She’s going to ask me about Christmas, and she’s going to do it for Shade. At least she’ll say it’s for Shade. She’ll tell me what a shit father I am, ask me about Brittany, and also ask me if I’m still so damaged that I can’t do the holidays. Maybe she’ll try to come up with a solution or some bullshit and try again to make me believe she’s doing it for Shade, and I’ll pretend to be happy about it because isn’t that what I ostensibly hired her for? To care about my son?
“I wanted to talk to you about getting a tree. Or maybe you have one.”
Here it comes. I want to laugh as I was so spot on.
“What does your family do for the holidays?” I decide at that moment to test her just a little.
She stares me down like she knows what I’m doing, and she doesn’t let it rattle her. I feel a small tinkling of respect for Feeney. I thought she’d be meek, have zero personality, ditzy—the usual rich, spoiled, twenty-something-year-old stereotype. It’s more than slightly galling for me to admit she’s already exceeded my expectations. Then again, they were very low.
“We put up a tree, have people over, do family stuff, give gifts, and eat, just like what most of the rest of this country does. Shade said you usually go to his grandparents. When I asked about a tree, he was very excited. We made all those ornaments today. I…I was wondering if I could use the credit card to buy something small if you don’t have one.”
“Why? The house doesn’t need more clutter.”
She glances at the TV like my video game character could help her. At the moment, he’s wearing grey clothing, combat boots, sporting a massive gun, and is covered in blood. She gulps and finally looks back at me.
“I think it would be good for Shade.”
So far, I’m two for two. She just needs to bring up Britt, and I’ll have called her game perfectly.
“Do you? A plastic tree and some shit he’s never going to use again? That would be good for him?”
“It’s about the experience. Giving him something nor—”
“Go ahead. Say it. Normal. Something normal. You think a tree and gifts are going to make up for what he doesn’t have?”
“Lots of other families have children where one parent isn’t in the house.”
“Because they divorced. Not because they died.”
“You can’t use that as a crutch, Luke. Your son wants a fucking tree. I’m buying a…a…oh, dang it, I’m buying a chicken nugget tree and all the flipping chicken nugget decorations that go with it. We’re going to pick it out together. You don’t have to be happy about it, and you can chicken nugget burn it after if you want. Just put on a happy face and pretend like you’re not a… a…chicken nugget hole for the day, and then life will go on.”
I’m floored. Really. Yeah, she brought up Britt, but not the way I thought she would. Technically, maybe I brought her up. Maybe that was too leading. Fuck, I’m not getting my three for three, but I can’t say I’m disappointed by the fire that suddenly shot out of Feeney like a flame thrower. She basically roasted me straight on the spot.
I’m not sure what I admire more. That she had the guts to do it or that she didn’t pity me the way everyone else does. Is that the same thing? For most of the world, Britt might as well have never existed. A week after she died, people stopped talking to me about her. I know they were afraid of triggering grief or saying the wrong thing, but grief isn’t something that’s triggered because it’s constant, and everything everyone says after is always going to be the wrong thing.
“Will it?”
“Will what?”
“Will life go on?”
“I don’t know. You tell me!” She’s obviously frustrated. She beats me at my own game. “I’m not here to argue. I’m getting the tree, and you will make sure your son has a good Christmas. You will put up with the tree, you will help him decorate it, and you will compliment him on the things he’s made because he’s a great artist, and he worked hard. He’s four-years-old. None of this is his fault. He knows all about how his grandparents don’t like having him at Christmas and how you and your dad don’t get along. I know all about it. He’s smarter than you know, and he’s very perceptive. I don’t have to tell you that. Anyway, whatever. You’re just being difficult.”
“I just have one question.”
“What?” She crosses her arms before eyeing me like I’m going to do something unpredictable—something like pulling out a jar of jam and doing a strange jam dance. I don’t know. Jesus. At this moment, I can’t think of something weirder than that.