“If someone official happens by, my license to serve is toast. And the bar could get fined,” I said. “The owner doesn’t need that. Let’s go over there.”
Her honey hair swung over the shoulder of her coat as she turned to look, but she didn’t move. She didn’t care if Alex got dinged, but I sure did. I pulled a Coke for myself and walked over to the far corner to the big booth. It was roomy. No one had to get too close or familiar. She finally got off her stool to join me.
“I’m Dahlia,” I said. “And your name is what?”
“Sis.” She cringed and lowered herself onto the very corner of the other bench.
“I’m not calling you that,” I said.
“No, it’s—Sicily. You can call me Sicily. ‘Sis’ is just what—” She fidgeted with her glass, biting at her glossy lip.
I let the gut punch of it pass. “She calls you ‘Sis.’”
“It’s just a silly nickname,” she said. “I never thought it meant—”
“It doesn’t,” I said. “I’m sure Marisa wasn’t thinking ofmewhen she named you.”
Sicily looked up. “Of course she was. She’s probably been thinking about you every minute of my whole life. A lot of things make sense now.”
“I bet they don’t,” I said. Then I reconsidered. “Like what?”
“Like… sometimes it just seemed like she was going somewhere else, in her mind, you know?” Sicily said. “She always gets really sadaround this time of year. Christmas is supposed to be this day of joy, right? But then she’s watching me open my presents over there trying to pretend like her eyes aren’t red and puffy. Allergies all of a sudden on Christmas morning,right. Like I’m an idiot.”
That’s the kind of story I would have feasted on when I was a kid, when Christmas magic didn’t seem to apply to me, the foster who should be grateful to have anything at all under another family’s tree. But being appreciative would have meant turning off the part of myself that could clock a certain strained expression on the faces of my placement parents just as the sugarplums should be doled out. They would have been asking themselves hard questions, like… is this grubby brat supposed to appear in our festive photos? In our upbeat family newsletters?
And then it was time to pack the garbage bag again.
I was reminded of the story Marisa had told me last night about pining for me from afar. That was the exact thing I’d always hoped for, until I’d stopped hoping altogether.
“I notice that you still had gifts to open,” I said. “From her and your dad? AndSanta, right?”
I reached for my soda. What good did it do to compare my childhood with hers? We hadn’t had the same mother, not really. Her mother was soft and well-fed. She probably gave a lot of cuddles and said I love you a lot. She had some kind of needlecraft hobby, maybe, a scrapbooking habit and lots of bird feeders in the backyard. My version of Marisa had been factory original, sharp and flinty, starting fires everywhere she went.
Yeah, it’s a family trait.
Sicily was frowning into her soda, silent.
“Never mind,” I said. “All signs point to you having great holiday seasons with your loving and present mother long into the future.”
The kid studied me now, her nose wrinkling.
Look, I know what I am. And who made me that way.
But here was living proof that the same woman who had wrecked me had brought up a healthy specimen, whose bones were strong,whose teeth spoke of the miracles of orthodontia. Our mother, who had abandoned me to the elements, had tried again and this time—raised a daughter.
Now I just needed to get her out of here.
I didn’t consider it my fault that Marisa had gone missing on a trip to see me, but I did seem to be the hinge that would send Sicily back out in the world. The city of Chicago lay before us.
Where could Marisa have gone, if not straight home to the bosom of her traditional family unit?
“We have security cameras,” I said.
The look of hope on Sicily’s face made me want to fling things, throw my glass to the floor. But for a moment, Sicily reminded me of someone. Marisa probably, or Lemondrop, when she would do anything for a treat.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s look at the recordings.”
I led Sicily down the hallway to the office, flicked on the lights, and hit the power button on the old computer to let it cycle through its startup and software upgrades. The room smelled stale.
