“I refuse to,” Mom chimes in, still happily rocking Barron. “I’m just glad there was a Christmas miracle after all. There’s nothing more painful than losing a child.” She offers a stern look to Giselle as if it were her fault she was run over by a car—and it might have been. “But I also know the blessing of getting her back. I’ll have to send the Winters family a muffinbasket.”
“Muffins, huh?” Skyla muses while glancing to Michelle. “I’ll have to remember that for the nextreanimation.”
Giselle clicks her tongue. “Iknewit was a reanimation. Santa wouldn’t let anyone die on Christmas Eve. He practically has to do a Christmas miracle. It’s in theBible.”
“And on that note!” Mom hands Barron back to me. “It’s time to say grace. Dinner is gettingcold.”
Skyla and I place the babies back into their car seats and set them a few feet from the table where we can keep an eye on them. They’re both fast asleep. Two miniature versions of myself sleeping and passing gas as they please. It looks like heaven, really. As nice as it is to have a peaceful meal, I’d prefer they scream their vocal cords right out of their throats now rather than at what Skyla and I have dubbed the witching hour. As much as I hated not sleeping with my family last night, as soon as I popped back into my old room, I drank down every glorious moment of shut-eye as if it were the finest wine, exotic, expensive, far too precious to guzzle all at once. And that’s exactly why I feel so bad for Skyla. The lack of sleep we’ve undergone is criminal, inhumane. It holds the power to make you insane. And if you wanted to get down to some psychological basics, it’s certainly played a factor in the madness that’s taken over our lives as of late. I’m not blaming my new covenant with my father on sleeplessness, but certainly how I’ve handled just about every situation has been skewed by having my better judgment rendereduseless.
Dinner drags on with incremental conversation regarding the refrigeration unit at the morgue and my mother’s own Christmasmemories.
Mom points to me with a cube of steak on the edge of her fork. “Now that you’re a parent, you’ll have to steep the boys full of your own Christmastraditions.”
“Now thatyou’rea parent?” Skyla whispers mostly to herself as if she’s still trying to process the slight. It would have been nice if my mother pluralized thenoun.
“Of course”—Mom wags her bloody square of bovine toward the fireplace—“I’ve started you off in the right direction. I stayed up hand stitching those stockings for the boys last night. I used the exact felt and thread I used on yours all those years ago. I saved it for just thisoccasion.”
I glance back at the fireplace housing a happy row of stockings. Mom, Dad, Giselle, Logan, and Liam are off to the right, and to the far left, Nathan and Barron sit next to my own stocking. I glance to Skyla and catch the heavy look of hurt weighing down herfeatures.
“I’m sure you’re still working on Skyla’s.” I give a tight smile to mymother.
But Skyla scoffs and waves the idea off before she can answer. “Save it, Gage. You and I both know that will neverhappen.”
“Then I’ll take them all down.” My words come out a little louder, a little harsher than I meant for them, and Logan shakes his head as if begging me to make a U-turn.
Liam grunts. “What’s going on at that end of the table? Quit your clamoring. Hold it together for the kids, would you?” He moans through a mouthful of food, and I take a moment to glare at him. Liam has been lucky with the ladies ever since he stepped foot on Paragon, and now he seems to be lucky in love with Michelle Miller, an odd combination considering her infatuation with Logan, not to mention Liam’s facial proximity to his. They could be twins. But I’ll let it ride. What I won’t let ride is someone who hasn’t even experienced a hiccup when it comes to matters of the heart sit there and tell me to hold it together when he has no clue regarding half the shit Skyla and I have gonethrough.
“I’ll quit my clamoring.” Skyla picks up her glass as if toasting him, but her eyes settle on mine with sharp intent. “I’m quitting a lot ofthings.”
“Well”—Mom balks as if it’s her place to do so—“we’ll be discussing my son’s right to those children with a prized attorney. Ellis, put your mother on standby. I won’t let a littlehus—”
“Enough,” I roar so loud the cutlery trembles, and the boys both let out a sharp gasp and start in on a hacking cry. Skyla and I dive over them and scoop them into our arms without thinking twice. We may not see eye to eye at the moment, but we are a united front when it comes to ourchildren.
Giselle taps a knife to her wine glass, and the room quiets down with the steady chiming. Even the boys seem to fall back to sleep as Skyla and I rockthem.
“I know exactly what would make everyone feel better.” She giggles through each word. Giselle might be in her late teens, in her senior year of high school—no thanks to Emerson Kragger’s body, but her mind and spirit are still very much her preschool self. “Presents!” she shrieks so loud the boys are right back to crying again. Dinner is quickly abandoned as we retreat to the living room—mostly I think people are trying to escape the noise. Who knew two tiny beings could house such dynamicpipes?
Logan dons the Santa hat along with my dad, and before we know it, everyone has a small pile of gifts at their feet. Skyla and I have the bulk—which judging by the cartoon-inspired wrapping paper, I’m guessing they’re all for theboys.
Mom insists we do the traditional rounds—one each, oldest to youngest, so it takes forever to get to Nathan andBarron.
“Go ahead.” I nudge Skyla to tear one open, but she’s quick to shake her head, that pinched frown of hers never leaving herface.
“I’ll do it!” Giselle volunteers and dives right in. “It’s a toy!” she squeals. “It’s an aquarium that plays music! And when the lights go off, the fish swimandglow.” She clutches it to her chest, her elations quickly replaced with distress. “I must have this,” she pleads to Skyla with large watery eyes. Giselle is a stunner, a sweetheart with a strong will who seems to be faring well enough in the world. Although, at this moment I’m a bit afraid to see her so attached to a toy designed for a newborn. “I love fish! And I’m afraid of the dark. Oh please, oh please, let me keepit!”
“Sure.” Skyla doesn’t seem to mind at all. It has always warmed me how much Skyla cares for mysister.
“That’s actually from me.” Mom raises her brows as if this were of concern. “Giselle, all gifts for the boys that are from your father and me will remain at this house. God knows they have enough mishmash at the Landons’. I’ll see about getting you a replacement.” She offers G a quick wink, therefore staving off the inevitabletantrum.
“All the boys’ gifts from Emma stay here?” Skyla looks to Ellis, amused. It’s clear Skyla has deemed both Ellis and Michelle a safe place during this visit. I’m guessing that doesn’t bode well for Logan. “Giselle, why don’t you tear through the rest of the gifts right away. I have to get the babies to bedsoon.”
“Oh goodie!” My sister is quick to comply, sending wrapping paper flying, and my mother scoops it into a trash bag right behind her. Soon Giselle is surrounded by every whirling, twirling gadget and gizmo a newborn, and perhaps teenager, could lust after. It’s a mountain of plastic, dare I say crap, and a part of me is glad all of it will be stashed far away from that tiny room Skyla and I share. Didshare.
Skyla pulls up a box of felt blocks with animals and shapes depicted on allsides.
“I’ve really wanted these for the boys. Looks like I’ll have to get a set of my own.” She glances at my mother, and my heart sinks. Skyla should have the final say in what stays where as far as the boys’ belongings go. It’s becoming clear that Skyla would very much want every last box to do with as she wishes. My heart turns to stone toward my mother and her ridiculous demands. Who the hell cares where everything is stashed? Skyla and I should decide those things, not anybody else—certainly not mymother.
“We’ll take them home,” I say it loud and clear to avoid any confusion. “In fact, we’ll take all of it home.” I look over to my mother with her slap-shocked expression, her mouth gaping open in protest. “Skyla and I will bring over a few things to entertain the boys each time we visit. I promise, they will never bebored.”
