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Chapter One THE ANGEL WAS IN a thousand tiny shards.
It had slipped from my hand and shattered before I even realized what had happened.
“Damn it,” I muttered.
I was precariously balanced at the very top of the stepladder in the corner of the living room, where I’d been trying to hang it up. The clear glass angel hovered there in the shadows every year at Christmastime, watching over us as we trimmed the tree, sipped eggnog, sat through sappy Christmas movies, then oohed and squealed as presents were opened on Christmas Day; a strange, emotionless observer, a passive spy.
The truth was, I kind of hated the angel. I thought she was ugly (her eyes were bulbous, insect-like) and more than a little bit creepy.
But I hadn’t meant to smash her.
“Ali? Hon? You okay?” Mark called from upstairs.
“Fine,” I chirped back, climbing down from the ladder and picking up the largest surviving piece: the angel’s head. Her large pupilless eyes stared at me accusingly: How could you do this to me?
Christmas music played from the holiday classics music channel on the television—at the moment, it was a saccharine-sweet version of “Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!” Mark insisted on the music, saying it helped set the mood.
He wanted everything to be perfect when the girls got home from school: the boxes of ornaments out, the tree ready to decorate, the house smelling of gingerbread cookies, Christmas music playing. He’d even put a festive red Christmas ribbon on the poor dog.
This was the day Mark most looked forward to all year—Decorating Day. He even took December first off from work for it, as if it were an actual holiday. I bucked up and tried not to spoil it for him. Really, I did.
“Tradition,” Mark said again and again, telling me how important it was for the girls, that we were creating memories that would last their lifetimes, traditions that would be passed down to their children and their children’s children.
Moxie, our six-year-old black Lab, lay on her bed in the corner of the living room looking somewhat dejected in her big red bow. She had lifted her head at the sound of the angel crashing to the floor, then, seeing all was well, gave a sigh and settled back down.
“Let It Snow!” turned into “A Holly Jolly Christmas,” and I couldn’t help myself—I snatched up the remote and turned off the TV.
It was only the first of December. How was I possibly going to live through twenty-four more days of enforced jolliness without cracking? Twenty-four days of being called a grinch, of trying not to buckle under the spoken and unspoken pressure to not ruin Christmas for the girls by letting the cheerful façade slip.
That pressure wasn’t just from my husband. My best friend, Penny, who lived right next door, was almost as bad. Though she and her wife, Louise, called themselves tree-hugging, earth-goddess-loving pagans, she was right up there with Mark with the holiday cheer. The two of them were thick as thieves this time of year. I loved them both, but I couldn’t wait for our household’s Yuletide spirit to wane. And, to add insult to injury, I received a nice royalty check twice a year from my most successful project as an artist: the children’s book I’d done three years ago, Moxie Saves Christmas. It was a simple but cheerful story about a homeless black Lab—modeled after our own Moxie, of course—who showed a stressed-out, busy family the true meaning of Christmas. I’d illustrated it with my woodcuts, simple black-and-white prints I then hand-colored in places. The book, which I’d printed myself in a limited number for family and friends, took off. People shared it. Word got out. Orders poured in. I had more copies printed, and before I knew it, I was approached by a publisher who offered me more money than I would have believed possible—exponentially more than I’d ever made selling cards and prints at local shops and galleries. At the urging of my more successful artist friends, I found an agent and soon had a two-book contract: Moxie Saves Christmas and the follow-up I’d promised, Moxie Saves Halloween. And just like that, with one simple picture book that was only supposed to be a last-minute gift for family and friends, I was permanently linked to the holiday I couldn’t stand.
Holidays in general had not been cause for celebration when I was growing up; they filled me with anxiety and dread, which had sunk their roots down deep. At least the second book under contract featured a holiday I did like. And our older daughter, Izzy, a fan of anything even remotely ghoulish, was excited by the Halloween book. At sixteen, my young goth wasn’t especially easy to impress, so anything that brought us closer was something to celebrate. Now all I had to do was finish the project.
The Boston Globe had come to do a feature on me two years ago, taking lots of photos of me and Moxie in my studio and, of course, in front of the Christmas tree. Mark had gone all-out decorating before they’d arrived. I cringed when I read the article—the way the reporter had described our house as a magical winter wonderland complete with dancing sugarplums, antique glass ornaments, and pine garlands filling the house with the scent of the forest.
“You must love Christmas,” the reporter had said.
And I had clenched my teeth and given a big smile. “Why, yes,” I lied. “Yes, I do.”
I’m a gifted liar.
Mark had started a goofy tradition of buying one special ornament each year that was supposed to symbolize our lives in some way. That first year, it was a graduation cap. Each year it was something new: baby’s first Christmas when Izzy was born, a little house to celebrate when we bought the farmhouse, a stork when I was pregnant with Olivia, a black Lab the year we adopted Moxie. He was always on the lookout at craft fairs or when we went on vacation, always searching for new ornaments and trinkets to add to the ever-growing collection.
