The seconds tick on, each one a terrible throb. His expression shows that he wants to say something else but can’t bring himself to.
“All right.” I try to inject cheer into it when I add, “Puzzle time, then.”
“Definitely. And you know, we should go ahead and do the papier-mâché thing, too. If I post a picture of it online, maybe I’ll get her attention. I would very much like her attention.”
“I am going to get you Lacey Chabert for Christmas, Hall. I swear.”
He laughs hoarsely. “Meet you in the den in a few minutes?”
“Mm-hmm.”
I leave the room, closing the door behind me so that he can have privacy. And then I go straight to the living room, which thankfully only has my dozing grandfather in it, and begin removing lightbulbs from the Christmas tree.
*
Chapter Seventeen
Countdown to Christmas:
2 Days
NO MATTER HOWmany candy canes I throw away, it keeps getting worse.
The beach furnishings are gone, and Hall has redoubled his Christmas cheer efforts with laser-focused intention. Grandma and Grandpa’s house is once more a swarm of red and green, silver and gold, hazy with mint (although no one can detect the source of it), towering Christmas trees in every room, bedecked in so much garland and ornaments that you can’t tell the lights no longer work. I’ve been snatching up decorations and stuffing them behind cereal boxes in the lazy Susan, hiding them in closets and storage tubs out in the garage, but it’s not enough. There’s too much to keep up with, and we’re surrounded. Hall can no longer hold himself back from doing what he was designed to do, showering us with every trimming you’d want for a perfect Christmas Eve: fluffy snowfall, instrumental music drifting from corners, a cozy fire, and an almost drowsy sort of happiness, one where you feel you could curl up in an armchair and be content forever.Hall’s gone all out with the food, too: bibingka, traditional Christmas pudding, peppermint bark cheesecake, leche flan, pumpkin spice and cranberry babka, a Yule log cake that will take weeks to devour, gingerbread truffles, and a truckload of meticulously decorated sugar cookies.
It’s devastating.
Grandma’s relaxing on the sofa with her feet up on an ottoman, wearing a lazy, feline smile as she rereads letters she claims a prince (“I won’t say which one”) once wrote for her. Mom and Athena are watchingFeud: Bette and Joan, Dad growing annoyed by the number of times Mom has mentioned how handsome Stanley Tucci is. The kids are in the den teaching Grandpa how to play Minecraft while Sean feigns interest, enjoying his cheesecake. Kaia’s curled up in the window seat with her guitar, gamely taking all our song requests, plucking away tranquilly and stopping every now and then to write down music.
If I’m going to keep Hall on earth longer, that means I’ve got to build a giant wall between myself and any modicum of cheerfulness and embrace Emo Bettie. But Hall has noted that I’m not as merry as the others, and he won’t rest until that’s fixed. He keeps experimenting with sounds and scents, learning what triggers my nostalgia, torturing me with Mariah Carey and the smell of maple syrup and butter. I try to hide from him after lunch, Kaia’s saddest ballads blasting in my earbuds, reminding myself about all the despicable people and despicable things that make me upset. I’ve drawn up a list:Kelly Frederick. Lucas Dormer. Chip and Joanna Gaines. LuLaRoe. Capital One. Piers Morgan. David Letterman.
“Please don’t,” I beg when he floats over to me with my coat and boots in hand, having rounded up all the others for a snowballfight. I’m on the top bunk, halfway through a “When You Want To Cry” Spotify playlist. “Let me lie here and be depressed.”
“I can’t do that.” He smiles sadly. “Come on, Betts. Let’s make the most of today.”
“No.” I turn over onto my side. “Today can get bent.”
“If you insist on lying in bed, I’ll have no choice but to bring the fun to you. I can transform this bedroom into an episode ofThe Adventures of Paddington, ‘Paddington’s First Snow.’ Don’t make me turn you into a cartoon.”
“Fine.” I shove to my feet. “I’ll go throw snow at people! But I refuse to feel cheerful about it.”
“I’m truly sorry.” He clasps my hand, helping me down. “I can’t resist anymore. You have to understand—it’s all pent up inside me.”
It isn’t an easy task, being a Holiday Spirit who physicallymustspread good feelings. Hall’s need to bring joy will win out over any desire of his. That’s just who he is.
I don my mittens and hat, which naturally he’s knitted for me, with crotchety grumbling.Daytona Beach, I think determinedly.Lorne Michaels. Carl’s Jr.Andromeda Magazine.The Duke of Cambridge.If Hall can’t resist bringing me joy, then it’s up to me to resist feeling it. Today I am going to dwell on the melting ice caps and stranded penguins.
We troop to the front door. When Hall turns the knob and opens it, a snowball flies directly at my chest. Snowballs are whizzing everywhere. “Hey!” I yell. “I’m not ready yet!”
“The safe zone is Mrs. Bannerman’s tombstone,” Hall says, pointing to a foam prop. “We’re split up into two—”
Oh, this sweet, naïve angel. This family doesn’t doteams. Iwatch Grandma take out Kaia with a snowball aimed at her left leg. When I see Felix and remember him telling me I’m not an actress, I bean him in the head, but he dives toward the tombstone too fast. It’s a souvenir from a role Grandma played in the early 2000s. She was promised by the director that she’d have just as many lines as the lead actor, but the script was rewritten and her character was killed off in the first ten minutes of the movie as the catalyst for the husband’s high-octane revenge tour. Her character didn’t even get a first name. Every few years, some writer or other comes to visit Grandma for an interview, and the publications always include a photo spread of these tombstones stippling the yard—mrs. bannerman, his wife—and Grandma feels vindicated.
Felix’s children and nephews wait in the trees for him to leave the safe zone, then fire the cannons. Years’ worth of rage over watching Felix flirt with their teachers and their friends’ moms is coming out.
Marilou takes pity on him, a knight in puffy pink armor. As Felix hovers behind her, agog at his wife’s accuracy, I think back on the little boy who tried to help me open my presents, who brought me a toy when I was in time-out. How big and open his heart was before chasing fame messed it up.
He’s an idiot sixty percent of the time. He messes up constantly, like I do, like we all do, but I study his happy, animated face and you know, I think I might have a soft spot for that idiot under all the annoyance.
