There Will Come a Time (20 page)

“Mark, I'm so sorry. I'm not going to be able to make it. I was called back to the hospital. They're short on nurses. This is the first chance I've had to even make a phone call. I'm so sorry. Please believe me. I . . . Well, I'll try to reach you later.”

I hang up. I feel taken and it's my fault. I should have known that Mom wouldn't follow through. I laugh and shake my head.
What an idiot
. But this time feels worse than others. Before, I had Grace to help me face the disappointment that is our mom. I never felt completely abandoned because there was solidarity with Grace. She understood exactly how I felt. This time I'm alone.

A text comes in from Lily.

Today it's the way she'd read to me at night.

I keep walking, surrounded by a city of strangers.

I text back.

Today it's that she was my twin and I was never alone.

O
n Thanksgiving Day we go to Tita Christie's, which is way better than being at home. I think none of us wanted to be there for our first Thanksgiving without Grace. All of Dad's side of the family is here: his three sisters, some cousins, and my grandparents. The food is amazing. There's the traditional stuff—turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green-bean casserole—but there's also a Pinoy flair. There's all this Filipino food that makes me nostalgic and sentimental. Opening the door to Tita Christie's and getting hit with the aromas, it's like I'm returning to a home I didn't know I missed.

The aunties sit in the kitchen around the table speaking Tagalog as fast as a train. They grab at me and pull me toward
them, giving me hugs and asking me how I am, have I eaten? When am I going to visit them? How handsome I'm getting. Do I have a girlfriend? But then they get ahold of Fern, and I am saved. They start in on how beautiful she is and how big she's getting. Jenny oohs and aahs about all the food and asks for recipes, which makes the aunties love her more. There's steamed
kangkong
with soy sauce and
kalamansi
,
bagoong
, steamed white rice. Tita Christie's made her
adobo
, which I haven't realized how much I've been craving until I smell it, even though it's different from my mom's. But I don't want to think of Mom, so I grab a fried golden
lumpia
and take it out of the kitchen. On the dessert table, someone's placed
buko
pie and apple pie and flan. I'm in heaven.

Before we eat, my grandfather offers up a prayer. He thanks God for food and family and all the blessings. He also thanks Him for the strength to get through a painful year. He asks for a moment of silence in memory of Grace. If it were just Dad, Jenny, Fern, and me at home, I would get up and go outside, and even though I still feel like the walls are closing in at the mention of her name, I stay where I am. I remember what Greg said about how other people are grieving too. This is important for my grandfather, so I give it to him.

After we stuff ourselves, the men go to the TV room to watch the football game. The women stay in the kitchen, cleaning
up and chatting away about who knows what. I'm thankful for sports and for talk of players and how bad or how good the teams are. We stay for hours.

At home, Jenny asks if I want to watch a late-night movie, but I tell her I have to finish composing something. Jenny pouts because Dad already has a book under his arm and is climbing the stairs to their room. She's on her own tonight.

Upstairs, I put in Sebastian's track for the show and play along. I start adding the notes, hearing both the bass parts and the cello in my head. As I play, I can see when the models start walking in. I don't know if it's my good mood from the food or what, but I think it's going to be a great show. I hope Pete is ready with his designs.

•  •  •  •

The next morning my bed shakes, and I wake to find Fern jumping on the end of it.

“Fern!” I groan. “Get out of here.”

“Time to get up,” she says. “Time to go tree shopping.”

I look at the clock. “It's only seven thirty.”

“I know.” She starts jumping again. “But we have to eat breakfast, and get ready, and drive, and find the tree, cut it down, and eat lunch, and come put it up, and make hot chocolate, and string the popcorn, and cranberries, and everything.” She says it all in one breath, her voice rising with each activity.

I put my pillow over my head, although breakfast does sound good. I'm sure Jenny has leftovers. Even though I ate like a pig yesterday, it's now a new day, and I'm hungry.

“Come on, Mark.” She plops down and crawls toward my head. “Please. Come eat breakfast. They won't let us go until you're ready.”

