He backs away like I’m on fire.
Shut the fuck up. How can
you joke about being so messed
up? He looks over at our mom
for support, but she just shrugs.
“Hey, Mom, can you let us talk
privately for a couple of minutes?”
I wait for her to clear the door
before I jump all over my little
brother. “Listen. What happened
to me sucks. But I’m mostly to blame
for the hand I was dealt, and now
I have no choice but to play it.
Actually, that’s wrong. I could choose
to lie here feeling sorry for myself,
and I’ve done a fair amount of that already,
but it won’t help Mom dig out of this
mess. She needs me, and she needs
you, so grow the fuck up now.”
He bristles, pulls himself straight
and tall as he’s able. But what comes
out of his mouth is, I’m scared.
“You’re scared? I’m scared, dude,
and pissed, too. I want to fuck
my girlfriend. I want to go skating.
Hell, I just want to stand up and
walk but that won’t happen without
commitment. Will you help me try?”
His expression morphs to horrified.
Me? Now? Don’t you need, like,
crutches or something? That busts
me up. “No. In the future. Like maybe
after dinner? I’m kidding, Cory. I just
want to be able to count on you.”
He Agrees
But it’s hardly a foregone conclusion.
Still, it’s a step (so to speak) in
the right direction. He and Mom walk
me to the dining room. “Sure you
won’t stay? I hear it’s turkey potpie,
and probably good. Cook’s a genius.”
Mom shakes her head. I promised
Cory we’d go to Red Lobster.
Saved up two paychecks, even.
Cory responds to my “really?”
look. Hey, they don’t serve seafood
in jail, you know, except for some
fried supposed-to-be-shrimp.
So many times I got a craving
for that damn Ultimate Feast.
It’s the only thing he wanted for
Christmas. But don’t worry. He
got socks and underwear, too.
That makes us all laugh. Mom,
being a practical woman, always
put such necessities under the tree
so there were more gifts to unwrap
than the few toys she could afford.
I guess some things never change.
The Potpie Rocks
The leftover turkey finally got
the gravy it needed. The company
is fine, but I find myself wishing
I was at Red Lobster with Mom
and Cory. How long it will take her
to feel comfortable including me?
Oh, well. After dinner, some guys
are playing cards and invite me to join
them. I decline gently. Not only do
I need to leave any form of gambling
deep in my wake, but my girl will
be here any time, and nothing
is as important as being with her.
I wheel back to my room, anxious
to share time with her tonight.
It’s a short wait, and she’s a vision,
in a short red skirt and white angora
sweater. “Mm. You look yummy.”
I expect her to go gooey. Instead,
she’s all business, and excited.
We’ll get to the kissing and stuff
in a minute. But first, don’t you
want your present? Oh, almost
forgot. Merry Christmas, Cody.
Her Hands Are Empty
“Merry Christmas to you, but
I don’t see any presents. Wait.
Are they under your clothes?”
Stop. No. Listen. You’ve never
really asked about my parents.
Like, who my dad is or anything.
Hm. I guess I haven’t. “Is he a serial
killer or president or a lion tamer?”
Oops. She’s irritated. “Sorry. I’ll shut up.”
Good. You should. My father happens
to be the CEO of a big gaming tech
company. He also deals in investment
properties, and has purchased quite
a few short sales. I asked if he’d be
interested in buying your mom’s house
and renting it back to her. He said
he’d look into it, and as you know,
I can be very persuasive. She winks.
“You’re serious.” She is a bottomless
well of surprises. Emotions—relief,
joy, disbelief, and most of all, love—
upwell inside me. How can I possibly
be this lucky? I reach for her, thinking
Santa Claus must be real after all.
A Poem by Ginger Cordell
Santa Must Be Real
That’s what my little
brother said when he saw
the tree this Christmas
morning.
How did Gram manage
it? Two presents for each
of us, not extravagant,
but for the love they came
wrapped in. The memory
of little Sandy’s face
brings
joy, hours later.
I’ve forgotten the concept
of finding happiness
in little things. Coming
home makes everything
new
and I never want to leave,
though I know one day
I’ll have to find a more
positive way out into
the bigger world, enticed by
possibilities.
