Perfect (18 page)

Ashley left that morning for her ski trip. She stopped
by my house before school, with presents.

"You didn't have to do this, Ashley," I said, standing
out on the porch with her while her mom sat in the driveway in her big black car.

"I know I didn't have to," said Ashley. "I wanted to."

"But I don't have anything for you!"

"That's okay," she said. "I like giving presents better
than getting them anyway. This one," Ashley handed me
something small and square, wrapped in blue tissue, "this
is for April. It's a new field hockey hall. The best kind.
Don't tell her, though! I want her to he surprised."

"She'll love it," I said, meaning it.

'And this one's for your mom." She handed me a green
rectangle, a hook. "It's a journal. She's an English teacher,
right? She must like to write."

I nodded.

"And this," Ashley said, holding out a tiny silver package with a gold ribbon, "this is for you. Open it later." She
handed me a white envelope, a card. "When you're alone,
okay?"

"Okay," I said. "Ash. You really didn't have to do all
this."

She hugged me, hard. "I wanted to."

I hugged her back.

Ashley pulled away suddenly, glanced over at the car
where her mom was sitting. "It feels strange. Without my
dad."

"I know it does."

Ashley looked at me. "Oh, Isabelle. I'm so sorry. I can't
believe I said that. I still have a dad, and you ..."

I shook my head. "It's okay."

"No, it's not." Ashley looked down, then up again,
right at me. "Here I am going on and on about my dad
moving out, and-"

"It's okay. Really."

"Still. I'm really sorry."

"I know."

"No. I mean it. And if, when I get back, you want to
talk, you call me. I mean it. `Kay?"

"'Kay."

"Promise?"

"Yeah."

Ashley leaned in again, hugged me hard. "I'm really
going to miss you.

"Hey," I said. "You're crushing the presents."

She pulled back, half laughing, half crying. "Merry
Christmas, Isabelle." Then she turned and ran down the
steps, to the car where her mom was waiting, before I
could say a word.

It was the weirdest feeling, standing on the porch in
my slippers, watching her go. Sadness and relief at the
same time.

As the car pulled out of the driveway, I pictured Ashley on the slopes in Aspen, whizzing down the mountain
in her ski outfit, something blue and shiny, with her hair
flying out behind her. I pictured her in the lodge by a roaring fire, taking off her boots, while guys with tans and
names like Biff and Lance fought over who got to rub her
feet.

Maybe it was more realistic to picture her shoving
down her fifth chocolate chip pancake, or throwing up in
a sink somewhere, or crying and crying because her dad
wasn't there with them, but that's not what I was picturing. That's not how I wanted it to be for her.

"Merry Christmas, Ash," I whispered. And walked
hack inside to get ready for school.

EVEN THOUGH IT WAS VACATION, we had Group
as usual. Me and Mathilde and Dawn and Lila and
Rachel-who was back, still wearing a ton of black eyeliner but nicer to he around.

We sat in our circle, talking about Christmas. "It's supposed to he this really happy day," Mathilde said quietly,
"hut sometimes it's not. I mean, not in my house." And
Dawn said, "Mine either."

The rest of us nodded.

Trish said, "All right. Good! Let's talk about it. What
makes the holidays so hard?"

At that, Mathilde and Lila both started crying and
Trish passed the tissues. Dawn walked around the circle,
giving out hugs.

Everyone started talking then, one at a time. I sat
quietly, listening to Mathilde tell us about eating all the
Christmas cookies her mother made, dozens of them, and
then lying about it, saying the dog did it. Rachel talked
about her father drinking a whole bottle of scotch and
passing out at the dinner table, right in the middle of the
toast.

I listened to everyone's story, each one surprising and
not. I had no idea their families were so messed up. And
yet, it made sense that we were all here.

I was so quiet, the only one in the circle not talking.

"Isabelle?" Trish said, when everyone else had gone.
"Anything you'd like to share?"

"No," I said. And then, feeling everyone's eyes on me,
"I mean ... give me a second."

"Take your time," Trish said gently. "We're in no
rush."

I sat for a while with my eyes closed, just breathing.
"Okay," I said finally. "It's a hard time of year in my house
because ... because my dad isn't here with us anymore.
Because he died. And we all miss him so much we want to
explode."

The words sounded so strange coming out of my
mouth, like they belonged to somebody else. For a second I wanted to hide. But then I looked up at everyone and saw that they were looking right back at me, nodding.
Getting it.

I reached nay hand out for a tissue, as though holding
one would help me talk better. And in a way, it did.

