There’s a For Sale sign in the snowy front yard.
“Mrs. Hubert must be moving,” my sister observes. “Downsizing now that Mr. Hubert has taken up residence in heaven.”
My dad snorts loudly. My sister says, “Bless you,” but I know it wasn’t a sneeze.
“Oh, I don’t think he’s in the good place,” my dad says, very loudly, too loudly. His whole body seems to be quaking, tectonic plates ready to erupt.
My sister frowns. “Why not? He seemed like a nice enough guy. Not that I’d really know, since I never got the chance to take piano lessons.” She huffs lightly.
My parents meet my eyes, taking the lead from me, which I appreciate. I shake my head imperceptibly. Now is not the time. I’ll fill my sister in soon, over fresh mangos and melons in Hawaii. We have our family trip planned for the spring. No need to spoil the holiday cheer, and besides, my sister has enough on her plate with motherhood. Though to her credit she complains less than she used to, or maybe I’m just more perceptive to the positive things she says too.
“It turns out Mr. Hubert had a dark side to him,” my mom tells my sister. “But we don’t need to dwell on it.”
“What do you mean?” my sister asks, looking hopeful that she’s stumbled across a scintillating story she can share with her mom friends atBachelorettewatch parties. “Was he smuggling drugs or something?”
“Far worse,” my mom says, her voice colder than the icy air, her jaw clenched into a pointy profile. “He was a murderer.”
My sister gasps dramatically. “A murderer! In this neighborhood?”
My mom’s words trickle over me as truth. She’s right. He murdered innocence. He murdered girlhood. He murdered trust. He murdered dreams and princesses and pirates and possibilities.
And he nearly murdered my younger self—wonderful, spunky little Emily Jane. But he didn’t, and what sweet victory is that. Reclaiming power after someone has stripped you, degraded you. Not doing it to prove anything to them but to prove everything to yourself. The flavor is tangy and sweet and salty all at once. I could bottle it up into the world’s best barbecue sauce and make millions, but that’s not really the point.
“Merry Christmas to you, old Hubert,” my dad says, nearly spitting. “Hope you’re feasting on flames in hell.”
It gets me all shades of giddy to see my parents on my side like this. I felt the energy over the phone, but witnessing it in person is something else.
My sister is bug-eyed. “Dad!” she says, shocked. Then she turns to me. “But I mean if that’s true, then it’s a good thing you made it out of his house alive, Emily Jane.”
A snowflake lands on my face, melting in the tears that I feel forming. I hope my parents and sister can hear my expression, translate the dampness into theI love youthat it is.Judging by their faces, I think they can. I’ve never really thought I look like my family at all, but I think I look like them now. More than a little. A whole lot, really. It doesn’t make me panic. It gives me peace.
“Yeah,” I say, as we keep walking past Mr. Hubert’s house, looping back toward my childhood home where we’ll make a fire and put cider on the stove. “It really is.”
Chapter 42
After the holidays, I head back to Brooklyn and curl up in the coziness of winter, cradling the creative flow that hasn’t plugged up yet.
The garden shows are still selling out, even with the snow and sleet and subway delays. It seems my genius is weatherproof. I always had an inkling of that, but it’s nice to see the proof, feel the evidence as cold, hard cash.
“You have groupies,” Tara tells me one night as we clean up after a performance, stacking the foldable chairs against the garden wall. “That’s when you know you’ve made it.”
My insides swoop up like they’re on the trapeze swing at the House of Yes, only better because I know I won’t wake up with a headache tomorrow.
“Wehave groupies,” I correct, since Tara is still doing all the shows with me. I’m gearing up for a bigger cast for a spring play, a parody about a dysfunctional Midwest family with an unreliable narrator. What would I know about that?
Tara squeals at that. “We have groupies,” she repeats, and we start spitballing ideas for how we can amp up the effects of the courtyard theater.
“You know, Tara,” I say, dead serious. “It’s pretty great to see you putting more effort into our play than your wedding planning.”
Tara frowns, like she’s doing something wrong.
“I don’t mean that in a spiteful or competitive way,” I say. “It’s just nice to see that you haven’t been absorbed by the wedding industry’s capitalistic, patriarchal pressures, that’s all.”
“I mean, I don’t see the point of spending two years planning a six-figure party,” Tara says, shrugging. “Niles and I have decided on something casual at the theater where we first met. The second weekend of February.”
“Isn’t that a little soon?” I say, feeling a tug to backtrack and tell her maybe she should spend a bit more time planning the wedding after all.
“I mean, we already made the big decision of committing to each other, so we both want to make it official sooner rather than later,” Tara says. “I don’t like how the engagement period kind of feels like limbo.”