Ginger
Home
The concept is still foreign,
though Gram’s is the closest
I’ve come to a place I can always
return to. One thing’s for sure.
I’ll never go back to Las Vegas,
not even for “fun” because, though
most Sin City tourists either
don’t know, or don’t care, Vegas
fun is carried on the backs of people
who clean toilets or sweep streets
or turn tricks, not to get rich, but to
squeeze some semblance of living
from the fight to exist. Only CEOs
and pimps prosper, and sometimes
they are one and the same. No,
people go to Vegas in search
of dreams, but rarely notice
the living, breathing nightmares
right under their noses. Unless,
of course, that’s what their dreams
consist of. It hurts to think about
the girls I’ve left behind there—Alex,
who’ll probably never leave. And
Brielle, who’ll move on without me.
Hard to Leave Love Behind
But there’s plenty here,
surrounding me like a force
field. The kids love in the way
children do, with pure devotion.
When they asked where
I’ve been, I detoured around
everything prior to House
of Hope, and told them
I’ve been living with some
girls who were in need of
help, which was one hundred
percent accurate. I failed
to mention the fact that
I was one of those girls,
or exactly what kind of
help we needed. Only
Mary Ann is old enough
to understand there were
words to be read between
the lines. Before, I would
have believed she was too
young to hear my story.
But now I see the importance
of telling her everything,
so she’ll understand what’s
at stake within the realm
of choices—those we make,
and those others try to take
from us, especially as young
women. I want her to be
informed, so she can make
smart decisions. I also want
her to be afraid, or at least
cautious. There are predators
everywhere, and sometimes
they look totally harmless.
And there are people who
offer up prey to feed those
carnivores—people like
Miranda’s brother, Ricardo,
who traded in his sister on
his dope debt. People like our
mother, who I’m struggling
to find compassion for.
When I got home yesterday,
my prodigal return caused
way too much commotion
to even consider attempting
some sort of conversation
with Iris. She was in the living
room, sitting in the old recliner,
specter-pale and quivering
as she watched an old black-
and-white holiday movie on TV.
She squinted at me when I came
in, managed a little wave,
and I acknowledged that with
a curt nod before taking my stuff
into the bedroom I’ll share again
with the girls. Nothing has changed
while I was gone except the art,
hung with Scotch tape, proof
of Honey’s and Pepper’s slight
improvement as watercolorists.
The kids swirled around me,
then jumped on the beds,
chattering like monkeys, and
the noise and sharp motion
was almost too much. I flopped
down anyway, absorbing
their energy, and tried to remember
being that young, if I ever was.
Yesterday’s Homecoming
Is something I’ll always remember.
Dinner was Gram’s enchiladas,
and afterward the kids brought out
their surprises—tie-dyed T-shirts,
one short-sleeved, in orange, yellow,
and red, the other long, in turquoise
and purple. “Wow! These are amazing,”
I gushed, and though I’d never in a million
years pick them out in a store, I’ll wear
them and make them look good.
Then we watched A Christmas Story
and Elf on TV, until Gram finally said
enough and insisted the young ones go
to bed or Santa wouldn’t come. Iris sat
in the same chair, droopy-eyed, sharing
space but not the experience, and I couldn’t
help but steal glances. She is dying.
I’ve never been this close to death.
I can feel it, hovering near, waiting
to tap her on the shoulder. She’ll
survive this Christmas Day, probably
even see the New Year, but not
a lot of it. She deserves pity.
But is she worthy of forgiveness?
The kids Are All in the kitchen
Baking and decorating Christmas
cookies with Gram. Iris is in her
usual place, quietly drinking wine.
I sit on the corner of the sofa
closest to her, and she looks at
me with inquisitive eyes. Glad
you came home. We missed you
around here. ’Specially Mary Ann.
An’ now I can’t work, would
be good for you to. Your gram
could use some help paying
the bills. Lots of bills. Too many.
How much do I say? Is now
even the right time? Screw it.
“Do you know why I left, Iris?”
Something changes in her eyes,
which seem to shroud black.
I think I know, she snarls. What
do you want from me? An apology?
At least she doesn’t deny it. Because . . .
Now the dark veil lifts and tears
trickle. Goddamn it, I’m sorry.
