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Sometimes I was jealous that Mom was able to float away from it all so easily. I bet she spent most of her life in a dreamworld, while I was forced to live in this one.

I tried one more time to wake her from the alcohol coma. “Mom,” I said, my voice loudening over the hum of a rusted pedestal fan in the corner of the cluttered room. “Mom, please…” The words cracked as tears welled in my eyes. “It’s Christmas.”

That didn’t matter.

I don’t matter.

Wholly defeated, I finally withdrew from her bedside, sparing my mother a final glance. She was a shadowy lump underneath the frayed, dirty blankets, and a phlegmy snore slipped from her throat, telling me the alcohol hadn’t stolen her away for good.

I slipped from the room and shut the door. The tiny ranch house smelled of pine, thanks to the single candle I’d found in one of the cabinets, the one I’d lit with a Zippo lighter in hopes of brightening my spirits and luring Mom into the kitchen.

No such luck.

As I padded over to the counter in my fuzzy socks patterned in frogs wearing Santa hats, I blew out the candle, tidied my mess of dirty dishes and empty wrappers, and retreated down the hallway to my bedroom with a plate of perogies. They glistened with butter under the ceiling light as I sat cross-legged on my bed and swiped away tears.

Pink walls lined with posters and magazine clippings were my only company on what was supposed to be the most magical night of the year. Father wasn’t home yet, and I supposed if anything good came from tonight, it was that I might avoid a berating or a lashing.

I turned my radio on to a holiday station and let Bing Crosby serenade my sorrows.

The food was good.

My heart was lonely.

I imagined Tara and her mom sitting in front of the fireplace, sipping hot cocoa and telling tales of Christmases past.

I pictured Reed and his girlfriend opening gifts by the tree as the nameless woman clutched Bones to her chest with joyful tears in her eyes.

I wished the cold night would only go as far as my ice-glazed window pane, but winter always had a way of sneaking through the cracks and burrowing in my bones. It was a permanent chill. One I’d never warm to, no matter how many layers I tried to add.

When I finished my one-person supper, I changed into snowman-themed pajamas and went to hang my coat that I’d tossed on the floor. I shoved my hand in one of the pockets to grab the spare change, then carried it over to my bedside table for safekeeping.

And when I glanced down, I froze.

I did a double-take.

My heart constricted, pulse jolting as I stared at the extra money mixed in with the crumpled dollar bills and coins. Shock and awe coursed through me.

No way.

With a deep ache in my chest, I crawled into bed that night, my warm, wet tears sticking to my cheeks.

And when Christmas morning dawned, I found myself still clutching the one-hundred dollar bill Reed had snuck inside my pocket; a precious gift I would never forget.

It was the only gift I received that Christmas.

CHAPTER 4

January, 1996

“You’re a liar.” Saliva dangled from my father’s chin as he towered over me, his eyes glowing with menace. They were dark brown, but with the way his pupils swallowed his irises, they looked black. “I may have raised a whore, but I refuse to raise a liar. Who were you with?”

I inched down my crop top while simultaneously trying to cover the hickey with my hair. “Nobody,” I lied. “I was working late at the shelter.”

The latter part was true.

I was working late at the shelter, making out with Jesse the kennel attendant in the women’s bathroom. He was ten years older than me and an aggressive kisser. If I’d closed my eyes long enough and zoned out, I could have almost pretended that his lips belonged to a mid-thirties single dad who smelled like ivy leaves and sandalwood.

“You smell like cheap cologne. You were whoring around with some boy,” Father roared, getting right in my face. “Tell me the truth.”