Chapter 6 - Cold Air on the Porch
I found the detail in the hallway bathroom and I didn't know what to do with it. It was small enough that I could have talked myself out of it. A smudge on the baseboard by the tub, low down where a kid's shoe would hit if she was trying not to get in. And the bath mat folded over itself, still damp underneath. It proved nothing. That was the worst part. It was exactly the kind of thing Maya would leave if she was stalling, and exactly the kind of thing anyone would leave on Christmas.
I washed my hands to give myself something to do. The water was too hot. In the mirror I looked like I'd been holding my breath for an hour.
When I came out, Mark was by the front door with two bottles, jerking his chin toward the porch.
"Get some air with me," he said. "It's loud in here."
I didn't want a beer. I took one anyway because saying no would have started a different conversation.
Outside the cold hit straight through my sweater. The porch light was on, yellow and buzzing, moths long gone for winter. Our breath showed. Down the street somebody's inflatable Santa was tipped over on its side, arm waving every time the fan kicked. I could still hear the house behind us, plates and Sarah's mom laughing at something, the tree lights throwing color against the front window.
Mark sat on the top step. I sat next to him, knees up. For a minute we just drank. That used to be easy with us.
"Kid's night," he said. "Maya was wound up at dinner."
"Yeah," I said. My hands were cold around the bottle. "She pulled me aside by the doorway earlier. Seemed upset."
He didn't look at me. He took a pull off his beer.
"What, during dinner?" he said. "She's been dramatic all day. Didn't want to wear the tights. Didn't want the potatoes touching the ham. You know how five is."
"She was fidgeting," I said. "Kept looking toward the table."
Mark laughed, short. "Man, kids make stuff up for attention, especially on Christmas. Last week she told Sarah her teacher lives in the school. Like sleeps under the desk."
I tried to smile. It didn't land.
"I'm not saying she made anything up," I said. "Just she looked scared."
"Scared?" He finally glanced over. His eyes were tired, the kind of tired that made him sharper, not softer. "Of what? We had ham. We sang. Dad, scary ham."
He meant it as a joke. I let a beat go by so it wouldn't sound like an interrogation.
"Everything okay at home?" I asked. "With you guys? You seem stretched thin."
He turned the bottle in his hands. Snow that wasn't quite snow ticked against the railing.
"We're fine," he said. "Work's been shit. Sarah picks up extra shifts and I'm on bedtime and bath and all that. It's a lot. You wouldn't get it."
It stung more than it should have. He'd been saying stuff like that since Maya was born, half joke, half line in the sand.
"I get some of it," I said.
"Yeah?" His voice stayed light, but his shoulder shifted away from me. "Look, I appreciate you playing fun uncle. She loves you. But don't read too much into a five-year-old being moody. And don't —" He paused, chose his words. "Don't do the thing where you grill her. You'll get her spun up and then I've got to deal with it at bedtime."
I stared at the Santa down the street, still waving from the ground.
"I'm not grilling her," I said.
"Good." He bumped my bottle with his, too hard, beer sloshing. "Parenting's mine. I know you mean well, but you don't get to come in on Christmas and co-parent."
The promise I'd made in the doorway tightened around my throat. I hadn't told him what she said. I wasn't going to. But sitting that close to him, hearing him frame it as interference, made it feel like lying.
I thought about the damp mat. I thought about her hands twisting the front of that red dress.
"I'd never try to go around you," I said, and even as I said it I knew it wasn't fully true anymore. "I just want her to feel like she can talk to me."
"She can," Mark said quickly. "She does. You're her favorite. Just — let kids be kids. Don't make a Christmas mood into a thing."
Behind us the front door opened and warm air spilled out. Sarah stuck her head out.
"You two freezing?" she said. "We're doing pie."
Mark stood, immediate, like he'd been waiting for the out. "Thank God. Come on."
He held the door for me. I stood and my knees cracked. For a second on the threshold he put his hand on my shoulder, squeezed once. Brother stuff. It used to mean we were good.
May you like
Inside smelled like cinnamon and coffee. Maya was back by the tree, lining up the red ornaments in her reflection in the window. She looked up when we came in, eyes going first to her dad, then to me. She didn't smile, but her shoulders dropped a little when she saw me.
I realized I was more worried walking back in than I had been walking out.
