The Speed of Light: A Novel(8)

Mom and I follow those lights into the kitchen, where a small Christmas tree sits atop the marble countertop, alongside a group of snowmen from her porcelain collection (cute or creepy—it’s hard to say). A low hum of holiday carols flows from the radio, and more tantalizing aromas waft toward me. Mom’s making her famous swedish meatballs, and I’m guessing some sort of cheesy potatoes, and—wait. “Did you bake cookies without me?” I can’t keep the pout out of my voice.

Her smile turns apologetic. “Sorry, hon. But we can frost them together after supper.”

My dad walks into the kitchen, and I grab an olive from the tray he’s holding. “Ah, Monie, you made it.” He gives me a quick hug with his free arm and glances over my shoulder. “Can we thank the family who gave you the ride?”

“He had to get going.”

Mom raises her eyebrows. “He?”

“A man. And his niece,” I add quickly. “They had to get to their own Christmas celebration.”

“Well, we are certainly grateful,” Mom says.

Dad harrumphs. “Coulda walked you in.”

I shudder at that picture of awkwardness—Dad would eye Connor with suspicion, and Mom would insist on giving him a tour of the house. “So, where’s everybody else?”

Mom sighs, leaning back against the countertop. “Your brother is downstairs playing that video game of his.”

Dad jerks his head toward her. “I told him absolutely no Fortnite. Not on Christmas Eve, for crying out loud.”

She holds up her hands. “He helped with the cookies, Bob. I told him he could play until it’s time to eat.”

“He’s always playing that goddamn thing,” Dad mutters.

I chuckle. “Well, I’m sure he’ll come upstairs when Kaley gets here.”

They exchange a look. “They . . . aren’t seeing each other anymore.” Mom glances toward the basement door, lowers her voice. “She broke up with him.”

“Oh no.” Emmett is seventeen, and it’s been years since we’ve had anything in common—when he withdrew into his teenage shell and I into my bubble of adulthood. But he’s still my baby brother. “Poor Emmett. What happened?”

Dad scoffs, shifting the tray to his other hand. “We have no idea. Doesn’t wanna talk about it.”

A burst of laughter floats in from the living room, and Dad sighs. “Better get back in there—if Dave tries to talk politics with Kathleen, we’re gonna have to take away their steak knives.”

I snort, then smile in a blaze of satisfaction. Last month I passive-aggressively unfollowed Dave on Facebook after one too many ranting political posts. “Tell Kathleen to give him hell.”

Dad shakes his head and walks out, and Mom busies herself with silverware. Then she clears her throat. “The Johnsons brought Walter.”

I freeze. “No.”

She doesn’t look up as she begins gathering silverware to set the dining table. “What? I’m just saying. He’s visiting from California.” She says the word like it’s a fanciful, mythical island.

Mom also has fanciful, mythical ideas about Walter and me ending up together—so she can tell her friends how we grew up next-door neighbors, how we used to play together, and how we even shared our first kiss. We were eight, for goodness’ sake, and it was a dare. A sloppy, gross dare.

So what if we went on one date while I was home from college one summer, and only after Mom bugged me about it for weeks? So what if we shared way more than a kiss on that date because I was tipsy and needy after a string of bad first dates and short-term relationships? That was ages ago, and Walter and I are thousands of miles apart, in every sense imaginable.

“Mom,” I warn.

“He’s very kind, Simone. Understanding.” She clears her throat. “He works in pharmaceuticals, you know.”

Heat creeps into my neck and I clench my fists. “Mom, I don’t even know where to begin with that . . . and I will remind you that I haven’t actually been diagnosed yet.” A swelling in my throat, the reminder of our post-Christmas plans to trek to Minneapolis.

“I know that.” Mom holds up her hands in defense again, now filled with spoons and forks. “I just worry about you. I’m your mother. It’s my job.”

We share a look, and there’s so much sorrow in her eyes that for a moment I catch a glimpse of a parent’s fear, a mother’s love.

But then she sighs. “He really is a good boy, Monie.”

An absurd chuckle erupts before I can stop it. “It sounds like you’re describing a dog, Mom.”

She shoots me a look, then walks toward me and stuffs a pile of silverware into my hand. “It’s Christmas, dear. Let’s at least be nice.”

Soon the only sounds are the murmur of voices in the other room and the gentle croon of Bing Crosby’s “Silent Night.” I let myself relax as I focus on my task, but only after I say a quick prayer that tonight will be as smooth and uneventful as possible, that maybe I’ll even have a good time.

I scrutinize a spoon in my hand. Maybe I’ll get a Christmas miracle.

But my reflection, upside down and distorted, seems to mock me for thinking something so unlikely. I drop the spoon into the drawer and slam it shut.