Page 3 of The Sleight Before Christmas
“I’m aware, Son.” I look down to my wife, who’s completely checked out. “Serena, want to weigh in here?”
“I’m not here,” Serena relays on exhale. “I’m in the Florida Keys, having a sippy cup full of champagne delivered by a cabana boy.”
“You can’t say that anymore, Mom,” Gracie snaps. “It’shospitality worker.”
“Thanks for clearing that up, Gracie.” I cross my arms. “Tell me, while you’re so busy correcting us on proper verbiage for those in the service industry, did you maybe once think that helping your brother turn his twelve-foot room into a jungle gym might not be the right move?”
“Mom, I need twenty dollars,” Gracie counters as Serena’s face draws up and her chest starts to heave. I glare at the side of her head, knowing she’s doing a lot more than tipping the cabana boy in her alternate reality. She’s been reading a lot of books lately. Come to think of it, that’s all she’s done in recent months. From the covers, most of them starring half-naked hockey players. Only once have I benefited, and it backfired. I can still feel the sting of grapefruit juice in a place where no man should ever experience grapefruit juice. From then on, our room has been a no-fly zone consisting ofFrasierreruns.
“Serena,” I snap, jarring her out of oiling her fantasy man down.
“I give up,” she utters, and in her posture, I see every single word she just spoke as truth as her hair starts to harden from the residual shampoo. “I can’t handle any more of this, Thatch.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to do tonight,” I counter. “Babe, we made these together,” I point between them, “and must deal with them together. There’s no holiday in parenting.”
“Sign me up,” she says, as if it was an offer, while rising from the bed, tilting her head up at the ceiling fan as if it’s nothing out of the norm. Just next to her stands our smiling son, his eyes on it as well, his expression morphing into one of ... gloating? It’s then I flit my focus to our tween-aged daughter, who’s composing a text, utterly unaffected.
Serena turns back to me, her eyes vacant, depleted, utterly void of life. It’s then that the image of her standing in thedoorway of her parent’s house resurfaces. The side-by-side mental comparison jarring. Next to the shell that was once my wife stands a gorgeous nineteen-year-old, the setting sun glinting off her hair as she shouts out to her parents from the open door.
Now, seeing both the girl and woman side by side, I realize what’s so painful about the two of them. The utter loss of confidence in her posture. As well as the life in her eyes. A sudden surge of protectiveness thrums through me at the idea that I’ve somehow let this happen. That I’ve missed something vital.
“Baby, go,” I immediately coax, palming her back and ushering her toward the door and away from the two threats. “Finish your bath. I’ve got this.”
With a nod, she wordlessly drifts down the hall, her shoulders slumped as I snatch Gracie’s phone and usher her inside Peyton’s room before snapping the door shut.
“What in the hell?” I ask between the two of them.
“Dad, I was—” Gracie’s protest is cut short by my glare before I share it between both our children. “No, not just tonight. What has gotten into you two? You went from somewhat mannered and reasonable to utterly out of control.”
“I not out of control,” Peyton shouts. “I was just playing!”
“Peyton O’Neal, yelling at your father after you wreck your room is absolutely not okay.” I scrutinize the two of them and see my words have zero effect. None. “This, whatever this is, is over,” I spout. “In the last two weeks, I’ve had to patch drywall, twice,” I stare down at Peyton before shifting to Gracie, “and pick you up from school three times for gossiping in class, over the teacher, and being an all-around jerk.”
“Jerk,” Peyton points at Gracie.
“Pot, kettle,” I counter. “You get sad faces every single day, Peyton. Every single day!”
“I’m trying, Daddy!” Peyton hollers, taking Gracie’s lead.
“No, you’re not. You’re not even trying to do your chores. You’re both being the worst version of yourselves when you know better. Neither of you are doing anything to make us proud. Your mother ...” I stare in the direction she left, or rather fled. “Can’t you see how sad she is?”
Both talk over me in shit excuse, neither hearing a word I’ve said.
“Hush!” I boom, and the room instantly goes silent as Peyton’s eyes widen. The daddy tone I haven’t used in far too long coming into play as I nod toward Gracie. “I’m at my wit’s end, Gracie. You don’t care about what’s going on in this family, and I get it. I was young too—”
“A hundred years ago,” Gracie spouts snidely.
“A hundred years ago,” Peyton parrots as the blood vessels in my body tighten to the point I think my head might pop off. It’s then I feel the snap, the hold I’ve been gripping tightly onto since I carved the turkey dissolving in my hands. As I free fall, resignation sets in, and my mouth starts to move of its own volition.
“You two don’t appreciate anything. Not what we do for you on the daily, not the rules for this house or outside of it. You don’t do anything at all that we ask of you. You’re spoiled, disrespectful, ungrateful, and just plain defiant. So, guess what? Starting now, Rudolph is crossing some things off your lists,” I declare as both their defiant smiles drop. Rudolph, because despite our best attempts, even at four and a half years old, Peyton still considers Santa his nemesis. “Which means, Gracie, you aren’t getting that Mac.”
“What!?” she shouts.
“An octave higher, and I won’t even think to stop Rudolph from delivering the ridiculous amount of makeup.”
“Dad!” Gracie immediately disobeys.
“Now the makeup is gone, too,” I cross my arms, feeling lighter with every blow I deliver.