Where the Stars Still Shine(48)

“But—”

“Look, accidents happen all the time,” he says. “When you were … oh, maybe seven months old or so, I put your baby seat on the kitchen table. I turned my back for just a second and you rocked forward. The seat fell off the table, landing facedown—your face down—on the floor.” Greg rakes his hand through his hair. “When I turned you over, there was blood on your mouth and I couldn’t tell where it came from. I completely freaked out and rushed you to the emergency room, where I was sure they were going to tell me you’d suffered permanent brain damage and send me to jail. Three hundred bucks later, it turns out you tore that little flappy skin thing inside your upper lip.”

I stick my tongue in the space between my gums and my upper lip and touch that connection. “It’s called a frenulum,” I say.

Greg smiles the way I smiled when Tucker said “stalagmite.” “The point is, Cal, what happened today could have happened on anyone’s watch. Even Phoebe’s.”

“I didn’t know what to do,” I say. “If you hadn’t come home—”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt for you to take a first-aid class so you feel more confident, but you’re a smart girl. You’d have figured out that it wasn’t serious.”

“So, did Phoebe send you to check up on me?”

Now it’s Greg’s turn to look at his feet. “Yeah, well—I’m sorry about that. She was worried, so I told her if I could get away from the office, I’d come.”

Through the open door behind him, I can see Tucker watching the movie, reciting the words along with the characters as he holds a blue rabbit-shaped ice pack against his forehead. Even though it doesn’t feel great that Phoebe and Greg didn’t completely trust me with the boys, I’m relieved my dad was here when I needed him. Again.

“No,” I say. “I’m glad you came.”

“How about we pretend I was never here?” Greg asks. “Maybe let Phoebe think you handled it all on your own?”

I smile. “Deal.”

He leaves and I return to the living room, settling on the couch with Tucker and Joe. They both fall asleep before the movie ends, Tuck slumped against my shoulder and Joe’s face snuggled into the side of my neck. I can feel his soft breath against my skin. It feels kind of … peaceful.

The ending credits are rolling when Phoebe comes home.

“Hi.” She keeps her voice soft and low so she won’t wake the boys. She peels Joe away from me, kissing his hair as she cuddles him against her. My shirt is damp with baby sweat, but he doesn’t wake as she carries him into the bedroom.

I scoop up Tucker and put him down for a nap on his rumpled-from-jumping bed. He mutters something about wanting to watch the movie, but falls back asleep before he’s fully conscious. Phoebe lifts the side rail so he won’t roll out and gives him a kiss. These little things make it impossible for me not to like her. Her love comes out in all the tiny details and makes me long for everything I never had.

“What happened to his head?” she asks, as we walk back out into the living room.

I tell her, hoping she won’t be angry with me. Instead, she shakes her head and a tiny smile flickers across her lips. “Aside from that,” I say, “and maybe some oatmeal in Joe’s hair, everything else was fine.”

Phoebe chuckles. “If we survive Tucker’s childhood, it’ll be a miracle.” She twists her braided ring around her finger. “Anyway, I really appreciate your being here when I needed someone. Thank you. I’ve been judging you based on your mom and that’s not fair.”

“Yeah, but you don’t really know me,” I say. “So I guess it makes sense.”

“I’d like to know you. If that’s okay?”

I nod. “Sure.”

We fall into an awkward silence.

“I should, um—” I aim my thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the backyard. “Theo’s expecting me at the shop soon. I should probably get ready.”

As I head for the door, Phoebe says my name and I turn back.

“Did Greg stop by?” she asks.

I consider telling her the truth so she can feel bad for not trusting me, but I shake my head instead. She looks a little relieved as I lie. “Nope.”





Chapter 15


“I love Christmas,” Kat says, as we loop sponge garland around a fresh evergreen decorated with multicolored starfish, plastic crustaceans, bleached sand dollars, and white lights. All along Dodecanese, the holiday decorations are going up today, as if we’ve crossed some invisible Christmas meridian, leaving regular December behind. The utility poles are ringed with strings of lights, a life-size plastic Santa stands outside the door to one of the soap shops, and even the pilings along the dock are circled by a glittering red-and-green garland. “The best part is the break from school, but I love the music, the decorations, picking out just the right gifts for people, and even the Christmas Eve services at church. You should come.”

The holidays have always been hit or miss when it comes to my mother. Some years she’d go all out—decorating a Christmas tree, visiting Santa, and hanging stockings near the window, since we didn’t usually have a chimney. Other years—ones I now recognize as years when she was depressed—we’d have nothing at all. Once she wore her pajamas from December 24 until New Year’s Day. My holiday feast was a packet of microwavable maple-and brown-sugar oatmeal, and by the end of the week her hair was shiny with oil and she smelled so bad I couldn’t sit beside her. I didn’t mind the oatmeal so much, but I felt like a ghost whenever she looked through me as if I wasn’t even there.