Page 38 of Intermission
“Yeah. I’m good.” Al’s just messing around. But Kaitlyn and Bailee were not, and I feel a little smaller, and the evening is a little soiled now, knowing that Gretchen’s shadow lurks over me even within the walls of a church.
Christmas Eve arrives. The stockings are hung. I’m all dressed up, ready to attend First Church of Kanton with my family, as is tradition.
Noah:
Wish you were here.
Faith:
Me too.
Noah:
But I’m sure your service will be good.
Faith:
Still…I’d rather be at yours.
Noah:
Variety is the spice of life, or so they say.
Faith:
The Prescotts prefer life blandly seasoned.
Noah:
Says she with the cinnamon hair… andeyes. Have I mentioned that your hair and eyes are the same lovely shade of cinnamon?
Faith:
Once or twice. Or 50 times. Whichever.
Noah:
Well, it’s true.
With my brown leather boots under my arm, I take a chair in the breakfast room where Mom and Dad are waiting with their wool dress coats slung over the backs of their chairs. They’re sipping coffee—it’s decaf, so what’s the point?—until it’s time to leave for the service. As I slip my foot into the boot and pull up the side zipper, a swish of slippers crosses the breakfast room’s slate floor.
My sister’s golden hair is tousled, as if she’s just gotten up from a nightmarish nap. She’s wearing an oversized U of I sweatshirt and black fleece pants.
“Gretchen! What in theworldare you wearing?”
“My pajamas, duh.”
“But we’re leaving for the Christmas Eve service in ten minutes!”
“I’m not going.”
“Of course you’re going.”
“I told you, Mom. I don’t feel good. I’m staying home.”
Dad makes a sound in his throat, somewhere between a huff and a grunt.
Mom stands up and presses her lips to Gretchen’s forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”
