Page 25 of Roadrunner

Then

The house smelled like apple cider and pine. Ornaments crowded the tree’s branches. A manger scene sat on the mantel, small and precise, the kind of care I recognized because I’d never lived anywhere that gave itself to it.

Christmas morning had come.

Riley and I had spent the night at his parents’ place, me in Addy’s old room, him in his. Panzolini tradition put us all in new pajamas on Christmas Eve. The five of us were wearing them, sitting around the tree.

I sipped cinnamon cider from a ceramic mug and sat cross-legged beside Della’s chair. I watched Addy and Riley sort the gifts into piles, unable to stop smiling.

Della leaned down and touched my arm. “How’s the cider, dear?”

“Wonderful,” I said. “Like everything else.” I nodded at the tree. “I’ve never had a real one before. It’s incredible.”

“Oh.” She looked faintly appalled. “Do your parents put up a plastic tree?”

Martina and I used to assemble one from the attic every December. It was plastic, with a rotating color wheel at the base that threw red and green light up the silver branches. My grandmother’s tree, supposedly. A tradition, of sorts.

Della’s tree was real. It stood two feet taller than Riley.

“Plastic,” I said. “Yes.”

“I’m so glad you’re here.” She wrung her hands. “It’s wonderful, having everyone together.”

I’d felt like part of the family since Thanksgiving. Hearing her say it out loud made the feeling seem less like something I’d invented.

“I can’t imagine being anywhere else,” I said.

“It’s a shame your parents couldn’t make it back. Sad, really.” She squeezed my shoulder. “You’ll get to see them soon, I hope.”

The story was that my parents were stuck in Spain. A passport problem, a canceled flight. There was always something. I’d stopped being surprised by many years before. I wasn’t about to explain that to Della, though. I’d learned, since starting college, that my parents didn’t care about holidays, or family, or, as far as I could tell, me. I was getting better at not building weather around their absences.

Better. Not good.

“Heads up,” Riley said, and lobbed a small package into my lap.

I set it with the others gathering at my feet. A small mountain of them, wrapped in bows nearly as big as the boxes they sat on.

“They can’t make it home,” I told Della. “I’m happy here, though. Really.”

“I know the holidays are hard, away from family.” She patted my knee. “I hope this is an acceptable substitute.”

It wasn’t a substitute. It was more than I’d had in years.

“Everyone here is my family,” I said. “This isn’t a substitute. It’s a new chapter.”

She leaned over the arm of her chair and hugged me. “It’s a new chapter for me too. One I’ve waited years for. I’ve never seen Arturo—Riley—this happy.”

“I’ve never been this happy,” I said. “Ever.”

“One day you’ll understand,” she said, glancing at Riley, her eyes bright. “Nothing is more satisfying than seeing your children happy. Especially after so many years of the opposite.”

I couldn’t picture having a child of my own without also picturing myself failing at it the way my parents had failed at it. The fear sat somewhere behind my ribs, low and constant. I wanted to be a mother. I wanted, first, to be sure I wouldn’t ruin someone the way I’d been ruined.

“Okay,” Riley said, rubbing his hands together. “That’s everything.”

Six large gifts and a scattering of smaller ones sat at my feet. A stocking nearby had tipped over and spilled its contents onto the carpet.

“What now?” I asked, trying to sound like a person for whom this was routine.