The next day I was back in the same room, talking to
Trish. It was Christmas Eve and we weren't supposed to
he meeting, but Trish changed her mind at the last minute and called me to come in. Apparently she was proud
of me, for finally opening my mouth in Group, and she
wanted to tell me so.

"How did it feel yesterday?" Trish asked. "Talking
about your dad?"

"Not bad," I said. "Weird at first. Everyone was looking
at me, you know? But then, after I got going, not had."

"Let me tell you somet'iing, Isabelle. The more you
talk, the easier it gets."

"Yeah?"

"Absolutely."

We sat quietly for a moment. Then I told Trish about
Penelope Lutz. About how Penelope was really Ashley
Barnum. From Group.

Trish nodded, like she wasn't all that surprised.

I went on, saying how Ashley had given me a Christmas present and how I hadn't opened it yet. And I wasn't
sure I was going to.

Trish said, "Why not?"

I thought before I spoke. "I guess because ... whatever
is in the box could never be as good as what I imagine is in the box. You know?" I wasn't sure Trish would get what I
meant, until I saw that she was nodding.

"You might be surprised, though," Trish said. "Pleasantly."

"I might," I said, thinking about it. "Maybe I'll read the
card first, see what it says. Then decide."

Trish smiled, not telling me what to do either way.
That's how it is with her, not pushing so much as making
you think.

"How are things with your mom?" Trish asked.

Oh. Right. That. "I don't know. Better, I guess. I mean,
at least we're starting to talk about him some. She still
can't say his name without crying, but she doesn't run out
of the room or anything. And she's seeing this person, this
grief therapist guy that my aunt found for her. Once a
week. So ..."

"Oh, Isabelle. That's great news. That's really a step in
the right direction."

"I guess. She still has a long way to go though. You
know. She's still a mess."

Trish nodded, rocked a little in her chair. "And the
bingeing and purging? How are you doing with that?"

This time I smiled. "Well. I didn't throw up at all yesterday. And I haven't thrown up yet today. So that's, let's
see ... twenty-four, thirty-two ... thirty-five hours and
counting."

Trish leaned forward, her eyes on mine. "Thirty-five
hours? Isabelle!"

"And counting."

"Isabelle!" Trish said again. Then, softly, "That's wonderful."

When it was time to go, I stood in the doorway for a
long time, looking around the room at everything, squinting at my old friend the yawning dog. "Trish?" I said finally.
"How come this room always smells like Cheez-Its?"

Trish smiled, walked over to her desk, opened a drawer.
There was a moment of crackling cellophane before she
held up the Cheez-Its bag. "Stay for a snack?"

I laughed, shook my head. "No, thanks. I've got to get
home. Mom and April are waiting for me."

You might think it's a crazy way to spend Christmas Eve,
standing in the den with your mom and your sister, not
hanging ornaments on a Christmas tree, but hanging pictures of your dead dad on the wall. You might think it's
nuts, but it's not.

I am up on the ladder because I am the only one not
afraid of falling. April's job is to hand me the hammer and
the nails when I need them. Mom passes me the framed
photos, one at a time. One at a time, up they go. The
memories that used to live here.

Mom and Daddy on their wedding day, all shining eyes
and white teeth. Daddy and me at a football game when I
was three, me on his shoulders holding a baton. The four
of us out on the porch in summer, April on Mom's lap and
me on Daddy's, all making monkey faces. Best of all, the
picture of Daddy in high school, wearing his baseball uniform, so handsome you can't believe you're related.

We're hanging some new ones too, ones Aunt Weezy
took of the three of us. Me, Mom, and April, out in the
backyard, all huddled together because it's cold. If you look close, you can see the first snowflakes of the season,
just starting to fall.

April keeps telling me that I'm hanging the pictures
crooked.

I grit my teeth and swallow hard. Instead of saying
"Shut up, Ape Face," I say, "Just tell me which way to
go.

Finally we have them all hung, straight and even and
beautiful. We stand back and admire our work.

"It looks great," says April. "Huh, Mom? Huh, Isabelle? It looks really great, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," I say. "It really does."

At first my mother just stands there, nodding, looking
awfully close to crying.

"Mom?" I say.

Then she leans over, kisses my forehead. She grabs
April, kisses her forehead too.

I don't think she can talk right now, my mom. But
that's okay. Maybe she'll talk later. For now, there's the
three of us, holding each other up.

A freelance writer and camp director,
NATASHA FRIEND has taught at
the Brearley School in New York City
and Ecole Bilingue in Cambridge. She
lives in Massachusetts with her husband, Erik, and baby, Jack. Perfect is
her first novel.