12 Nights

“They’re just excited, Bee." Nick slides his hand across the console to cup my knee. He gives it a gentle squeeze, like the reassuring pet you give a rescue dog before you take it to a crowded park. “My mom made the sugar cookies you like. Just… give them a chance. If it gets too loud, we can sneak to the basement. Okay?”

I can’t look at him. My attention is locked on the roofline of the wrap-around porch.

“They’re blue.” I interrupt his pep talk.

Nick blinks, his hand stalling. “What?”

“The lights. On the gutters.” I point toward the house. “They’re cool-toned LED blue. Like a dentist’s office. Or a hospital wing.”

Nick lets out a small, relieved laugh, completely missing the knot tightening in my chest. “Oh! Yeah, Mom swapped them out last year to save on electricity during the holidays. Modern efficiency or whatever.”

Sure, modern efficiency. I nod, trying my best to ignore the piercing 4000-Kelvin glare bleaching the world in the exact color of the overheads in Room 412 at St. National’s. The lights that never shut off, not even in the dead of night when the chemo drip clicked, and the air smelled like industrial sanitizer. It was the light that bathed my mother’s skin when it turned the color of damp parchment, making her look like a stranger long before her heart finally gave out.

And Nick’s mom had lined the whole damn roof with it.

“Wait here,” Nick’s voice drags me back into the cold car. He looks at me with that soft, puppy-dog expression he’d been wearing since my father’s funeral in August. Two parents gone in two years. “I’ll get the bags so you don’t have to carry anything. You ready?”

No. “Yes.

He steps out; the crisp bite of the December air swallows the heat of the car. Snowflakes melt against the leather interior. I lean my head against the window, reaching into the pocket of my parka. My fingers brush against a crumpled-up receipt, an old mint, and a few bobby pins. I fish around for the penny. It’s enveloped in the receipt. I free it and rub my thumb over the surface, resisting the urge to lock the doors and drive away.

Nick thinks my pennies are strange. He doesn’t understand. There are three with me at the moment. One in the small inner pocket of my purse. One in my parka. And the third rattles around my suitcase as Nick pulls it over the bricks.

Through the fogged glass, I watch the front door swing open. Nick’s mother, Claire, steps out onto the porch wearing an embroidered apron over a crimson sweater. Her hair is a muted blonde, but grays peek through where her roots need a touch-up. Two bulbous earrings bounce against her neck as she jumps up and down. She’s an attractive woman— hell, she made an attractive son.

“Nicholas!” Her voice carries across the quiet driveway. She wraps him in a tight hug, then turns her toward the car.

Nick flaps his hands at me. His foot taps ever so slightly. I know my cue.

The snow crunches under my weight. It’s the sticky, heavy snow that clings to any surface it can find. The kind of snow that feels like a chest-crushing weight when the fort you build in the backyard collapses and buries you in a darkness that is strange, but not unwelcome. It’s the snow that muffles the cries of your father while he tries to dig you out of your frozen tomb with ungloved hands and the shrieks of your mother as she hacks at the pile with a shovel. While you’re underneath that snow, smelling frozen pine needles and ice, it stings your lungs, but blankets the noise.

I keep my chin tucked into my collar and wave like a shy child. Boarding at the Thompsons’ a week before Christmas was his idea. The thought of having his parents, brothers, and girlfriend all under one roof gave him a hard-on. How could I say no?

“Billie! How wonderful to see you again. Gosh, how long has it been?” Mrs. Thompson asks, without a drop of an apologetic tone.

“August, Mom.” Nick shoots me a grimace. I force a pressed smile and wave him off.

Mrs. Thompson’s hands fly to her chest. “Oh, that’s right, the funeral.” She says the word “funeral” at a lower decibel level than the rest. “Well, I’m so glad you decided to join us! The boys are delighted that you’re here. Nicholas, grab Billie’s things and put them in the guest room on the second floor.”

Nick told me his parents wouldn’t allow us to stay in the same room. Not until we’re engaged, he added with too much emphasis.

“Billie, you come with me,” Mrs. Thompson says, and ushers me through the door. She pauses to slip her socked feet into fuzzy house slippers. I glance at my slush-covered sneakers and wish I had opted for boots.

A warm, familiar smell worms its way up my nostrils, down my throat, and through my ear canals the moment I step inside. As I take a deeper breath, the air thins in my throat. Beneath the butter and roasted ham, there’s a metallic tang. I glance up at the garland draped over the banister. The swaths are plusher than the pine trees lining the driveway. I focus my eyes and notice that the needles are made of stiff, dyed plastic, yet somehow still manage to deposit brown droppings on the polished hardwood floor.

