I’d forgotten what it was like to be hopeful, optimistic about change. The idea of it seems so strange now. Like viewing somewhere I once lived from high up in space. I think again about the time and money I’ve devoted to experimenting, over the years. To the lavender and white noise. The sleeping tablets and hard booze, and God knows what else I’ve ordered online. And I’ve come up short every time.This problem has no solution, Callie.
For a while now the drug of spending time with her has been numbingmy fear of consequence. But (well-intentioned as it was) her gift has only really reminded me that my dreams are going nowhere.
After she fell asleep, I Googled the retreat on the iPad. My heart seared silently in two: the whole thing cost her almost as much as three months’ rent.
I turn to my nightstand and pick up my Christmas card from her. Two polar bears rubbing noses, signed inside with love.
I stare at the word until it burns a hole in my brain.
43.
Callie
We lie in on Boxing Day morning but chink the blinds, suffusing the room with glacial light. I’m running an unhurried fingertip across Joel’s bare chest, mapping the contours of his muscles, the lovely landscape of his bones. His notebook’s lying closed on his lap, a pen tucked into the elastic that holds it shut, so I guess he must have had a dream last night.
“How are you feeling about today?” I ask him. I’ve tried and failed to picture being in Joel’s position, unexpectedly having cause to question my paternity.
“Good. I’m looking forward to them meeting you.”
Eight whole members of a brand-new family—as nerve-racking as a panel interview for a job you really, really want. I think of Joel impressing my parents on Christmas Eve, and hope I can do the same.
Still. “No, I meant... about your dad.”
He turns to look at me. “Well, aside from anything else, ten hours in his company could be challenging.”
I have a feeling he’s skirting the subject. It’s too painful, perhaps. “Surely he won’t give you a hard time at Christmas.”
“I’m sort of hoping you being there will help.” He grimaces. “Although I should probably warn you, my brother and his wife are going to fall out after lunch.”
“Oh, do they—”
“I dreamed it,” he clarifies quietly. “Something about rationing the kids’ chocolate intake. But if we do the washing-up, we can duck it.”
“Good idea.” But though I’m smiling, inside I’m blown away—his foresight still astounds me every time.
Unsurprisingly, Joel’s not dwelling on it. Instead he’s exhaling, glancing at the clock on his nightstand. “We should probably get ready.”
“Soon,” I whisper, letting one fingertip linger against his bare chest before winding it slowly down toward his stomach.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he murmurs, as his eyes flutter closed. “I mean, it’s Christmas. No need to rush.”
•••
The contrast between Joel and his siblings, when I meet them, is hard to ignore. Not only in mannerisms, but appearance too—darkness against copper, like a bloom out of season, a rare bird on home soil.
I notice a subtle shift in his demeanor when we arrive. As I watch him crouch to kiss his nieces and nephew, shake hands with Neil and clap his brother on the back, there’s no trace of unease. It reminds me just how practiced he is in keeping his feelings to himself.
Tamsin’s brought lunch—a mountainous feast of leftovers from yesterday, crammed with flavor in the way food is when infusion’s had a night to work its magic. As soon as we sit down, Joel’s foot finds mine beneath the table while, above it, our gazes tango.Thank you, he seems to be saying,for doing this.
As we eat there is some gentle jibing, mainly from Doug. “Don’t plants have feelings too?” is how he reacts to the news that I’m vegetarian like his brother. And then, when I’m talking about using chainsaws, “Bet you run away when the tree falls over, ha.” Later, though, there’s a settled breath of silence around the table when Lou asks about my parents, and I reveal that my dad used to be an oncologist.
After lunch, as Doug starts handing round chocolate selection boxes, Joel and I escape to do the washing-up. Once in the kitchen, I can’t helplistening out for evidence of an argument—and, sure enough, it comes. Raised voices, slammed doors and, at one point, the sound of someone running upstairs.
Eventually there’s talk of going for a walk, I guess in the hope that the fresh air will calm everyone down. So I offer to show Joel’s family a nearby field where I happen to know you can watch red kites flying in to roost at dusk. The kids seem disproportionately excited by the idea, until Tamsin explains to them with a smile that, no, we’re not going out to fly kites. I feel awful, as if I’ve just proposed a trip to the cinema, then downgraded it to the supermarket. Still, I’m sure the birds will win them round.
•••
A twilight tide laps the corduroy furrows of the field, chasing down the sinking sun. At its far edge, against the sky’s fiery shoulder, the birds are circling above a copse, gliding on the breeze. They spread like smoke, growing in number from two to eight, then twenty. Twenty-five. Thirty. With Joel by my side, I crouch next to Buddy as he strokes Murphy’s head, share the tricks and twists of the kites’ winged wizardry. Spellbound, Buddy watches them carried on the hands of the wind, like specks of soot in the gloaming, until slowly, one by one, they begin to spill from the sky.