“Okay. Okay,” I say, throw the pillow and covers off, and grab Fern, tickling her. She squeals until I free her. She darts away from me. I follow Fern downstairs to a plate of scrambled eggs, rice, and leftover
lumpia
from yesterday. Dad has also made a run to the bakery, so there's some
pan de sal
, sweet bread. Billie Holiday's voice is in the background, coming through the speakers.

“Morning, Mark,” Dad says as he cuts a piece of cheese, adds it to the bread, and hands it to me.

“Morning,” I mumble.

“Fern, did you wake him?” Jenny asks.

“How can you tell?” I ask. My hair is standing up all over the place and I'm in rumpled pj's: a gray shirt and red plaid pants.

“Yep, but I was quiet about it.”

“She was jumping on my bed.” I poke Fern in the side and she darts away from me.

“She's just excited,” Jenny says, but she gives Fern a stern look.

“I know.” I start eating.

“This'll help,” Dad says, and places a cup of coffee in front of me. I normally don't drink the stuff, but I think he's right.

“You were up pretty late last night,” Dad says. “You finish the piece?”

I nod. “Yep. I'm sending it over to Sebastian today and he'll lay the track for the dancers to practice.”

“I can't wait to see it,” Jenny says. “I would have loved going to a high school like yours. So creative. It's like being inside the movie
Fame
. Everyone dancing around and singing.”

“It's not like we're walking around in a musical.” I think of Grace and her Gene Kelly obsession. She would have loved the idea of her life being a musical. Rumor is he was a perfectionist, practicing moves over and over again, long after everyone went home, so that it looked effortless. Which is kind of like me, I guess. If I commit to something, I want it perfect.

Jenny sticks her tongue out at me. “Don't ruin my fantasy.”

“There's also the orchestra concert,” Dad says. “Right? You're still in that?”

“Oh yes, orchestra,” Jenny says, her voice all bland and bored.

I have to laugh. Jenny isn't such a fan of the classical music. She comes to all my performances, but she's obviously more excited about the fashion and dance show.

“They moved orchestra to spring. You don't have to come, Jenny,” I say.

“Of course I do. I mean, I
get
to come,” she teases.

“I'm going to be a singer,” Fern announces. “And you can play for me.” She belts out the first line to
Annie
's “Tomorrow.”

“Not bad,” I say.

“Thank you. Are we ready yet?” she asks, dancing around like she has to use the bathroom.

“Go make your bed and brush your teeth and by the time you're done, we'll be ready to go.”

Fern speeds out of the room, and Dad and Jenny laugh. I finish my food, sipping on my coffee, listening to Dad talk about the business. Jenny places some more eggs on my plate without me having to ask. Our words dance around each other shyly at first, as if we're still not used to it being just the three of us. But it gets easier the more we talk, and soon I know it'll be like there were only three of us all along. I glance at Grace's empty chair, and instead of anger, I feel sadness. I miss her. She should be here.

But I pretend I'm not sad, because I don't want to ruin the moment. I used to think it meant I was being inauthentic, but now I think sometimes it's okay to pretend for others, to choose to be happy, to choose not to be sad. It's an act of kindness. Everyone doesn't need to know how you're feeling all the time.

Jenny places her hand on mine and squeezes it, as if she can
tell what I'm thinking, then announces that we have ten minutes until we leave or Fern is going to have a meltdown.

“I'm ready,” I say.

At the tree farm, Fern is in charge. We follow her around from tree to tree. I'm carrying the saw and get the job of cutting it down when we find one.

“Ooh. This is a good one,” Fern says, stopping at a huge, full tree.

“That might be a little tall,” Dad says.

“I don't know if it'd fit in our living room,” Jenny adds.

Fern walks around it like she's a professional tree inspector. “Yeah, and here's a bad spot.” She points to a huge hole she didn't see at first.

She hops over to another one.

“Here it is,” she singsongs.

“That's the fattest tree I've ever seen,” I say. The tree is almost as full as it is tall, but it's probably only six feet, because it's barely taller than me.

