I see him in my peripheral vision, watching me. But I can’t look his way. Not even to reassure him, because I’m afraid of what he’ll see on my face.
“To be honest, I’m a bit tired,” I say. “But let’s wait to go until the carols are finished.” Risking a quick glance to the oak with the twinkly lights, I see that my mother and the moths are gone.
“You sure?” Wyatt asks. He glances at Shelby. “Maybe we should head out now.”
“No. I can rally until after the carols.” I offer what I hope is a reassuring smile.
My mother, and the sick pile of moths, may be gone, but the itch in my forearm has intensified. The sensation more a burning pain now. Demanding my focus.
With hands clasped behind my back to avoid being seen, I rake fingernails over the itchy spot. There’s a moment of relief, but it disappears seconds after I stop scratching.
“I can’t get this open.” Clementine’s face scrunches up with annoyance. She’s picking at a piece of sealing tape, which holds the flaps of the box together. It’s Christmas morning, early, because when you have a seven-year-old the hoopla is over by the time the sun comes up.
Wyatt, Shelby, and I never go overboard on gifts for one another, though we do our best to ensure a tidy pile rests under the tree for Clementine. You only get so many Christmas mornings as a child. I distinctly remember the thrill of seeing so many wrapped gifts, covered in sparkly holiday paper with whimsical bows, waiting for me to tear into. My mother always spoiled me at Christmas.
The box in Clementine’s hands contains a pair of sneakers she’s been asking for. Self-lacing, with solar-powered multicolored lights and springs that pop out from the soles, allowing the wearer to bounce with each step. They’re made of mushroom “leather,” and the most expensive pair of shoes I’ve ever bought. I can’t wait for her to see them—she’s going to lose her mind.
But her progress is slowed by the box’s sealing tape, which remains impenetrable to her picking and pulling. Clementine’s impatiencegrows by the second, as she’s guessed what’s inside. However, she won’t hand the box over for help.
“I want to do it myself,” she says huffily.
“I’ll get the scissors. That should make it easier.” I shift the contents of my stocking to the couch cushion beside me and head to the kitchen.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.A moment of relief, before the itching begins again. It kept me up for hours last night, as did the anxiety about seeing my mother by the tree.All those moths…
I try to shake it off, focusing instead on getting the scissors for Clementine. Holiday music plays through built-in speakers, and homemade cinnamon buns—a Crewson family Christmas-morning tradition—bake in the oven. The kitchen smells incredible, and my stomach growls. I should eat something.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.I’m going to have to call MotherWise about this itching. It’s becoming unbearable, relentless, my skin mottling red in a star pattern around the tattoo. Like a cluster of mosquito bites that won’t heal. But the office is closed today, and Clementine’s gift opening comes first. I’m reaching for the kitchen shears, resting in a sharp-safe sheath on the side of the refrigerator, when I hear her voice.
“That’s it, my darling,”she says.“You can fix this.”
Whipping around, I look for my mother, but she’s not in the kitchen. However, she continues repeating,“fix this…fix this…fix this,”until I’m frantic and crazed with the intrusion. I can’t think. My arm itches so badly I’m delirious. I start to cry. Desperation fills me.
Then she says,“You have to remove it, Mathilde. It’s hurting you and the baby. You know it is.”
It’s as though I’m under water, everything muted. My thoughts race on, jumbled and cluttered until suddenly something shifts into sharp focus. My mind is the clearest it has ever been. I look at the kitchen shears in my hand and slowly slide my fingers into the handle loops, opening and closing the blades a few times. I’m calm, my movements precise and controlled. My mother’s voice returns, and I smile.I feel silly not seeing the solution myself.“Mother knows best,”she says, then,“Fix this…fix this…fix this…”
I poke the sharp tip of one of the blades against my skin, adding pressure. The skin yields with a burst of pain, leaving a drop of blood when I remove the blade’s tip.
“That’s right, Mathilde. Fix this.”
“Here are the scissors,” I say brightly, walking back into the living room a few minutes later. “The cinnamon buns smell so good, Shelby.”
Wyatt and Shelby have their backs to me, watching Clementine pick at a loose corner of the tape. She’s barely made progress.
“Thought we lost you to the temptation of the buns.” Wyatt laughs, then turns my way. His face drains of color when he sees me, or, more specifically, sees my arm.
Blood drips down my fingertips, falling in steady droplets to the floor below. I see the slow-moving rivers of blood against my bare skin, my sleeve pulled up to my elbow, yet I’m oddly detached. No pain whatsoever.
“What’s wrong?” I don’t understand the look on Wyatt’s face. I fixed the itching! It was as simple as my mother said it would be.Mother knows best.
I have the kitchen shears in my other hand and hold them out to Clementine. “Here, sweets. To open the box.”
“Tilly! What the hell did you do!” There’s terror in Wyatt’s voice.It unnerves me, and I’m confused about why he sounds so scared.What is going on?
It’s as though everyone is frozen in place—like a Christmas-morning tableau. The tree lights twinkle, the bars of “Jingle Bell Rock” play, there’s wrapping paper scrunched in balls on the floor, festive-colored stockings draped over the back of the couch. My family stares at me, each with a similar wide-eyed and openmouthed expression. They’re in shock—this registers, even though I remain perplexed as to why they aren’t happier for me. I solved the problem.
“Goodness, why does everyone looks so worried?” I say. Drip, drip, drip. I glance at my arm, at the blood that isn’t slowing. At the hole I’ve carved out, near my wrist.Hmm…that might need a small bandage.Later, though. Clementine’s gift needs to be opened first. I can’t wait to see her expression.
