“Well, did you survive the fa-la-la-ing yesterday?” Ben said in a teasing tone.
“Actually, we had to push it back to today,” I said, inhaling the cold winter air and giving the snowman a suspicious sideways glare. I had the unreasonable sense that the damn thing was listening to me, daring me to outwardly bash his favorite holiday, his whole reason for existence. I thought of Frosty coming to life in the song when the children put the hat on his head—not magical at all, but downright terrifying. I scooted a little farther away from my stuffed snowman friend, took a fortifying gulp of wine.
“Ah, I see,” he said with a chuckle. “So you decided to call me for a little anti-Christmas camaraderie? Our own private grinch support group?”
I laughed, felt my body relax in that way it did when I was talking with someone who genuinely got me. My brother was even more anti-Christmas than I was and fully understood the irony of the Moxie book. Hearing his voice now made me miss him fiercely. He rarely came east. The last time he’d been back in the Northeast was for our wedding nearly twenty years ago—it was also the last time he and my mother were in the same room together. He made excuses, said he was too busy with work—managing a restaurant our cousin owned in La Jolla—to take time off. I was grateful Ben had finally settled into a happy life he seemed content with. I’d escaped to boarding school as a teenager, while Ben had left our childhood home right after high school and never looked back. He’d been married twice, but neither marriage had lasted long. For many years he’d floated from odd job to odd job up and down the West Coast, with a seeming aversion to anything that resembled a normal, stationary life. But two years ago, our cousin Duane had roped him into managing an upscale seafood restaurant he owned. Ben worked close to sixty hours a week but said he loved it. Duane had recently made Ben a co-owner, and they were talking about opening a second restaurant together.
Ben and I talked once a week and texted often, but if I wanted to see my brother, I had to go to him. Not that I complained about Februarytrips to La Jolla—walks with him along the craggy coastline, looking at all the seals and sea lions, eating amazing seafood. But now, as I did often, I wished he were closer. That I could fill him in in person rather than over the phone.
I thought of my mother asking me if I’d told him yet.
Ding-dong, the witch is almost dead.
I took another sip of wine and made myself continue. “I have news.”
Ben paused. “Oh? Let me guess. You finished the next Moxie book?” He sounded genuinely excited.
I cringed. I wasn’t even close. In fact, I hadn’t even started. Not really. Just a few lousy sketches.
But that was my secret.
Whenever anyone asked—Mark, my agent Sarah, a well-meaning fan—I told them the book was coming along fabulously. I told myself that if I lived inside the lie long enough, it would become the truth, and the pages would start to pour out of me. It wasn’t working so far.
“No,” I said, then paused. “It’s Mother.”
He was silent. I took another sip of wine and continued. “She’s ill.”
He laughed. “Bullshit. She’s never been sick a day in her life.”
“Well, she’s sick now. Really sick. I flew to New York to see her in the hospital yesterday. She’s got pancreatic cancer. It’s bad, Ben. They’re saying she’s only got weeks to live.”
More silence. Was he even still there?
“Ben?”
“I’m not sure what it is you want me to say,” he said, voice wooden.
“I’m not sure either. I just…”
I didn’t want to tell him the rest. I knew what his reaction would be. I looked out at the moonlit landscape as I took in a breath to channel the strength of the familiar hills and mountains and pressed on. “She’s asked to come here. To our house. To be with us while she dies.”
He made a strangled gasp, or was it a laugh? “I hope you said, ‘Not on your fucking life.’?”
There went that warm, fuzzy, relaxed feeling I’d had. I sat up ramrod-straight on the bench, ready to defend myself against the tirade I felt coming. “Actually, Ben, we said yes. She’ll be here on Monday.” I delivered the words with staccato precision.
I could hear my brother breathing through clenched teeth on the other end of the line. When he spoke, his words were as sharp as a blade. “Have you lost your mind?”
“I—no, I—” I stammered as self-doubt sank in.
Was this a mistake?
No, I told myself. It wasn’t. I was doing the right thing.
“I need you to respect my decision,” I said to Ben, trying to sound sure of myself.
“Respect your decision?You’re kidding, right? Do I need to remind you—”
“No,” I cut him off. “You don’t.”