So fucking sorry. I’m a crap mother
and always have been, and now
it’s too late to fix it. I really wish
I could, but I can’t take any of it
back, and I’m just so goddamn sorry.
I wasted my life. I could’ve been
somebody. But here’s the thing. . . .
She wipes the snot dripping from
her nose with the back of her hand.
You can still be somebody. I won’t
be here to see it, and that makes
me sad. Listen to me, Ginger girl.
The past will influence your future,
but it doesn’t have to destroy it.
Holy shit. Iris as philosopher?
I hand her a box of tissues, refill
her glass from the bottle on the end
table. “Merry Christmas, Iris. I need
a cookie.” I don’t know if that was
enough to help me forgive her. Maybe,
with time, and that’s more than I could
have said only five minutes ago.
A Poem by Seth Parnell
With Time
He’ll forgive me,
that’s what I kept telling
myself, repeating it in
my head like a mantra. With
time
he’ll come to accept
me for who I am,
the way I was born,
how the good Lord
exactly created me. Dad
was
only forty-eight, not old
enough for his heart
to fail in such spectacular
fashion. This event was
not
in my game plan. How
on God’s good green earth
could he just up and die
on
me? Why couldn’t
he hold on a couple more
hours? I was almost there,
Dad, and we could have said
our
goodbyes. My Christmas
dinner: a heaping plate
of sadness with a giant bowl
of regret on the
side.
Seth
Empty
The fields are empty. Dad managed
to harvest the corn before he got sick.
Aunt Kate says it was a good crop
this year, and that gives me a lick
of pride. Lick. Yeah. I figure I’ll go
ahead and indulge the Indiana farm
boy in me by de-culturing his voice
for a while. It’s damn cold today,
Christmas Day, but I’m walking
the Parnell land in a big old down
jacket, stocking cap, and winter-weight
gloves, all of them Dad’s. I inhale
the scent of him clinging to his clothes,
exhale streams of warm breath into
the snow-frosted air. Our hunting
hound, Ralph, stays close by my side.
Aunt Kate brought him to her place
when Dad went into the hospital,
and when we got there last night,
Ralph practically knocked me over,
he was so happy to see me. I reach
down and stroke his head now.
??
?At least someone around here missed
me. What are we going to do with you
when I go back to Vegas?” It won’t
be for a while. The funeral is set
for next week, and then there’s legal
stuff to deal with. Dad didn’t have
a whole lot, just the farm and equipment,
a decent Ford truck, and a small bank
account. Aunt Kate says she hasn’t seen
Dad’s will, but she’s sure he left everything
to me. Ralph and I circle around to
the barn. Dad kept a few chickens
and they’re all inside, along with
Matilda and Jane, the goats who manage
weed control. Aunt Kate’s been feeding
them, but she lives in town, fifteen minutes
away, so I told her I’d care for the critters
while I’m here. I toss hay to the goats
and scratch to the chickens, just like
when I was a kid. Nostalgia hits hard,
carried in the perfume of oats and seed,
motor oil and manure; and in the cluck
of hens and the munching of the nannies
and the creak of old rafters in the wind.
It presses me down to the ground, where
I sit, surrounded by ghosts. “Why?”
It escapes, a wail of mourning. “How
could you die and leave me without
a friendly word between us? Damn
you, Dad!” Ralph creeps over, lays
his head in my lap, telling me I’m not
totally alone, here in the barn, here on
my farm, here where I worked and played
and hid from myself. Here at home.
All the fear and rage I’ve kept bottled
inside spills out of me now in a flood
of tears. “Why, Ralph? Why did I wait
so long to come home? I could have
made him listen. Could have made him
change his mind, and now I’ll never
get the chance. I should have tried
harder!” I give myself permission
to cry for a good, long time. Once
I’m mostly finished, I get to my feet.
“Come on, Ralph, let’s go.” He follows
me to the house, and that is empty,
too. Not of furnishings—those are all
here, exactly the way they were the day
Dad sent me away. I’m slightly gratified
to see he didn’t change my room.
There are dishes in the sink. I wash them,
put them away in their proper place in
the cupboard. After Mom died, Dad and I
made sure to keep her kitchen organized
the way she liked it, in her honor. I pay
tribute in the same way now, neatening