Page 43 of Mistletoe Sky
“I did, too,” Willa whispered. She pressed her fist against her forehead. “I always thought Dad was right there at the ice with her. I always thought he didn’t try hard enough to save her. Like I assumed maybe she’d told him she didn’t want to move back in or something.”
Amelie bowed her head. “I thought the same.”
Willa closed her eyes for a long time. Amelie felt as though her legs and arms were made of cement.
Willa put her mug on the side table and lay down next to Amelie. They were both still in their clothes. Outside, the wind howled.
“We should have visited Dad in the hospital,” Willa whispered. “We should have found out the truth ourselves.”
“We were young,” Amelie said. “We didn’t know what we were doing.”
“Why didn’t Aunt Rachel force us to go?” Willa asked.
Amelie wrinkled her nose. The story of their life with Aunt Rachel was a somber and strange one that she didn’t often like thinking about. Her house had smelled of sour pickles and bad Chinese food, and her pug had always barked at the two of them.
“She was always so busy,” Amelie said. “And she didn’t like Dad, remember? She always said that Mom could have done better.”
Willa turned over so that she was curled in a ball next to Amelie. Amelie turned over to face her twin. Like this, in bedtogether, Amelie thought about what it must have been like to share a womb.
Willa let out a soft laugh. “What do we do now? Do we… believe him?”
Amelie nodded. “I think I’m going to.”
“I guess we don’t have a choice,” Willa said.
“We do,” Amelie said. “We have the choice to choose love, choose family, choose companionship. But we always have the choice to run away from it, to choose loneliness and anger and resentment. But Willa, I think I’m done with all that. It hasn’t given me anything in return.”
Willa’s face crumpled. She was sobbing, shaking so much that the bed quaked. Amelie wrapped her arms around her twin as tears raced down her cheeks. Finally, they were grieving the mother they’d lost so long ago and facing the pain that had haunted them for twenty years.
“I don’t want to go back to Chicago,” Willa wept to Amelie. “I don’t want to be alone anymore. Please, forgive me for everything.”
Amelie grabbed her sister’s hand and squeezed hard. “Let’s promise each other never to leave each other again. We’re all we have, Willa. We can’t forget.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Willa
December 2025
Willa woke up and walked to the window at five in the morning. Heavy with sleep and with the story Amelie had told her last night, she gazed out at the sweeping snow drifts, marveling at the beauty the night sky had spun. On the bed, her sister continued to sleep, her arms sprawled the way they always had when they were girls.
Unable to fall back to sleep, Willa crept downstairs, made a pot of coffee, and assessed the fudge they’d made last night. They’d made far more than they needed, given the storm and the sure state of the Christmas Festival. If they cleared the roads today, maybe they’d be able to have the festival tomorrow and the one after that. But there was no telling what the blizzard had done to tourists farther south. Maybe they’d decided to cancel their plans and stay in for the week, bundled up, warm, with Christmas movies on their televisions and plenty of food in the fridge. Willa couldn’t blame them.
Feeling fidgety, Willa began to package the fudge. It had to go somewhere; it had to be eaten. And she knew it belonged in the bellies of Mackinac Island locals, all of whom would surely be out soon, shoveling their sidewalks and the streets, roaming around in snowshoes and snowmobiles.
At six thirty, Amelie appeared in the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. Without Willa having to explain herself, Amelie said, “Good idea,” and set to work beside her. When sunlight spilled through the front room, they could see just how high the snow really was. Maybe three feet, not so bad. They’d be able to get out the front door at least.
When the fudge was packed and ready to go, Amelie and Willa sat down to put on the snowsuits they’d discovered in the back closet: one of which had belonged to their aunt, they thought. The other belonged to their mother. When Amelie hesitated, Willa put it on, steeling herself from a rush of emotions at how she loved her mother. How she wished she were still here.
“How are you feeling after last night?” Amelie asked as they pushed open the front door and began to shovel.
Willa thought for a moment. “I’m trying to find compassion for my eighteen-year-old self,” she said. “But it’s hard. I can’t help but think she was cruel.”
Amelie stopped shoveling and reached for Willa’s shoulder. “She was the best person I knew. She was in a difficult situation.” Her eyes, visible over her scarf, were big and blue.
Willa sighed and thrust the shovel into the top of the drift. It had been a long time since she’d dealt with snow like this, and her shoulders were already aching.
“I want to see Dad today,” Willa said finally. “I hope he’ll agree to it.”