Now our entire attic was stuffed with boxes of them, and a corner of the basement as well. When Mark asked if we could store some of the bigger pieces in my studio, I’d put my foot down. The small barn out back wasn’t only my printmaking studio—it was the one place that was mine and mine alone. Penny was one of the few people I let visit without permission. The house rule was that no one was allowed to come disturb me there when I was working. The barn was a chaotic jumble of tables, the antique printing press I used, all my tools, tubes of ink, and drawing supplies. The walls were covered with tacked-up sketches and prints. The barn was my refuge. No Christmas decorations allowed.
“What happened?” Mark asked now as he eyed the broken angel. His tone was slightly accusatory, as if I might have thrown the poor unsuspecting angel onto the floor and stomped on it. His gaze moved from the ornament’s head in my hand to the shards scattered across the floor like bits of crushed ice.
He had not once fallen for the ruse of me being the Christmas Queen. He saw me for who I truly was and somehow loved me in spite of it.
“I was up on the ladder and it just slipped out of my hand.” I gave him an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry I’m such a klutz.”
The angel had been from his childhood. When his parents died, Mark inherited all of their Christmas decorations (as if we really needed more), and he delighted in opening the boxes each year, regaling me and the girls with the story behind each one.
“That angel came from a trip my parents took to Germany,” he reminded me, looking like he might actually cry, blinking his long brown lashes.
He was wearing his day-off uniform: Levi’s and a flannel button-down—red and green, for Decorating Day. His face was a little flushed from his many trips up and down the stairs. He was nearly forty-five years old, and I’d known him since he was nineteen—over half our lives. Sometimes I still saw traces of that skinny, wide-eyed boy I’d met at a party freshman year at UVM who had books of poetry stuffed in his coat pockets.
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
And I was. Sorry I’d destroyed a memory of his happy childhood. That I was ruining Christmas already.
My cell phone rang in the other room. It was plugged into the charger in the kitchen. “I’d better grab that,” I said, relieved to have an excuse to walk away. I hurried to answer it. Probably Penny, calling to borrow something.
When I grabbed my phone and glanced down at the screen, I wished I hadn’t run to answer it. Consoling Mark about the broken German angel was a thousand times better than this. I contemplated not picking up, but I knew he’d call back, so it was best to get it over with.
“Hi, Paul,” I said, trying to sound as chipper as possible. “How are you?”
“Hi, Alison. I’m... okay.” He didn’t sound okay, though. He sounded tired. “And you? I hope you and Mark and the girls are well?”
Paul had been my mother’s assistant for over fifteen years now, handling every aspect of her business and personal life. He arranged her travel, interviews, gallery and museum events, and all sales of her artwork. Paul even sent me and my brother cards on Christmas and our birthdays, signed Love, Mom in handwriting that was clearly not hers. He lived in the carriage house on her property in Woodstock and was always by her side, regardless of which city or exhibition.
She would be lost without him. And he, I knew, would be lost without her. In fact, he had been in a pretty bad way before she took him in. They’d first met at an AA meeting, where Paul, who’d come from nothing and sunk himself into heavy drinking at a young age, ended up after losing his hundredth contract job as a construction worker after one too many benders. I was concerned when my mother informed me she’d hired a complete stranger as a spare hand around her home and studio, but she laughed at my worries, said I didn’t understand AA culture, the bond they shared.
She’d eventually helped Paul to get his GED and associate’s degree, mentoring him with care to become her full-time assistant. I’d enjoyed watching his transformation over the years, from a guy in a ripped Carhartt jacket who wouldn’t meet your eyes when you talked to him to a self-assured, worldly man who ran my mother’s life and business and wore custom-tailored suits. He spoke of my mother like she was his hero, his savior. Her world had become his life.
“We’re all fine,” I said to Paul now, dreading whatever was coming next. From time to time, he called to extend an olive branch (something I was sure was entirely his doing and had not come directly from my mother), inviting me to a party or event, telling me my mother would be thrilled if I could attend. I never did these days; I always managed to come up with a perfectly reasonable excuse: sick kids, work deadlines, other obligations. “I wish I could,” I’d say. “Please send Mother my regrets.”
I used to go. Back when I let myself believe my mother might genuinely want me there. Back when I let myself hope that it might be possible for us to have a more normal mother-daughter relationship.
I remembered the last event of hers I’d attended—an opening at a gallery in New York about five years ago. Paul had insisted that I come, telling me it would “mean the world” to my mother if I did. So I’d bought a nice dress, new shoes, even had my hair cut. I took the train down to the city, and when I got to the gallery and caught my mother’s eye, she’d looked mystified. “Alison? What on earth are you doing here?” she’d asked. I stammered out an explanation, that Paul had invited me. “I see,” she’d said, angry eyes searching the room for him. “Well, you might as well help yourself to some wine.” Then she’d scooted off to talk with a small group of sleek, sophisticated art appreciators who, within seconds, were all laughing at some charming thing she’d said.
