The 13th Gift (8 page)

“I found the present,” Nick says.

“But I reached the door first. I let you open it,” Megan reminds him. “Remember what you promised.”

Nick makes a face at his sister, and I get the feeling he made a promise I am not going to like.

“What’s up?”

“He’s going to get
all
the boxes of Christmas decorations out of the closet in the basement for me,” she says.

“Nick?”

He avoids answering and instead admires the artwork on the newly arrived card. The message, again, follows “The Twelve Days of Christmas” carol. Most of the writing is in red crayon, except for the words
gift boxes
, which are in blue. The first letter in each phrase is boxed on all the lines but one.

“Look at this, Mom. They used
f-o-u-r
instead of
f-o-r
in the last line. That’s different from the other cards.”

“Well, there are four of us.”

“Maybe it’s a clue,” Nick says. “And why are these letters boxed?”

Nick grabs paper and a pencil from his backpack and copies out each of the boxed letters:
O-O-Y-F-T-T-O-F
.

“That’s not one of my spelling words,” Meg says.

We try reversing the letters:
F-O-T-T-F-Y-O-O
.

“Hopeless,” she says. “Maybe the boxes are for decoration.”

Nick isn’t giving up.

“What if there are clues on all the cards that we have to piece together.”

I think he might be onto something.

“I have the first note. I’m not sure about days two and three.”

“We’ll save them from now on and check them every night,” he says. “I’ll figure this out.”

A half hour ago he was ready for bed; now he’s heading downstairs with his sister to unleash Christmas on the house. I’m relieved he’s feeling energized by the mystery.

I go upstairs to change out of my work clothes and then check my e-mail. By the time I return to the kitchen, Megan has abandoned her brother, who says he doesn’t need her help until the boxes are out of the closet.

“He didn’t want me down there. Besides, I promised to help make dinner.”

She lines up the contents of the grocery bags on the kitchen counter, which include the ingredients for my chicken and noodles, tacos with black olives, and spaghetti.

“How did you know?”

Panic replaces her smile when she realizes I overheard her discussion with Nick last night, then defiance.

“I’m not sorry for what I said.”

“You shouldn’t be.” I give her a hug, and then I ask, “What do you want for dinner?”

I expect spaghetti to be her choice, but she surprises me.

“Tacos with black olives.”

We brown a pound of hamburger, add the taco seasoning, and let it simmer. She opens a can of olives while I chop tomatoes and lettuce.

The aroma brings Nick out of the basement.

“Tacos, my favorite.”

Megan looks at me with a smug smile.

“Again, my work is done here,” she says.

Nick nips a spoonful of hot taco meat from the pan and then offers to help set the table. This is a first. I wonder if something about our conversation this morning has left him feeling more generous.

The beams from Ben’s headlights flash across the living room as he pulls into the driveway, and we add a fourth plate to
the table. Ben walks in wearing his dad’s old work coat—faded, frayed, and way too big. The arms of the coat hang over his knuckles, and the garment could easily wrap around him twice. He’s clutching the jacket closed, and I’m pretty certain he’s hiding something underneath.

“Hungry?” I ask, hoping he will take off the jacket and reveal a textbook or notebook hiding in the interior pocket. He goes directly downstairs.

“Gotta wash my hands first.”

Ben returns to the kitchen a few minutes later, minus the coat.

“What have you been up to?” I ask.

“Hanging out at Robert’s. Nothing fun. We had math homework.”

At that moment I decide to do something I swore I would never do to one of my kids. After Ben leaves for school tomorrow, I’m going to search his bedroom. I hate the idea of violating my son’s privacy, but he hardly talks to me. Now, he’s sneaking things into the house. I am afraid for him.

During dinner, Megan goes into detail for Ben about the arrival of the fourth gift, and Nick shares his theory about the card clues. Remembering the young musicians at the store, I ask Ben if he has many friends in the high school marching band.

“Brett plays clarinet. Why?”

I mention the band members I saw at the grocery store but don’t divulge my suspicion that they could be involved with the gifts. If they are doing this for Ben, maybe they think it will help him. Maybe it will bring the old Ben back, the boy who loved being part of this family and who loved me.

While my mind is wandering, Megan is making plans for the gift boxes.

“I think we should each get one to put under the tree for each other.”

Nick has no interest, but Ben—to my shock—walks off with one.

Nick lingers to help me with the kitchen cleanup. When he rolls up his sleeves and washes the dishes, I know that something is afoot, but I decide not to worry about it tonight. For the second day in a row, the kids and I have dined together. This evening I even prepared a home-cooked meal. The house is far from clean, but it’s also not a mess, and I have a plan to deal with Ben. As I lie down to sleep later that night, with Nick slumbering on an air mattress a few feet away, I feel hopeful this fog of grief we’ve been lost in is lifting just a little.