A Cunningham Christmas (5 page)

Finally, Lily drops her hand. She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes again.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just felt really…
off
for a second.”

“Do you need me to get you something?” Calder asks.

She shakes her head. “I’m okay. Whatever it was, it’s passed.”

A look back over at Lou, who’s looking down at her bowl of soup with what appears to be suspicion.

“Don’t worry,” I whisper to her. “It’s really good. I promise.”

Her mouth curls up slightly. “I know. She and I both tasted it back in the kitchen.”

For a little while, the meal proceeds as it should. Or at least I think it does. I’m still antsy, but I try to channel that energy into gobbling up my food. I chow down, trying not to think about the tiny velvet bag in my pocket, or the snow that’s piling up higher and higher outside. The others talk. Eventually, the conversation turns to holiday traditions.

“A few times we had Christmas movie marathons in the theater,” Lou says. “Martin would make us this special popcorn with caramel and chocolate and peanuts.”

“And you’d always fall asleep halfway through the second film,” Calder says.

Lou laughs. “I’m sorry, but some of those ‘classic’ movies are pretty dull when you’re a kid.”

“Or an adult,” I say, nudging her in the side.

She smiles at me, a smile that, for a moment, makes all of my restlessness disappear. It’s strange—and wonderful—to hear about the happy parts of her childhood. It’s even stranger to realize that we’re in the process of forming our own traditions, of shaping the rest of our lives and the future of the little girl in the playpen behind us.

“Dad and I would watch a few holiday movies,” Lily says, “but our big tradition was to go to the town hall on Christmas Eve and listen to the carolers.”

“I love carols,” Lou says.

“And they set up this adorable little Christmas market on the green,” Lily tells her. “Dad and I would always poke around the stalls and buy little gifts for each other.”

I look over at Ramona—who’s blissfully batting at one of the puffy cloth birds on her mobile—and imagine doing things like that with her. Sometimes I can’t even believe it, but I’m a dad now. Ramona’s dad. And I have a lifetime of experiences to make with her.

“What about you?” Lou says, poking me in the side.

I look back at the others. “Me?”

“What did you and your mom do for Christmas?”

Nothing as elaborate or festive as they’re expecting, I’m sure. For as long as I can remember, my mom and I were just barely getting by. Christmas was special, yeah, but it was never this wonderful, perfect holiday. We’d go to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. Watch whatever movie they were showing on network TV that year. We never had a tree—they were too expensive, and we never could have fit one in our tiny apartment anyway—but we had a couple dozen ornaments we’d hang from this ornate metal coat rack my mom found at a thrift store.

But before I can share any of that, Lily’s spoon clatters to her bowl once more. This time, her complexion has changed quickly and drastically—she’s practically green. Her hands are pressed against her mouth and her eyes are squeezed shut.

“Lily—” Calder begins, but she shakes her head and pushes his hands away as she jumps to her feet. Calder is right behind her, but she’s already halfway to the door.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t make it
out
the door before the vomiting begins.

At the first sound of her getting sick, Lou and I both leap up. Calder’s already at Lily’s side, supporting her and pulling her hair back from her face. And Lou rushes out the door—whether to get a bucket or a rag or something else to deal with this, I don’t know. Me? I’m not really sure what I should do. I’m definitely no stranger to puke—I’ve dealt with plenty of buddies who couldn’t hold their alcohol, and my mom experienced a lot of nausea when she was going through chemo—but I’ve never been in a situation before where I’ve been surrounded by
other
people who also want to help with that sort of thing, who are all ready to leap to support at the first sign of illness.

It’s a damn fine thing.

Well, except for the whole
vomiting
part.

Behind me, Ramona has started to whimper. She might not know what’s going on, but she’s a perceptive little peanut. She knows something’s wrong. I reach down into her playpen and scoop her up, glad that there’s some way I can be useful. As I bounce Ramona gently in my arms, Lou returns with an empty waste bin in one hand and a washcloth in the other. Calder takes both from her before helping Lily—who’s still looking pretty green—from the room.

The vomit is still here, though. And Lou’s starting to go a little pale as she stares down at it.

“Here,” I tell Lou. “If you take her, I’ll clean that up.”

She doesn’t argue, and I’m perfectly okay with that. As much as I love holding Ramona, I’ll feel a lot more useful if I can at least do the cleaning.

Five minutes later, I’m on my hands and knees scrubbing the carpet. Lou is in the corner of the room, Ramona in her arms. She’s too quiet, and I look back over my shoulder at her.

“Everything okay?” I ask. It’s a stupid fucking question, considering the way our first family Christmas is going, but I don’t know what else to say.

She nods. “I just hope Lily’s fine.” She looks down at our daughter. “Maybe I should get Ramona out of here. I don’t want her to catch anything. What if it’s the flu?”

I sit up. “That didn’t look like the flu. It looked a lot more like food poisoning.
Not
that I think she got food poisoning from the chowder,” I add quickly.

Lou shrugs. “If you say so. Or maybe I still have a few things to learn in the kitchen.”

But I shake my head. “First of all, if it
is
food poisoning, it usually doesn’t set in this fast. Secondly, if there was something wrong with the chowder, we’d all be hugging the toilet right now. Not just her.”

“What do you think it is, then?”

It’s my turn to shrug. “Probably something she ate earlier. Or yesterday. Hell, I’ve heard that some cases don’t hit until a couple of days later.”

“Oh.” She’s quiet for a moment. “But we’ve been eating the same things all week.”

That’s a good point. “Our bodies don’t always react to things in the same way. Maybe we all got lucky. Or maybe she’s just the first one to get hit.”

“Geez. I hope not.”