I ended up sullenly drinking three glasses of wine while I watched her work her way through the crowd, seemingly doing all she could to keep as much distance as possible between us. I’d studied her paintings: an unsettling series of landscapes with anatomical parts tucked in here and there—a tree with lungs, a lake with a terrifying mouth and stomach, a mountain covered in eyes. I’d felt like an idiot, in my frumpy outfit that seemed so fancy when I’d gotten dressed at home in Vermont. Paul had made himself scarce and didn’t reply to my furious texts. I slipped out of the gallery without saying good-bye to either of them.
“Alison, the reason I’m calling...” He paused. “It’s your mother.”
Well, obviously. Christ. What was he going to invite me to now? A cruise? A mother-daughter spa day in Saratoga?
“She’s ill,” he said.
My mother had never been sick a day in her life. My brother always said even viruses were frightened of her.
Ben had never even attempted to hide his resentment of our mother. He refused to forgive her for those things that had happened years and years ago. He even blamed her for our father’s suicide.
As an adult, I had defended her to my brother. I reminded Ben that our mother’s own trauma and alcoholism were behind that behavior—that raising two kids on her own after such a tragedy had been difficult. I believed she’d loved us in her own way and done her best.
“You should give her another chance,” I told him. “She’s changed. She’s sober now.”
Ben was quick to tell me I was a fool for forgiving her. That I needed to stop making excuses and see the truth: our mother was manipulative and cruel, and what she deserved was something closer to the nine circles of hell.
“Ill in what way?” I asked Paul now. I clicked back through the calendar in my brain, trying to remember when I’d last spoken with her. Texts were always easier for me—the last time I remembered actually speaking to her was back in July, when I got a little tipsy on my birthday and called, asked her if she even knew what day it was. And she’d laughed, said of course she did, then told me the story of her twenty-hour labor.
I blinked, phone pressed against my ear.
July.
Had it really been that long since we’d spoken?
“She has cancer,” Paul said. There was a pause. “Pancreatic cancer.”
The room seemed to sway. I lowered myself onto one of the stools at our breakfast bar. “That sounds bad,” I said.
“It is,” he said. “It’s kind of a worst-case scenario, Alison. It’s stage four. The doctors...” Paul’s voice faded. “They say there aren’t a lot of options at this point, other than keeping her comfortable. We’ve been to every specialist. The best of the best. They all agree—it’s just spread too far for surgery or chemotherapy to make any difference.”
In the other room, a singer warned, He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake....
“Did they say how long she has?” My voice came out wispy and meek.
Paul took in a breath, then exhaled. His voice was shaky. Was he crying? “Not long. A matter of weeks maybe. A month or two at the most. She’s in bad shape, Alison.”
I felt the walls closing in around me, the whole world pressing down, making me feel small and crushed.
“Where is she?”
“Columbia Presbyterian. I’m with her now.”
I sucked in a long shaky breath, trying to get my head around all of this, to let it sink in.
I looked up, saw Mark there, holding a string of tangled Christmas lights, watching me. I must have looked bad, because he set down the lights and came toward me, concerned, mouthing: What is it?
The old steam radiator in the living room clunked and hissed. I glanced over at the refrigerator, covered in the bright, cheerful drawings Olivia had done, a photo of Olivia and Izzy holding hands and jumping off the dock at the lake last summer. The house smelled of balsam fir and the gingerbread cookies Mark had been baking. It felt warm and safe and like a place where nothing bad could touch me.
“She’s asking for you, Alison,” Paul said.
I closed my eyes. Just like that, I was five years old, holding her hand in mine as she walked me into kindergarten. I was crying, begging her not to leave me there, to please, please, please bring me back home.
She got down on her knees, there in the hallway in front of the kindergarten classroom. She looked me in the eye and said, “You won’t be away from me. Not really. You’ll be here at school, making friends and learning, and I’ll be home painting, but really we’ll be together. Do you know why, Ali Alligator?”
I’d shaken my head, tears dripping off my face onto my good first-day-of-school dress.
“Because we’re connected, you and I,” she’d said. “Close your eyes. Can’t you feel it? There’s an invisible thread going from me to you, so we’ll never be without each other. Not really.” She wiped the tears from my eyes. “So go on. No more crying. Be my brave trouper. And if you get sad, if you miss me, close your eyes and remember the thread. No one can break it. Not ever. Not even one of us. We’re bound.”
“WHAT IS IT?” Mark asked again in a whisper as he moved closer, put a hand on my back.
I clutched the phone to my ear, listened to Paul breathing, to the background hospital noises behind him.
“Tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I promised.
I hung up and looked down at my hand. I was still holding the head of the broken angel, gripping it so tightly that the jagged glass on its neck had cut my palm. She stared back at me, her face sticky with my blood, her eyes taunting: Got you back.
