Page 106 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

28

Survivor’s Guilt Is an Ongoing Theme

When the movie—one of the many Hallmark Christmas movies that poses the unanswerable question What if Santa’s son could get it?—ends, my mom yawns strategically, signaling the official end of the holiday season. When I turn in for the night, I spy light glowing from under the office door—the room formerly known as emma’s room—keep out under threat of death. I knock lightly, and my dad beckons me in.

“I thought you were asleep,” I whisper, closing the door behind me.

My dad chuckles gently from his roller chair. “I don’t sleep anymore. But I’m glad you knocked.” He opens the bottom drawer of his heavy wood desk. “I found this for the Christmas train. I’m sorry I was so busy this year with schoolwork.”

I sit cross-legged on the floor at the foot of his desk, shaking my head with a smile. “It’s fine, Dad. There’s always next year. I wasn’t here long anyway.”

He reveals a miniature tunnel portal. It reads cascade tunnel in chipped painted print. “I found it at that flea market in Ohio your mom likes. It’s the tunnel from our road trip to Washington, remember?”

I take the small piece of plastic in hand. “Of course. I made Emma read my book on its construction in the car, and she threw up right as we entered it.”

He chuckles, his eyes lost in the memory. “I didn’t think that tunnel would ever end.”

I reach up, placing the piece back on his desk. “It’s the longest railroad tunnel in the United States. Maybe we could paint it when you’re done with classes this summer.”

“That would be great, sweetie.”

“I couldn’t help but notice I didn’t get a train car this year.” I poke the armrest of his swivel chair.

“Yes. It was a big year for Target gift cards.” He cleans the lenses of his glasses with his shirt. “I didn’t think you liked getting those old cars anymore.”

I chew on the corner of my mouth. “I’ve decided to embrace my rail enthusiasm. Year-round. Wear it on my sleeve from now on.”

Adam was right. I’m sick of hiding the things that make me happy under my bed.

I shut the door after we wish each other good night and make my way down the wallpapered hallway to my old room. The space has functioned as a guest room ever since my mom swapped my twin bed for a double, but the walls remain a light periwinkle adorned with the same sheer black butterfly curtains that fluttered over the heating vent in a way that delighted my teenage self.

My homework desk is missing, but a flimsy Robert Pattinson poster still marks its old home. What can I say? Teenage Alison Mullally had a thing for the strong, quiet type.

I’m nearly tucked into the guest bed when a name lights up my screen.

Adam’s calling me.

For the first time in weeks, Adam wants to talk to me. What could this mean? It has to at least be a courteous, Good evening, Alison. In the New Year, expect me to be blocking your number. Have a lovely holiday.

In danger of the call going to voicemail and missing this moment altogether, I frantically swipe at my screen. The phone jumps out of my hand, and I fumble with it twice before it lands on the bed with a thud.

“Hello?” I shout at my phone on the comforter. “Hello?” I answer again when the phone is on my ear.

I hear nothing but silence.

I sit on my bed, one hand on my phone and the other pressed into the stress crease forming on my forehead. “If this is a misdial, I’ll kill you.”

“Suddenly, I’m wondering why I was so nervous to call you.” His familiar voice swims against my ear. It’s warm and gravelly and as lovely as I remember. I resist melting at the sound of it.

“No need to be nervous.” I try to pitch my voice sweet with a hint of sultry, but I don’t think I nail it.

There’s the briefest awkward silence before Adam speaks again. “Merry Christmas, Ali.”

The nickname hits me in my chest. I reach for my headphones and place my pillow on my lap, worried lying down might jinx this. “Merry Christmas, Adam.” I wait for what he might say next but hear only muffled voices in the background. “Where are you?”

“I’m at June’s. I’ve been here a few days.”

“How was Otis’s Christmas?”

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