Mrs. Thompson busies herself with hanging my coat, and I take the moment to adjust. I inhale an intoxicating scent of sugar cookies and cranberry sauce. A wave of nostalgia weaves through my hippocampus, tugging at something I don’t want to remember right now. But the harsh glare of the Thompsons’ hallway blurs at the edges, and I’m back in our old living room. I can hear my dad’s laugh competing with the radiator, the clinking of mom’s real crystal glasses, and the static of the TV broadcasting Hallmark movies.

My chest tightens with feverish greed. I want to be there, preserved in amber.

When I open my eyes, Mrs. Thompson is staring at me with a polite, inquiring expression, her hand frozen mid-air. I offer a compliment about the decor and force my smile to reach my eyes.

“Call me Claire, please!” She laughs at my use of Mrs. Thompson. “You have great manners, young lady. No doubt due to your mother. The rest of the clan is in the den. I’ll show you around the house.”

Her arm links around mine, and she pats my hand with a knowing smile. For a split second, I worry she can feel how cold my skin has gotten.

Nick wants me to be happy. I need to be happy.

***

I pour another glass of the expensive red Mr. Thompson presented from his wine cellar. It’s gone in four gulps. I feel the heat of Nick’s sideways glances on my cheek, but I don’t care. There are twenty more bottles like this one, if not better, downstairs. Mr. Thompson told me so himself.

Mark is spinning another story about Nick’s childhood that involves a whiffle ball and firecrackers. I laugh from somewhere beyond my mind. Their house is louder than mine ever was on a holiday. I always sat at the end of the table near Nan and Pop. Nan passed me extra rolls under the table while Pop winked at me with a warmth that made me feel like I was on top of the world. When Dad’s sister had kids, the cousins came, too. They were younger than me, but still fun. We played in the basement of various relatives’ houses and argued about which parent inflicted the worst punishment that week— what I wouldn’t give to be scolded by Mom again. 

Another glass of wine. Poured by James this time. Not my fault.

“Why don’t we wait to have another with dessert?” Nick whispers to me. 

We. Yet his second glass has remained untouched. We are fighting for air in a room that’s too hot and too loud.

“Of course, babe. Thanks.” I push the glass an inch away with the tip of my nail. Nick squeezes my thigh. Good job, Billie. 

A plate overflowing with carved ham floats down the table. The slices look like chunks of juicy flesh. Mr. Thompson watches me intently, so I spear the smallest slice I can find. Next, green beans, then roasted potatoes, and a small helping of salad. I cut the beans into thin sections and chew each bite until my teeth grind together. Mrs. Thompson eats with the grace of a small boned bird. Her husband wolfs down every last crumb. He has a bald spot on the top of his head that reflects the chandelier’s light. Everything in this house is polished.

“So, Billie, remind us,” Mark, Nick’s older brother, says and points his fork at me, “how you and Nicholas met. You’d think we’d tortured him by the way he reacts when we ask for details…”

He’s the biggest of the three boys, but pales in comparison to Nick’s looks. Maybe that’s why he spends hours in the gym. Men always have to compensate for something. 

I take a sip of my wine. Just clearing my throat. 

Nick cuts in, annoyed. “We met at work. I’ve definitely told you this before.”

“We met in the coffee shop across from work.” I find my voice. “I had my arms full of orders for my team…grunt work, you know? I tripped over my own feet. The tray went flying.”

Nick leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek. “All I saw was a puddle of coffee and a cute girl sitting in the middle of it.”

“I doubt I looked cute.” Embarrassment crawls up my neck. “I was soaking wet and trying to unstick my notes from the floor when a handsome stranger ruined his shoes to help me. He even offered the shirt off his back so I didn’t have to smell like a barista for the rest of the day.”

James scoffs. “Nick probably just wanted to show off his abs.”

“Sue me,” Nick says, raising his hands. “Thank god you’re clumsy, or we wouldn’t have met. But I would’ve found you, anyway. No doubt about that.”

“No doubt at all.” I squeeze his hand under the table. 

In the maelstrom of my life, Nick has been a constant grounding presence. I fear that if I look at him now, I’ll break down into a weeping mess, so I take another long drink. An orphan should be allowed to get drunk.