And to think, earlier today I thought I’d be proposing to Lou right about now. Instead, I’m talking to her about food poisoning instead while scrubbing up vomit.
Merry fucking Christmas.

“It’s almost Ramona’s bedtime anyway,” Lou says after a moment. “Maybe I’ll go put her down just in case.”

I don’t say anything as she takes Ramona out of the room. But I scrub at the carpet so hard that I’m surprised I don’t wear a hole right through it.

Great. Just fucking great.
Tonight’s ruined. And tomorrow might be as well.

It’s selfish, I know, but I really thought this was
it.
That by the time Christmas was over, Lou and I would be officially engaged. That this horrible ball of anxiety in my stomach would be gone. Instead, I’m starting to feel like I might vomit, too.

Get a grip
, I tell myself.
The proposal can wait.

But I don’t want it to wait. I’ve been building up to this for months only to stumble at the finish line.

Forget the maze and the lights
, I tell myself as I sprinkle the stain removal powder on the carpet.
Maybe quieter and simpler is the way to go after all. Maybe tomorrow we’ll have a quiet moment to ourselves and I’ll just ask her then.

That option is sounding better and better as I pack up the cleaning supplies and put them away. By the time I’m heading up the stairs to the nursery, I’ve all but decided. Tomorrow, I’ll pull her aside and just do it. The question’s the important part, right? I don’t need the frills. The lights were a cheesy idea anyway.

And I know I’ve made the right decision when I step inside the nursery and see Lou bent over the crib. The room is mostly dark, but the night light makes her hair look like gold. She looks so beautiful staring down at our daughter like that. I don’t think I can wait more than a day to propose to her. I’m not sure I can wait more than an hour.

No. We don’t need all of the extras. Our proposal doesn’t need anything but the question. And the ring, of course.

The ring.
My hand dips into my pocket, searching for the tiny velvet bag.

But it’s not there.

I shove my hand in my other pocket. It’s not there either. Or in either of my back pockets. I check them all twice, just to make sure.

Lou’s noticed me in the doorway.

“Ward?” she says. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I tell her, but I can’t keep the panic out of my voice.
Where the hell is the ring?!

I turn and bolt from the room. I take the stairs two at a time. When I reach the living room, I fall to my hands and knees on the carpet. At least I kept it in that little blue bag. It can’t be
that
hard to spot. But I don’t see it anywhere near the area where I was cleaning.

I crawl over to the cushions by the fire and flip them over one by one. Still nothing.

Hold on for a minute
, I tell myself.
Take a deep breath. When was the last time you saw it? Are you sure you put it in your pocket this morning?

The answer to that last question is most definitely yes
.
I remember putting it there. And I remember touching it during my conversation with Calder on the steps. After that…

After that, I don’t think I’ve reached into my pocket all day. But I did have a snowball fight with Lou. And crazy sex behind the house. And I spent hours dragging extension cords and lights through the maze… It could be anywhere. Fucking anywhere.

I leap to my feet and run to the front door. When I throw it open, the cold hits me right in the face. It’s dark outside, but the floodlights show that the snow is already a foot and a half deep and coming down hard and fast.

Jesus. What am I supposed to do?

“Ward?” Lou says behind me. When I glance back, she’s coming down the stairs. “What are you doing?”

Her ring is out there somewhere. I’m okay with dropping the corny plan with the lights, but I’ll be damned if I give her a proposal without the
ring.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell her, and without waiting for her response, I step outside.

I’m going to find that ring, even if it fucking kills me.

LOU

I have no idea what’s gotten into Ward, but he’s officially insane.

Why the heck would he run out into the snow right now? Without even stopping to put on a coat? The weather is only supposed to get worse.

By the time I get to the door, he’s out of sight.

I run to the coat closet and grab my things. Coat, scarf, gloves, hat. He might be crazy enough to run out into that storm like this, but I’m not. I’m not going to catch my death just because he’s lost his mind. Finally, I stuff the baby monitor in my pocket. I hate to leave Ramona upstairs by herself, but something is obviously wrong with Ward. She’ll be all right for a few minutes—but if I have to go out of range, then that idiot can deal with his problems on his own.

The moment I step outside, the cold hits me in the face like a brick.

I’m going to kill him.
I tug my scarf up around my chin and march down the stairs, stepping in the impressions left by Ward’s boots. I almost slip near the bottom, but I grab the stone rail and just barely keep from wiping out.

I follow his footsteps around the side of the house. The snow comes almost up to my knees, so it’s a bit of a slog. But I push on. When I finally round the corner of the house, at first I see nothing but snowy mounds glowing ghostly white in the floodlights.

But there, just past one of the mounds, is Ward. He’s down on his knees, frantically digging through the snow with his hands.

I march toward him. “What the heck are you doing? Are you crazy?”

He doesn’t seem to hear me. He just keeps scrambling around in the snow. What could possibly possess him to be out here? Whatever he’s looking for, he’ll never find it now. And he’s not even wearing gloves.

He doesn’t notice me until I’m a few feet away from him. By then, he’s searched through most of the snow in front of him. There are piles of snow on either side of him, and he stands and kicks one pile with his booted foot.

“Ward,” I say, grabbing his arm. “What’s going on?”

He shakes his head, but it does nothing to dislodge the snow in his hair. It’s so cold that the thick flakes are already freezing to the strands. In the floodlights, I can see that his nose and cheeks are red with cold.

“Go back inside,” he tells me. “I’ll be in in a bit.”

He can’t get rid of me that easily. “That doesn’t answer my question. What the heck do you think you’re doing? You shouldn’t be out here. You’ll freeze to death!”