saying how crowded the world was becoming, but outside of that window, there was so much space left.
Grace, Peterâs sister, met us at the train station. She was wearing a flowered, matronly dress and, strangely, one white glove. She hugged us. I was pissed I couldnât sneak in a cigarette before she came.
It was colder. I zipped up my coat and buttoned it. They walked ahead, Peter carrying my two canvas bags and his one small tote.
Christ , I thought. Itâs happening. Weâre really here .
âWhat happened to your hand?â Peter asked Grace in the car.
âOh, I burned it. I was frying zucchini in a pan and put in too much oil, and I tried pouring some of the oil out into a bowl, and it dripped down my hand.â She laughed the way girls laugh, like, âIâm such an idiot, aw shucks.â
âThat sucks,â I said. Peter shot me a look. âSucksâ wasnât the right word. Should have gone with awful. âHow awfulâ; that would have been the right thing.
It was an unspoken rule that everyone dealt with Grace with kid gloves. Grace was the type of girl who had âvictimâ written on her forehead. She was so trusting and so unsure of herself.
âSo, what did you think of Sue?â Peter asked. His voice had changed already. A little bit more corny.
âOh, she is so nice. Last night she helped with dinner, and sheâs so much fun, which is good for Jake. You know how serious he is.â Her face relaxed in a little smile.
Helped with dinner? Oh god, this Sue was worse than I thought. When I came to visit two Christmases ago, I hadnât helped with anything. I caught the flu on the train down and spent the entire four days of our visit shivering or sleeping in their clapboard house. Only one small TV in the enclosed porch, which the whole family crowded around. Peterâs mother bringing bowls of chicken broth, his father not knowing what to say, eyeing me.
âI thought you liked working at the bookstore,â his father had said when Peter told them about the new bartending job I had âencouragedâ him to get. Jesus, why did he have to implicate me in it? So now I was this girl who made their son work himself to death in some sinful place so he could buy more stuff for his fat wife to stare at.
At least it wasnât Christmas. On Christmas, Peterâs mother, Sandy, sat down and asked if I knew the story of how Jesus was born. âLike, in a barn,â I had said. And then she told the story with the wise men. It was long and didnât make a whole lot of sense. Their depressing tree and his mother wearing a reindeer sweater would break your heart. I got thermals. Peter got socks. They talked with unabashed glee about how cheap the gifts they got for one another were. It was like upside-down world. âThere was a bin marked 50 percent off,â Grace said as her father admired the gloves. âOh wow, and theyâre green,â someone said about their socks. You had to keep saying nice things. I wasnât very good at it. There was a moment when my disappointment showed as I opened a present. The whole thing was so weirdâto spend as little money as possible and to be as excited as little kids about receiving stuff that sucked. How was this fun? What was I going to do with these green paisley slippers made for a five-year-old? Without a word, I instantly put them on. Peter texted me; I hadnât said thank you, so I said, âI forgot to say thank you. I love these slippers.â I couldnât pull it off. I should never have said anything.
I tried every year to teach them about gift giving by giving them actually nice things, but this seemed to embarrass them, like I didnât understand the cheapness rule. One time I gave them each an eight-dollar bacon-chocolate bar from Whole Foods in their stockings, and really nice bubble bath stuff for Sandy, perfume for Grace, an iPod speaker that looked
Grace, Peterâs sister, met us at the train station. She was wearing a flowered, matronly dress and, strangely, one white glove. She hugged us. I was pissed I couldnât sneak in a cigarette before she came.
It was colder. I zipped up my coat and buttoned it. They walked ahead, Peter carrying my two canvas bags and his one small tote.
Christ , I thought. Itâs happening. Weâre really here .
âWhat happened to your hand?â Peter asked Grace in the car.
âOh, I burned it. I was frying zucchini in a pan and put in too much oil, and I tried pouring some of the oil out into a bowl, and it dripped down my hand.â She laughed the way girls laugh, like, âIâm such an idiot, aw shucks.â
âThat sucks,â I said. Peter shot me a look. âSucksâ wasnât the right word. Should have gone with awful. âHow awfulâ; that would have been the right thing.
It was an unspoken rule that everyone dealt with Grace with kid gloves. Grace was the type of girl who had âvictimâ written on her forehead. She was so trusting and so unsure of herself.
âSo, what did you think of Sue?â Peter asked. His voice had changed already. A little bit more corny.
âOh, she is so nice. Last night she helped with dinner, and sheâs so much fun, which is good for Jake. You know how serious he is.â Her face relaxed in a little smile.
Helped with dinner? Oh god, this Sue was worse than I thought. When I came to visit two Christmases ago, I hadnât helped with anything. I caught the flu on the train down and spent the entire four days of our visit shivering or sleeping in their clapboard house. Only one small TV in the enclosed porch, which the whole family crowded around. Peterâs mother bringing bowls of chicken broth, his father not knowing what to say, eyeing me.
âI thought you liked working at the bookstore,â his father had said when Peter told them about the new bartending job I had âencouragedâ him to get. Jesus, why did he have to implicate me in it? So now I was this girl who made their son work himself to death in some sinful place so he could buy more stuff for his fat wife to stare at.
At least it wasnât Christmas. On Christmas, Peterâs mother, Sandy, sat down and asked if I knew the story of how Jesus was born. âLike, in a barn,â I had said. And then she told the story with the wise men. It was long and didnât make a whole lot of sense. Their depressing tree and his mother wearing a reindeer sweater would break your heart. I got thermals. Peter got socks. They talked with unabashed glee about how cheap the gifts they got for one another were. It was like upside-down world. âThere was a bin marked 50 percent off,â Grace said as her father admired the gloves. âOh wow, and theyâre green,â someone said about their socks. You had to keep saying nice things. I wasnât very good at it. There was a moment when my disappointment showed as I opened a present. The whole thing was so weirdâto spend as little money as possible and to be as excited as little kids about receiving stuff that sucked. How was this fun? What was I going to do with these green paisley slippers made for a five-year-old? Without a word, I instantly put them on. Peter texted me; I hadnât said thank you, so I said, âI forgot to say thank you. I love these slippers.â I couldnât pull it off. I should never have said anything.
I tried every year to teach them about gift giving by giving them actually nice things, but this seemed to embarrass them, like I didnât understand the cheapness rule. One time I gave them each an eight-dollar bacon-chocolate bar from Whole Foods in their stockings, and really nice bubble bath stuff for Sandy, perfume for Grace, an iPod speaker that looked
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