More plates rotate around the table. If this is their casual family dinner, Christmas will last a lifetime. The neck of my sweater is too itchy. My skin beneath it prickles with impatience. I jiggle my foot, and it taps against the table leg like a starving woodpecker. Nick’s hand is on my knee. I apologize and try to tune back in. Mrs. Thompson complains about the neighbors, and her husband tells her to relax. The siblings exchange glances, understood only by those bound by growing up under the same roof with the same semi-chaotic adults. I try to catch a look, too, but I’m not invited. 

“I’m telling you!” James shouts over the pass of the potatoes. “Third grade, the year Dad forgot to anchor the tree, and the whole thing fell on the cat. Nick cried for like, hours, because his ornament broke.”

"It was a vintage glass car with spinning wheels from Grandmom, you prick,” Nick shoots back. He nudges me with his elbow. “Tell ‘em, Bee. You’d cry if a tree crushed your favorite ornament, right?”

“Absolutely,” I say, nodding my head. “Tragic.”

My voice is swallowed by Mark chiming in with a story about the old family cat, followed by Claire letting out a musical laugh from the head of the table. Every phrase they speak has a footnote dating back fifteen years. I sit there, a smudge in the margin of their holiday, as the wine in my glass drains.

I stare down at my plate. The reflection in the bowl of my silver spoon distorts my face, but when I blink, the reflection doesn't blink back. It holds my gaze for an extra second before catching up. I shake my head, pressing my knuckles into my eyes. Grief plays tricks, I remind myself. You're just tired.

Opposite me, Mrs. Thompson is recounting a story about a neighbor’s lawn ornament, her mouth opening and closing, but the sound of her voice begins to warp. It stretches into a low, droning hum, like an old cassette tape being pulled thin.

I blink again, and the wallpaper behind her head isn’t floral cream anymore. It’s the faded indigo damask of my childhood dining room.

A ghost of a scent— cinnamon and Pop’s pipe tobacco— drowns out the smell of the roast. I look to my left, expecting to see Nick, but in his chair sits my father as he looked ten years ago, pouring brandy into a glass that isn't there. I can hear the liquor splash onto the tablecloth, see a brownish stain spreading across the lace, but nobody else notices.

A thin layer of sweat starts to coat my palms. Not now, please, I bargain with myself. But it won’t be long until my pulse skyrockets, and I can’t do anything but curl into a fetal position.

Something moves behind Claire’s shoulder.

A shadow shifts in the doorway. I swallow hard, waiting for the Thompsons to invite their tardy guest, but again, no one notices. To my horror, the apparition solidifies.

She’s wearing her favorite navy cardigan, her hair pulled back in a loose clip. She isn’t pale like she was at St. Jude’s. She looks alive, holding a stack of folded flannel pajamas against her chest.

“Billie,” her voice whispers, clear as a bell right next to my ear. My flesh stipples. “Come help me wrap.”

My heat is in my throat. I lean forward, abandoning my fork, no doubt with a crazed look in my eyes, as I try to reach across the distance. The warm, honeyed air of home fills my lungs.

“…right, Billie?

I snap my attention up to Mrs. Thompson, who leans forward with an expectant grin. The whole table is silent, waiting for my input. The indigo wallpaper vanishes; my mother's silhouette dissolves back into the glare of the dining room chandelier.

“I… sorry,” I stammer. “What was that?”

Nick smiles apologetically, reaching over to rub the small of my back. “Mom asked if you guys did a big Christmas Eve gift exchange, or if you waited until morning.”

The phantom pajamas are seared into my vision. They dance over the crown of Mrs. Thompson's head. “We used to open one gift on Christmas Eve. Usually, matching pajamas. My mom always picked them out.”

“How sweet,” Mrs. Thompson says. Her eyes soften with the pitying look people cast when they speak of the dead.

Nick pats my forearm in reassurance, mistaking my freezing posture as exhaustion. “She’s just tired, Mom. Long drive. And Billie doesn’t have siblings— she’s not used to the Thompson volume yet.”

“Oh, of course! You poor thing. Nicholas, make sure she gets some extra blankets. You know how chilly it gets on the north side of the house.” The conversation pivots back to the safe space among her boys, and Mrs. Thompson doesn’t spare me another look.

“You okay?” Nick whispers.

I swallow a thick rush of nausea. No, I’m not okay. What I am is starving for a room that doesn’t exist, trapped in a house of people who are entirely too alive.