Float Plan(46)

Keane laughs at something only they understand. “Okay. If we swap parts.”

“Why ruin a good thing after all these years?”

“I know, but—” He fakes a heavy sigh. Eamon chuckles while the rest of us wonder what the hell is happening. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Do what?” I ask.

“Can’t tell you,” Keane says. “It’ll spoil the magic.”

Christmas karaoke kicks off with Foxy himself singing a reggae version of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” and welcoming everyone to his restaurant. Foxy is followed by a pair of white women performing back-to-back renditions of “White Christmas” and “Winter Wonderland.” Both tease out the long notes and throw diva-like hand gestures. On any other day, we might be laughing at their overblown efforts, but tonight we clap like we are at the Grammys.

“It’s time.” Eamon pushes away from the table and Keane follows. Agda and I squeeze through the crowd to get a front-row view. Eamon picks up a pair of microphones, one of which he hands to his brother.

“Happy Christmas,” Eamon says. “We are the Sullivans of County Kerry, Ireland.” His introduction is met with applause and a few whistles—presumably from the Irish in the crowd—before he continues.

“When I was a lad, I decided it would be a laugh to teach my baby brother some colorful new words.” He gestures at Keane, earning a few laughs at how much taller he is than Eamon. “So, while everyone was gathered at our family’s pub for Christmas, we performed a duet. And following a stern lecture about setting a better example for my brother—”

“A lesson which never stuck, I might add,” Keane interjects.

“—we were asked to repeat the song that first year and subsequent years since,” Eamon says. “It’s a time-honored, traditional, heartwarming Christmas love song passed down through the ages. If you recognize it, sing along.”

The music starts, a few piano notes barely audible over the noise of the bar, and Eamon begins to sing, his words slurry as though he’s drunk. “It was Christmas Eve, babe, in the drunk tank—”

Those in the crowd who recognize the opening line of “Fairytale of New York” by the Pogues start laughing, not only because it’s neither traditional nor heartwarming but also because they realize Keane will be singing the woman’s part.

When it comes, I’m expecting to hear him sing with falsetto, but Keane doesn’t do it. He sings low and slightly off-key, which makes the song even funnier. By the time the brothers have finished, the whole bar is singing and clapping along.

“Was that story true?” I ask Keane as we go back to the table. “Eamon really did that to you?”

“Oh aye,” Keane says. “I was singing happily along, blissfully ignorant, until Mom’s eyes went as round as dinner plates and my old hard-of-hearing gran said, ‘Did Christopher just call his brother a scumbag? I thought this was a Christmas tune.’”

As I’m laughing, I think about my sister and how long it’s been since we’ve had that much affection for each other. When we were little, we used to put on “shows” for our parents. We’d spend hours coloring backdrops and rehearsing lines that changed every time. Rachel was always the director and I was happy to follow her lead. I don’t remember when things changed, but as the conversation around me melts into background noise, I’m nostalgic for the sisters we used to be.

“I’ll be right back.”

Along the water, hammocks have been strung between palm trees. I find an empty one and ease myself into it. Once it stops swaying, I call home.

“Merry Christmas, Anna,” Mom says, and she whispers, “It’s Anna.” I can imagine my sister rolling her eyes. “Rachel and I are wrapping Maisie’s presents and drinking glühwein.”

Mulled spiced wine is one of the few family traditions Mom brought with her from Germany. Even when we were little girls, she would let us drink small mugs of glühwein. “That sounds like fun.”

“Where are you?”

“On an island called Jost Van Dyke,” I tell her. “It’s part of the British Virgin Islands.”

“Hold on. Let me get my map,” she says. “Talk to Rachel.”

“Hey.” My sister sounds less than thrilled to speak to me.

“You know what I was thinking about?”

“What?”

“When we used to put on shows for Mom and Dad,” I say. “Remember how you would make up songs on the spot and I would try to sing along even though I had no idea what words you were going to sing next? I was always a beat behind.”

Rachel laughs through her nose. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“I miss you guys.” I hold my breath, waiting for a smartass remark.

“It’s weird that you’re not here.”

“What did you get Maisie for Christmas?”

“Glittery shoes and a toy cell phone,” she says. “I swear to God, she’s two going on twenty.”

“Give her a kiss for me and tell her we’ll have more Christmas when I get home.”

“I will,” Rachel says. “Is this helping? What you’re doing, I mean? You sound … different.”