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That’s because I don’t think it’s really cheese.
ADRIAN
Quad liiiiiiiife!
12
NEIL
EVEN ON WINTER break, even back in my own bed, I am incapable of sleeping in. It’s a marginal amount of relief—back in New York, those cold, darkness-shortened days between Thanksgiving and winter break somehow managed to feel eternal. Here, the fog of exhaustion I felt on the East Coast lifts, replaced by a soothing sense of comfort.
Home. I never imagined I’d be so happy to be here, surrounded by the familiar.
We keep the house a bit cooler to save on energy costs, but this winter I don’t mind it, not when I’m essentially living in Rowan’s violet NYU sweatshirt. The weather taunts us, that light layer of snow turning to slush right away, and then it’s just gloom and gray onward through the end of December. I’m surprised to miss Skyler, but the worries I had in New York don’t seem to exist here when I’m able to see Rowan almost every day.
That night with her on the couch, those three whispered words that sounded like a promise.
I hope so.
And the only way I could respond, the truthful way: Me too.
The morning of the fifth night of Hanukkah, a Saturday, all of us are home for breakfast together. A rarity, with my mom not having much time off. Christopher’s just stepped out to run a few errands. He’s not Jewish, but he loves celebrating the holidays with our family, and he’s gotten extremely involved in the whole one-present-each-night component of Hanukkah, despite the fact that we’ve never really done it and it’s mostly for kids. Still, it doesn’t stop him from surprising my mom with something small each night: a candle, a new kettle, a toy for Lucy.
Natalie is at the kitchen table next to me, attacking the wax buildup on our menorah. “How is there so much in here,” she mutters.
“That’s part of its charm.” My mom takes a bite of yogurt. She’s in athletic wear, her red hair tied in a ponytail. Recently she stopped dyeing out the grays, informing us that she’d made her peace with the aging process. “All the wax from all the years we were too lazy to scrape off.”
“It’s art,” I agree.
Lucy finishes her kibble and wanders over to the dining table, nudging at my leg until I let her drop her head into my lap. She must realize I’m the easiest target, and she’s right because I sneak her a few Cheerios when no one is looking. Though she’s slowly losing her vision, her sense of smell is as strong as ever.
My mom stirs yogurt around, glancing up at me and then back down, as though working up to something. I have a feeling some kind of serious discussion is coming. “Nat? Do you mind if I talk to your brother alone for a minute?”
“Fine, fine,” she says, bouncing up from the table and toting the menorah down the hall to her room.
There’s only sugary milk left in my bowl, but I wait at the table while my mom stands, opens a drawer beneath the coffeemaker, and pulls out an envelope.
“This came for you,” she says, and I know without looking at it exactly what kind of letter it is and who it’s from. “Last month, even though I’ve asked him to stop writing. I didn’t want to tell you and have it be hanging over you, and then I wanted you to be able to enjoy Hanukkah with the Roths, and well… there’s probably no good time to get these letters, is there? I hope that was okay.”
“Yes. Of course. I wouldn’t have wanted that either.” I reach down to scratch behind Lucy’s ears, as though this sweet dog will keep me from falling apart. Maybe she will.
My mom passes the envelope to me, and the Cheerios in my stomach threaten to crawl back up my throat. Each letter is formed so carefully that for a moment I worry I inherited my love of calligraphy from this man, too, before I realize that he probably had endless amounts of time to write this.
The previous letter I received, a week before graduation, is fresh enough that it’s still rattling around in my brain. Hope to see you before you go to your fancy New York school.
This letter is long. Too long. And it’s nothing I haven’t read before—how much he misses us, how he’s doing, how he fills his days.
And then, at the end:
Really hoping to see you soon. Maybe when you’re home for Christmas?
Dad
The casual way he signs it, just “Dad”—that’s the part that gets me. And the notion of being home for Christmas when my sister and I have always identified as Jewish, when he must know that “winter break” is how I’d prefer this vacation be acknowledged.
The smallest movement of his wrist to twist the tiniest of knives.
I fold the sheet of paper back up.
