is not my house, and I am caught in the knowledge that it never will be. I half expect Lana to come back out, to tell me to go home. Why are you still here? she’d ask, and the only answer I could give would be her brother’s name.

I know he wanted me here, but why did it have to be like this? I want him to introduce me as his boyfriend. I want to be sitting at the dinner table, making jokes with Riley that Lana can’t help but laugh at too. I want them to see me holding his hand. I want to be holding his hand. I want him to love me when I’m naughty and when I’m nice. I want. I want. I want.

I am worried about being in love, because it involves asking so much. I am worried that my life will never fit into his. That I will never know him. That he will never know me. That we get to hear the stories, but never get to hear the full truth.

“Enough,” I say to myself. I need to say it out loud, because I need to really hear it.

I listen for Riley. I listen for Lana. I hope they’re not listening for Santa, or for me.

I make it down the hall. I make it past their doors. Connor’s room is in sight.

It’s only when I am standing in front of it, only when I am about to let myself inside, that I sense there’s someone else in the hall with me. I turn around and see her standing in her doorway—Connor’s mother. Her eyes are nearly closed, her hair limp. She’s wearing a Tennessee Williams nightgown that makes me feel sad and awkward to see it. It hangs lifeless on her body, worn too often, too long. I should not be seeing her like this, the deep dark haze of it.