Page 41 of The Doctor's Truth

“Whoa!” Jason dramatically bursts into the scene—he splays his arms out suddenly, as though he’s catching himself from falling, and his whole body sways as if we’ve hit an iceberg. “Do you guys feel that?”

“Feel what?” Otto asks, entranced.

“The music in your bones!” Jason grins—a dopey fucking grin—and starts snapping his fingers to the beat. “C’mon! Let’s dance.”

A grin splits across Otto’s mouth. Jason—the ball of cheese he is—has gotten everyone excited now. He gets Otto dancing, and Pearl, and takes Kenzi’s hand and gets her to her feet as well.

I cross my arms and dig my hands into my armpits. But it’s no use. Between the four of them, they manage to drag me off the bench and pull me into their dance circle.

21

Kenzi

My head feels like a lead balloon.

Somewhere between the Fireball cider and an all-night dance party on the ferry, I contracted a hangover. To my credit, I’m a lightweight these days, and it doesn’t take much to push me over the edge.

My mouth is dry, and my head hurts. Merry Christmas to me.

I pull myself out of bed, rinse out my mouth, draw the comb through my hair a couple of times, and then mom up. I pull on a pair of Christmas pajamas that are plastered with Rudolph’s face—the same pajamas I’ve worn every Christmas for the past five years in a row.

I exit my bedroom to go wake Otto up, but he’s already out of bed. I hear the echo of Christmas music from downstairs, and the smell of coffee is absolutely heavenly.

I go downstairs, and for a second, the sight makes my heart swell.

A hastily dressed Christmas tree with presents for Otto stuffed underneath. Otto in his (matching) reindeer pajamas. Pearl in the kitchen, swearing as she uses an oven mitt to fan the smoke away from burnt pancakes.

It’s not much…but it’s ours. And I wouldn’t want Christmas any other way.

“Mum!” Otto shouts when he sees me, then shoots me a glare, thoroughly offended. “You slept through ‘Little Drummer Boy’!”

My favorite yearly tradition with Otto—we make a holiday playlist. At first, I made them on my own as a way to unwind from the Christmas stress. But eventually, Otto’s peeking over my shoulder turned into “what are you doing?” and “can I help?” and soon enough, we were picking out songs together.

Now, every year, we build the Christmas playlist. Together. And from the sound of it, we’re on Dave Matthews’ “Christmas Song,” which means we’re on track four, and yes, I have missed quite a bit.

I slip my fingers through his hair. “Think we can do a replay? Just this once?”

He sighs, as though the effort to rewind is exhausting, as though he’s ever known a real rewind button, where you had to wait for the cassette tape to spool up. “I guess,” he mutters and slumps off his chair to go to my computer, which is connected to the Bluetooth speaker.

I go into the adjoining kitchen and greet my mother with “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry yourself. Coffee?” she asks.

“Please.”

She pours me a cup, and Otto tugs my leg.

“Mum! Do you want your present?”

I can’t help myself—I sit in the kitchen chair and scoop him into my lap. “You are my present.”

His hair smells like cookies and little boy.

He wiggles out of my arms. “Gross!”

I make an ugh noise. I don’t love this age where he won’t hug his mother as long as he used to.

But he only takes a couple of steps before he looks back at me, squints, and then appeases me. He leaps up and wraps his arms around me, giving me a good squeeze.

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