Left Drowning

Distracting myself, though, is easy enough now that it’s the day before my departure. I want James to come home to a fully decorated house, so I’ve been keeping a ru

When my suitcase is packed, I stop by Chris’s room to give him his present. I’m giving him something that’s actually wrapped in snowflake paper, even though I certainly felt the temptation to a

He opens his door wearing a Grinch T-shirt. “Bah humbug!”

“Ditto,” I say. “But I’m here to give you a little present anyway.”

“If it’s not high-end electronic equipment, I don’t want it.”

I hand him a gift bag. “Okay, then. It’s high-end electronic equipment.”

“Yippee!” He sits down on the bed and shakes the bag. “Ah, I’m pretty sure this is a special gizmo for shrinking down ginormous televisions that have taken over your room. Right?”

I glance over to where the Black Friday flat screen he bought for me occupies nearly his entire desk.

“I think that you secretly love having this in your room and that when Sabin and I are not here you watch giant-scale porn.”

“Obviously. But I’d still like to have desk space for the rare occasions when I’m not watching porn. And, hey!” he says with exaggerated a

I grin. “Sorry about that. Now you know why I wanted the television in here. Besides, the only way I could at all comfortably accept that you paid for it is to make sure it’s half yours. Now open your present. I have to go double-check that I packed everything and go to bed. I have a six a.m. flight.”

He takes the wrapping off the square box and shakes it again, listening to it rattle. “I think it’s broken. You better return it,” he teases.

“It is not broken. Now open it!”

He reads the card. “So you’ll always have what you need.” I wiggle my toes inside my shoes, slightly nervous that this might be corny, but he empties the contents of the box into his hand and smiles at the silver disks. “Skipping stones.” He rubs one with his fingers and then pretends to throw it.

“That’s why there are twenty,” I say, laughing. “I assume you’ll throw a few in the lake. Or all of them. Maybe they’re for making wishes.”

“I’m not throwing these away on a ridiculous whim.” He looks up at me from his spot on the bed, and we’re quiet for a moment. “These are really awesome, Blythe. Thank you.”

“I wanted you to open them on Christmas, but I didn’t think it’d be nice to make you pack them. They’re kind of heavy.”

“Speaking of which,” he says as he reaches under his bed. “This you can’t open until Christmas. It’s packed well and not heavy, so it goes home with you. And no peeking.”

“God, Chris, you didn’t have to get me anything!” I gesture to the monstrosity on his desk.

“That was a Black Friday present. This is a Christmas present. It’s nothing crazy, and I don’t know why I picked this out, but … It’s random. It just made me think of you for some reason. You’ll probably hate it.”

“I’m not going to hate it.”

“No peeking until Christmas. Promise?”

“I promise.” The present is wrapped in deep blue paper with a dark green ribbon. The colors of the Atlantic Ocean, I think. I’m dying to know what it is, and I immediately try to calculate how many hours are left until Christmas, but I’m not that good at mental math. “What time is your flight tomorrow?” I ask.

“Noon.”

“You probably have to pack still and stuff, huh? I should get going and get some sleep.” I hate good-byes. And I’m out of practice because I’ve had virtually no one to say good-bye to for so long.

Things haven’t felt awkward with Chris in a while, but we’re not going to see each other for over three weeks, and … I don’t like that. In the scheme of things, it’s not that long, but time moves differently in our insulated college life. This break will feel interminable.

“Hey, do you want me to give you a lift to the airport?” he asks.

“Thanks, but like I said, it’s a six a.m. flight to Logan. I don’t think you want to get up at three thirty.”

“Bet you don’t, either.”

“Not really, but I wanted to have the whole day there to get stuff ready for James.”

“Sounds to me like you’d be better off staying awake all night.”

“That sounds boring.”

He smiles. “Want company?”

“You don’t want to do that!” I protest.

He props up pillows and pats the bed. “Sure I do. Come on. I’ll make you a French press coffee, and we’ll watch a movie. I’ll even heat some milk for you in my frother.”

I cross my arms. “Extra froth and no porn?”

“‘Extra froth’ and ‘no porn’ do not belong in the same sentence.” He tosses a pillow at me. “But if that’s what you want. Weirdo. Grab a seat.”

Man, I’m going to miss him.

***

James is having one of his friends pick him up at the airport tonight, and I’m disappointed. I guess that I had some wistful vision of us reuniting at baggage claim, complete with tear-filled greetings and excessive hugging. The good thing is that I’ve had some time to adjust my expectations and am prepared to go with whatever homecoming attitude he brings. It’s unrealistic to expect that coming into this familiar house that holds so many old memories of our parents will be easy. This is not a situation that lends itself to a comfortable holiday.

I’ve spent a number of hours outside the house going food shopping and doing other holiday errands, but I refuse to be driven out of my house because of memories and because of my emotional reactions to even small things. Like, that the hum of the fridge is still exactly the same, and that creates the expectation that there will be accompanying sounds: my father’s shoes slapping across the tile floor, my mother groaning as she can’t get the kitchen radio to pick up the station that she wants … Sounds of normalcy and happiness.

With one hand, I stir the pot of spaghetti sauce that is simmering on the stove, and with the other hand I hold an invitation, staring at the cursive lettering. It’s an invitation from my parents’ old friends Lani and Tim Sturgeon, who have asked James and me to their Christmas Eve party.

I’m going to accept.

This feels like a spectacularly bold move, and I know that’s completely silly. People RSVP to invitations all the time. I, however, do not. But I dial their number anyway with my free hand, using the other to keep stirring the sauce. My family spent many di

Lani answers and is unable to disguise her surprise that it’s me. “Oh, Blythe McGuire! It’s so good to hear from you. Tim and I think about you often.”

“You do?” I blurt out. “That’s … that’s so nice. Um, I was just calling to say that James and I would love to come over on Christmas Eve if it’s not too late to reply.”

“We would be thrilled to see you,” she says. “I’m really excited that you two are coming.”

“Well, thank you so much. I guess we’ll see you—”

“Blythe?”

“Yes?”

There is an uncomfortable moment of silence, and I dread what she is going to say next.

“How are you?” she asks.

“Fine, fine.” I blather on about college courses for a few minutes.