Fern thinks it's beautiful. I spy a small, skinny one that looks as if it hasn't had as much time to grow. Grace would have picked that one. She usually went for the little ones because she felt sorry for them. It probably had to do with the fact that we watched
A Charlie Brown Christmas
every year. She wanted to be like Charlie and dress up a poor, unwanted tree.

“Is this the one?” Dad asks, standing beside the fat tree.

“This is the one,” Fern says definitively.

We take turns walking around, assessing the tree.

“It's very thick.” Jenny pulls apart some of the branches to look at the trunk. “And healthy.”

“This is it,” Fern says again. “Mark, saw it down.”

I look to Jenny and Dad. Even though we all get an opinion, we know who really has the authority.

Dad says, “All right, the expert has spoken. Mark, do the honors.”

I bend down, and it takes me some effort to saw through the thick trunk. I'm wearing a flannel underneath my jacket because I guess I was hoping for cold weather, but it's seventy-five degrees out. I'm sweating by the time I'm done and have sap all over my hands. Dad takes the top end, I take the bottom, and we carry the new Christmas tree over to the guys at the entrance so they can wrap it up. Once it's strapped on the car, we drive over to our usual restaurant and have some lunch.

I help Dad set up the tree in front of our big living room window, where it always goes. Jenny starts popping the popcorn. When she was a kid they strung a garland of popcorn and cranberries to put on the tree, so she makes us do it too. It's my least favorite part about putting up the tree because I usually prick my fingers. This time I'm prepared, and Jenny
laughs when she comes into the living room with the bowl, sewing needles, and thread to see the Band-Aids I've strapped to my fingertips like eraser tops on pencils.

“Mark, a little extreme, don't you think?”

“I'm not taking chances with these.” I wiggle my fingers. “They're my moneymakers.”

I grab one of the needles and a long piece of thread. “So, Jenny, what're you up to?” I say in a high voice like I'm one of the girls at a knitting party, because I feel kind of ridiculous. I cross my legs to mock her even more.

“Well, Mark, let's see. Work is going well. I have a new client who wants me to design a website for a new restaurant she's opening. And what about you, Fern?”

“I am writing a story,” she says. Fern is a little young still for stringing the popcorn, so she is helping Dad remove ornaments from their packaging and lay them on the floor in a straight line.

“What's it about?” Jenny asks.

“A whale that got its tail stolen by a witch.”

“Oh, that sounds scary,” Dad says.

“It isn't really. Well, parts are, I guess. In the end the whale gets it back and they become friends.”

“Want me to make some hot chocolate?” Dad asks.

“Sure, honey,” Jenny says.

“Yes!” Fern says.

“Are we ignoring the summerlike conditions outside?” I ask.

“It's not about the weather,” Jenny says.

There's a knock on the front door and Jenny yells, “Come in!”

Hanna opens the door wearing jean shorts and a white T-shirt, verifying my previous statement. “Ooh, great tree,” she says.

“Thanks!” Fern says.

“Can I help?” she asks.

Jenny hands her another needle and thread, and Hanna sits next to me on the couch. I try not to look at her bare legs, which are touching mine, but it's kind of impossible. Every time she moves, her shorts ride up just a little higher.

“Ouch.” I prick my finger through the Band-Aid. I take it as punishment for not being a gentleman.

Hanna laughs. “It's not difficult, Mark. Geesh. Don't be a baby.”

“Hi, Hanna,” Dad says when he enters the room with a tray of cups. “You want some hot chocolate?”

“Thank you, Mr. Santos.”

“I can't believe we're already putting up the Christmas tree,” Dad says.

“I know,” Jenny says. “This year it kind of crept up on us.”

“We didn't even go apple picking,” Fern says, a little surprised, as if she's just realizing it.

“No, not this year. Next year, though,” Jenny says.

We're quiet for a moment. All of us thinking about how much Grace loved this stuff: apple picking, Thanksgiving, decorating the tree. Grace isn't with us, but in a strange way, her absence makes her even more present.