Page 7 of Christmas at the Ranch
Except once.
Is that what I’m driving toward? That single, magical Christmas that broke my heart, yet still remains one of my most cherished memories? I push the thought away and just keep going, chasing this impulse I don’t fully understand.
One more corner, and the rivers become lakes. Everyone in Ontario raves about cottage country in summer, but lakes in winter are their own special thing. In the quiet still of the coldest season, when thick snow tucks in the world with snowy blankets, a vast frozen lake is truly a marvel. So calm, so still. The sight of each one of them soothes me a little, dulls the sharpest edges of my agitated state. Their names are comforting, too. Cranberry. Maple. Moose. Loon. I turn up the radio and hum along to Beyoncé’s rendition of “Silent Night.”
And then, all at once, it’s as if ten years slide away like the miles between my car and Toronto. I’ve let my guard down, and I can hear his voice. That charmingly shy way he had of speaking, that crooked half smile.
I actually like it best here in winter, City Girl.
I crank up the music even louder, but it turns out you can’t silence a memory.
Well, I’ve never been here in summer to be able to compare the two,I remember replying with a smile of my own. In that moment, in his arms, I was certain I’d get the opportunity to visit Evergreen as often as I liked.
But it wasn’t meant to be.
My phone ringing again jerks me out of my nostalgic reverie. It’s my mother, and I’m far enough away from Toronto that it feels safe to answer.
“Hello, Emory,” she says, her tone measured and cautious.
“Mom,” I say, and I don’t know what else to add, because asking how she is feels like a powder keg question. But I have to. “How are you holding up? And…” I swallow hard. “And Dad? How is he?”
“So, you’ve heard.”
“The news is everywhere, Mom. It’s impossible to avoid.”
I hear a strange sound on the line, like a repressed sob. “Where are you?” she asks me.
“I’m in Muskoka,” I say.
“I thought you said you were doing an interview uptown.”
“Yeah, it ended up being farther north,” I improvise. “I’m hours away. I’m sorry. It can’t be avoided.” This feels true, as if I’ve had no choice but to drive and drive, away from this catastrophe. “Tell me how Dad is,” I press. “Where is he?”
“It’s a setup. Our lawyers are on it, and it will all be resolved soon.”
As she speaks, I can tell she really believes this—or at least badly wants to. And she wants me to believe it, too. She’s trying to protect me, in her way. Which still doesn’t make any of this okay. And is one of the reasons I didn’t want to talk to her yet.
“Mom, I saw it on the news. The police raided TurbOakes’s headquarters after months of investigating. They found evidence, they must have—”
“Stop!” Her tone is one of horror. Then shecontinues in an urgent whisper. “The police might be listening, our phones might be tapped.”
“Mom. If our phones are actually bugged—” I have to pause; this idea fills me with such deep dread. “Whispering isn’t going to help,” I conclude.
“I need you,” my mother suddenly says.
This is new. My mother has never sounded this way with me before. She has always been so good at keeping up her perfect veneer. I’m not sure I’ve ever even seen her cry. But I can hear tears in her voice now, and I hate to hear her sounding this way.
“What can I do?” I ask her.
“Your trust fund,” she says, her voice still low. “You still have most of it, right?”
“I do,” I say.
Now her voice contains notes of musing. “You’ve been so good with it over the years, haven’t you? So…frugal.” The word sounds odd in her mouth, like she doesn’t truly understand what it means. The way she talks about me often makes me wonder if she, too, has sometimes questioned our genetic relationship. How could Cassandra Oakes, who once asked me what I thought a reasonable price to pay for a pair of sneakers was and then told me she was surprised it was around a hundred instead of a thousand, ever have given birth to someone like me? A daughter who drives a used car on purpose, rents a condo, resolutely works to pay for these things when she doesn’t have to.You’re like Lorelai Gilmore without the kid,Lani always says.
“It’s just for now,” she says, her voice so quiet I almostcan’t hear it over the rush of road beneath my tires. “We’ll pay it back once this is all cleared up.”
I drive in silence for a moment. It’s so hard to think straight right now—until all at once, I feel clarity.
