It is a wonderful lazy afternoon. He disappears to his room to fold laundry and hollers after me to grab him a water. As I enter his room, I’m nervous to invade his space, but he starts an easy conversation, and before long we’re both sitting comfortably on his bed talking about nothing in particular. When I next look out his bedroom window at the winter sky beyond, I note with a stab of disappointment that the snow has stopped and it is getting dark. It will be time to go soon.
Chapter 7
With Christmas come the memories of my past. I can’t help but be depressed every time I remember the holidays of my childhood. Memories definitely fade over the years, but not those cherished memories of Christmas trees, music, gifts, and most of all, my mother. We were never wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, but I always had more than I could want under the tree. Our family gathering had only consisted of the two of us, but it was festive regardless. Since my arrival in Allendale, Sara’s family has always been good at involving me in their family gathering, knowing well that my own poor excuse of a family would be celebrating with a beer in some dark beer hall.
I usually spend the night with Sara on Christmas Eve and join them for Christmas Eve church service. Then I wake with the family the next morning to celebrate the day. I struggle every year to be cheerful at the Harringtons’, and I know that it doesn’t escape their attention. They are of course gracious enough not to ask me about my quiet, distant behavior, understanding my reasons. I’m always thankful to be there, knowing full well the alternative is just too depressing to bear. Still, my emotions always seem to betray me, and I feel guilty for bringing my sadness to them.
So it comes as something of a surprise when mid-afternoon of Christmas Eve rolls around, and my father pops his head in my room. I’m just starting to get my things together to head over to the Harringtons’ and can’t hide my surprise to see him. He is sober and speaks nervously without the benefit of alcohol pulling the strings of his personality. I’m naturally shocked as my father usually only speaks to me when he’s drunk and pissed off. He otherwise ignores me.
Awkwardly, he begins. “I want to have a dinner today… Like a Christmas thing. I’ve never cared much for all that holiday bullshit in the past, but you’ll be gone next year, and I just … well … thought we should at least do that. You know?”
I manage a weak, “Yeah.”
But the gaping-mouthed look on my face makes him think better of his plan, and he suddenly stammers on. “I mean, it’s no big deal. I don’t care if you don’t want to…”
“No! I think that’s a good idea. We can do that.” I’m not by any means convinced that my father actually wants to spend time with me, but I can’t help but hope that maybe some part of him is trying to reach out to me.
He continues. “Well, I’m going out to the grocery store to get the food and maybe you could just put out the plates and whatever. Do you like fried chicken and stuff? I think they’ll have that in the buffet.”
“Sure. Um, that’s … that’s fine with me.” I’m still struggling to keep the incredulity from my voice.
He suddenly turns heel and heads for the door. I sit on the side of my bed stupefied for at least ten minutes before heeding his advice and setting the table. I know that he won’t care what dishes are set out or if they’re even made of something other than paper, but I decide, given the occasion, to use the real plates; nothing fancy or even pretty mind you, but if you dropped one on the floor, it would break, and that had to count for something. I set the table as neatly as I would have at the restaurant and wait anxiously for his return.
Why the hell isn’t she answering her damn cell? She told Sara she’d call when she was ready to be picked up. And when five o’clock rolls around without hearing from her, Sara starts trying to reach her. It is now nearly five-thirty, and the Christmas Eve service is going to be starting at six. With no word from Rowan, everyone starts to get concerned. My family knows she is always in a delicate state this time of year, but it is so uncharacteristic of her to simply not call like this. Their anxiety can’t even compare to the angst I am feeling, having firsthand knowledge of the powder keg she is living in.
I finally decide to go over to her house and skip the church service. Sara, naturally, wants to join me, but I am happy when my parents, sensing a ploy to get out of church, tell her she will be joining them. The last thing I want is for Sara to witness my interaction with Rowan. I don’t know what to expect when I reach her place, but I am both furious at her for making me worry and terrified I might have reason to worry.
The drive over is agonizing. I can’t seem to stop speeding, and I am shaking with fear. When I reach her place, I can see her bike through the garage window but the house is dark and quiet. As I try the front door, I find it is unlocked. As I enter, I can see into the dining room, and the lights are out but candles are lit and burned down low in their candlesticks. The table is spread neatly as though awaiting a feast to arrive. It looks like the perfect family dinner in preparation, waiting only for the guests to appear. Except this is no perfect family—so far from it that the sight of that table is almost disturbing.
I move toward the hall and quickly make my way back to Rowan’s room. As I enter, I see her sitting on the edge of her bed, not moving, just staring down at her lap. She doesn’t look up, and I’m struck with a wave of anger as I see her cell phone sitting on the chest of drawers. Before I can start grilling her on why she chose to bail on my family, she speaks. “Please don’t be upset with me.”
There is so much sadness in her voice that my anger melts away just as quickly as it came. I want answers, but I know to tread slowly. I take my place beside her on the bed. She is strangely calm and distant. I reach down and take her hand in mine, lacing her fingers with my own. She turns toward me but doesn’t make eye contact. She almost seems embarrassed, but I can’t imagine why. I implore her for an explanation. She shakes her head concededly. “I’m just so stupid.”
“Row, tell me what happened. Did he hurt you?”
She shakes her head. It takes her a few moments before she starts to speak, her voice rough with choked-back tears. “This afternoon my dad said he wanted to have a Christmas dinner today. I mean, we’ve never done anything even remotely like this. He’s never even mentioned wanting to spend time with me. But he was sober, and I couldn’t help but agree. He asked me to get the plates out and ready. I actually believed him. I thought, even if it was just for today, and if he never wanted me to be his daughter ever again, it was okay. It was enough just to have one real day. I really thought he’d come back. I believed him. I believed he wanted to be here.”
She starts shaking her head again in incredulity. I finally understand. I sweep the hair from the side of her face so that I can see her eyes, and she looks over at me, making eye contact for the first time. She looks humiliated as her eyebrows twitch with restrained tears. I want to assure her she shouldn’t feel that way with me, but I know it wouldn’t help. It’s a humiliation I don’t understand. My heart hurts for her.
“So you set the table and waited for him?”