The Herd(97)
“She went to Aunt Emmy’s.” I frowned at the limes in front of me, debating which way to slice them first. “I can’t remember if she had more people over or if it was just them.”
Hana turned on a burner, then the vent hood. She had to yell to be heard over it. “Remember when Mom and Dad had that big New Year’s party?” she called. “And they invited my band teacher, Mr. Zimmerman, and he got kind of drunk?”
I laughed, piling lime wedges in a bowl. “Did you talk to Dad today?”
She looked at me over her shoulder. “Have I talked to Dad all year?”
I pulled tortillas from their wrapper and padded over to the stove. “I haven’t either. But maybe we should text him.” She didn’t reply and I swallowed. “What’s your thing with him?”
She flipped two tilapia fillets and then shut off the fan. Instantly, the room felt calmer. “Did you know Dad had to talk Mom into adopting me?” She half laughed. “Apparently that’s very rare. Usually the woman wants to adopt and the man is like, ‘Hell no, I’m not raising someone else’s spawn.’ Some BS caveman stuff. But they both wanted kids, and they weren’t having any luck, and Dad was sick of trying, apparently. Enter: me.”
The fillets frizzled on the pan, growing hazy in the smoke the fan was no longer inhaling. “And then I was three when Mom found out she was pregnant. I’ve probably made this up, but I could swear I remember her telling me, pointing at her belly and just leaving me mystified.”
She nudged the fish with a spatula. “And then I was at peak bitchiness when they split. Of course I wanted to go live with Dad in Los Angeles. California over Kalamazoo? When you’re fourteen? No-brainer.”
“But you left me,” I said, like the ten-year-old I’d been at the time. “It was bad enough that he abandoned us. Then you left too.”
“Ohh, Katie.” She put down the utensil and pulled me into a hug. “I’m so sorry. Fourteen-year-olds are stupid.” She smoothed my hair. “I guess I thought you’d be okay, because you and Mom were so close.”
“But you’re my sister.”
“I know. That’s why I had to move to New York. I realized what an idiot I’d been. Well, that and Eleanor begged me to come help her launch the Herd.” She suddenly noticed the tilapia was leaking smoke and switched the vent back on. “Whoops.”
“Blackened tilapia is totally a thing. Cajun.”
She smiled. “Now, should we—”
I took her by surprise with another hug, and I heard her little giggle/sob near my shoulder. She pulled away and we were both laugh-crying. There was a sharp knock at the door, followed by the doorbell, and we both wiped our eyes, breathed deep.
“What are we gonna do, Katie?” Hana rubbed at her nose.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But at least we’re together.”
* * *
—
Mom fell asleep on the loveseat a little after eleven, and Hana and I stayed up, squished next to each other on the couch, sharing a faux-fur blanket and attacking the funfetti cake whole with our forks. Hana kept finding YouTube copies of old Christmas specials we’d taped off TV and watched every year as kids: Frosty the Snowman, Garfield, this odd Claymation California Raisins special (Now that’s some branded content, I’d remarked). My phone buzzed on the cushion next to me—a text from Ted, the first time I’d heard from him since Beverly. I had a vague sense he was still in Massachusetts, ahead of Eleanor’s funeral. I’d see him then, red-eyed and somber, but I hadn’t dared to hope I’d get together with him socially again.
“Here’s to a happier 2020,” it read. “Meeting you was a bright spot in an otherwise shit year.”
I smiled, flicked through a few funny things I could write back. Instead: “Likewise. And happy new year. ”
I checked the time. “Quick, Hana! We’re going to miss the ball dropping!”
She switched over to live TV, plosive and blaring, and I shook Mom awake as Hana dashed into the kitchen to open a bottle of Champagne. We counted down together, time moving backward for once, backward to when we were carefree little kids, arranging benches in the snow for elaborate games of make-believe. We hit zero and cheered, clinking our glasses and smiling at one another, and Hana’s and my phones blooped with a text from Daniel: “HNY!” I volleyed the well wishes back. He was with his parents tonight, Hana had mentioned, and doing fine.
“Mom, what does ‘auld lang syne’ mean again?” I asked, because it’s one of those unspoken, knee-jerk family traditions, like Hana pointing and saying, That’s Jean Shepherd, he wrote the book during his featured-extra moment in A Christmas Story.
Mom grinned. “To times long past!”
To auld lang syne. To clever little Eleanor and her neighbor Cameron, biking back and forth between their grand front doors. To gawky teenage Mikki, thrilled to be part of a crowd, one of the girls, for the first time in her life. To Hana and me, stealing cheese cubes and red-spangled sugar cookies from the table and sitting under the Christmas tree, watching Mom and Dad’s glamorous New Year’s Eve party, observing all the adults in their blouses and dresses and jackets and confidence, such grown-ups with their glasses of foamy Champagne.