Chapter 1 - The Threshold
It was 6:43 on Christmas night. I remember the exact time because the digital clock on Carol’s microwave was three minutes fast, just like it had been for the entire nine years I’d known her. She refused to fix it, claiming it helped her stay on schedule. Apparently, some things in that house were allowed to stay wrong forever.
Carol lived in Westerville, about twenty minutes from our place in Columbus. By the time I pulled up to the curb, every window downstairs was glowing. There was a plastic wreath on the front door and one of those little electric candles in each window. I parked facing out, leaving my overnight bag locked safely in the trunk.
I sat behind the steering wheel for thirty seconds, both hands resting in my lap. My lower lip was swollen on the left side. I had cleaned the dried blood off and applied lipstick, which turned out to be a monumentally stupid idea. Lipstick doesn’t hide a swelling injury; it just makes it festive. I almost laughed when I saw myself in the rearview mirror. Almost. Then I stepped out into the freezing December air.
Mark had beaten me there; his SUV sat beside Carol’s garage. When I opened the front door, festive music spilled from the living room, and Denise was laughing about something. The house smelled thickly of baked ham, dark coffee, and Carol’s signature cinnamon candles. For one absurd second, it felt like every peaceful Christmas we’d ever shared.
Then Mark came around the corner. He stopped dead.
“What are you doing here?” No hello. No Christmas greeting. Just cold suspicion.
I took off my coat slowly. “Having Christmas dinner, Mark.”
His eyes went straight to my mouth. I watched him realize I hadn’t covered it completely. His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “I thought you were staying home.”
“You thought wrong.”
He glanced toward the dining room. “Can we talk outside?”
“No, Mark. I just got here.” I walked past him.
His sister Denise was setting dinner rolls on the table, while her husband Paul stood beside the ham with an electric carving knife like he’d been given an important federal appointment. Denise smiled when she saw me, but stopped short as her eyes settled on my lip. I saw the question form, and then I saw her swallow it down.
“Can I take your coat?” she asked nervously.
“I’ve got it.” I draped it over the back of my usual chair and placed my purse on the floor beside my feet. Paul looked at me, too, before turning back to the ham. That ham got more attention in the next five minutes than I did.
Carol came in from the kitchen carrying a bowl of green beans. At seventy-four, she was still sharp and energetic, her silver hair sprayed into the exact same rigid shape it had worn in photographs since 1998.
“There she is,” Carol announced. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
Then she saw my face. She set the bowl down with a sharp clatter. Her eyes moved from me to Mark, who had followed me in.
“Did she start with you again?” Carol demanded, her tone dripping with irritation rather than concern.
Mark rubbed his forehead. “Mom, leave it alone.”
I said nothing. Carol looked at my mouth again. There wasn’t shock on her face; there was annoyance, as if I had tracked mud onto her pristine white carpet.
“That’s what happens when a wife won’t listen,” she said coolly. Then she looked at her son and smiled. “Good job, son.”
Nobody moved. Paul finally stopped carving the ham. Denise stared down at the rolls. Mark looked angry—not at his mother, but at me, as if my bruised face was an inconvenience he shouldn't have to manage. I pulled out my chair.
“Is this still my usual seat?” I asked calmly.
Carol blinked. “Yes.”
“Good.” I sat down.
May you like
Mark came around behind me, leaning close enough that only I could hear. “Don’t embarrass me tonight.”
I turned my head and looked him dead in the eye. “I haven’t said anything yet.” His jaw tightened. For years, I had been the one who cleaned up the stories, smoothing over his violent outbursts and public coldness. Tonight, I wasn't going to fix a damn thing. (786 words)
