second
26th December
The second day of Christmas
When the doorbell rings on 26th December, Christen considers not answering. Yesterday had been so perfect that she kind of wants to keep the outside world away for as long as possible, as though she can preserve that safe, happy feeling for just as long as she isn’t interrupted. But it’s not really in her to ignore people, so after a second she gets up and opens the door.
It’s Tobin, and Christen’s stomach flips so hard with relief it slightly worries her.
‘Happy second day of Christmas.’
‘You’re a goof.’ Christen feels her cheeks smile before her brain realizes they’re doing it. The tip of Tobin’s nose is red with cold, despite the giant oatmeal-colored scarf swathed around her neck and most of her torso, and she looks so adorable it takes Christen a second to notice the brightly-wrapped box behind her. ‘Did you get me another present?’
‘Maybe. Also hot chocolate, the good kind, and before you ask, yes I brought the necessary fixings.’ Tobin hands her a thermos flask, a candy cane, and a packet of giant marshmallows. ‘Um - you should probably open it out here. The present.’
‘Tobin, it’s like minus degrees.’
‘That’s why I brought the hot chocolate, so your hands don’t freeze. Drinking it is just a bonus.’ Tobin stands aside and gestures almost shyly. ‘Sooner you open it, the sooner we can head inside.’
Christen lifts the wrapping away carefully, and there’s a moment of deja-vu as she sees another pear tree, this time in a bright yellow pot, and another partridge - but this time there are two extra birds, heads together, cooing as they come back into the light.
‘They’re turtle doves. Do you remember -’
‘Oh my god, of course I remember! How old were we, six?’
‘I think you might even have been five.’
Christen’s heart lifts, the way it always does when she thinks of that memory: her first week of Sunday school in the big airy room behind the local church, her mom ushering her into a chair beside a little girl with the prettiest smile she’d ever seen.
There had been big pots of coloring pencils all over the tables, which even then Tobin’s six-year-old fingers had visibly itched to pick up, and the teacher had written out a quote for them to illustrate. Song of Solomon 2:12, The flowers appear in the earth: the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land. The teacher had explained patiently that ‘the turtle’ meant not a turtle with a shell which swam, but a turtle dove, a kind of bird famed for its beautiful singing, but it had been too late: Christen and Tobin were already bonding over coming up with increasingly outrageous - and loud - guesses about what the voice of the turtle would sound like, until the teacher made them take five outside the door. Christen quit Sunday school after that, Tobin stayed, but their friendship was set from that moment.
‘I’m not gonna lie, I still don’t know what it was about that display that made you think yes, that’sthe kind of person I want to accompany me on life’s never-ending ascension.’
‘What can I say, I just really liked the sounds you made.’
Tobin raises an eyebrow. Christen realizes how that might have sounded and blushes hard enough to fry an egg.
They sort out the birds and Christen manages to persuade Tobin inside to warm up, but it’s a beautiful day and she doesn’t resist too hard when Tobin persuades her in turn to come for a walk around the lake. The air is sharp and clear, winter at its wintriest, and the sky is the exact blue of Tobin’s coat.
‘Did you enjoy yourself yesterday?’ asks Tobin, after ten minutes of pottering silently along the shore collecting interesting pebbles.
‘You know I did.’
‘I know you said so, but you might just have been being polite.’
‘I’m not that good a liar.’
‘But you are that good a guest.’
Christen pokes her tongue out primly. ‘I don’t feel like I’m a guest when I’m with you. You’re far too annoying.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Tobin reaches for Christen’s gloved hand and drops something in it: a piece of glass, exactly the blue-green of Christen’s eyes, edges smoothed away by the water. ‘Found it.’
‘Found what?’
‘The perfectest pebble. We can go home now.’
‘That’s not a pebble.’
‘Oh. I’d better take it back then.’
Christen just smiles and pockets it, swatting Tobin’s hand away. They both know it’ll end up on the windowsill of Christen’s bathroom, together with the driftwood Tobin brought home from Melbourne and the old perfume bottle she’d saved from a rubbish heap in Algiers, just like the wall above Tobin’s dresser is patchworked all over with clippings and quotes that Christen saves for her. Tobin shoves her gently before stuffing her cold hands back in her own pockets, and they keep walking.
Over the last few months in particular, Christen has realized that being with her best friend gives her the space - maybe even the only space - where she can just be. Tobin isn’t much of a talker at the best of times, preferring a hug or a squeeze of the hand or a kind gesture, but she’s the only person left who Christen can really be quiet with: no small talk, no party manners, no well-meaning condolences Christen doesn’t have answers to. She needs it, especially after all the excitement of Christmas Day.
They reach the little cove where Christen’s dad taught them to skip stones, and wordlessly they both stoop to look for suitable candidates. Christen finds some perfect flat ones and holds a couple out to Tobin, whose hands aren’t quite blue with cold, but getting there. ‘Where are your gloves?!’
Tobin flexes her fingers and grimaces. ‘I think I took them off while I was moving the pear tree.’
‘I’ll lend you some to wear home.’ It’s not like they don’t reliably swap clothes anyway. ‘Thank you for that, by the way, and the other partridge. They can be friends, like Crystal’s chickens.’
‘Do chickens have friends?’ Tobin skips her stone perfectly. She always does.
‘That’s what I love about them. Their little personalities. I always visit them when I go see Crystal.’ Christen shields her eyes against the dazzle from the lake and looks back at the house, perched above its pristine slope of green lawn. ‘I was thinking of getting some, actually. I love the idea of hunting for eggs. I feel like this could be a new start for me, and I’d like to be more… connected to the land, I guess. More sustainable.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Well, is it crazy?’
‘Not even a little bit.’ Tobin shakes her head and sidles over, sneaking her frozen hands into Christen’s warm coat pockets. ‘I think it makes a lot of sense.’
‘Good,’ is all Christen manages, because Tobin is so, so close to her and it’s like her entire brain has skidded to a halt. She can’t think of anything except how long Tobin’s eyelashes are, and how golden her eyes are in the sun, and how her lips are so chapped that Christen really, really wants to reach out and -
‘There you are!’
They both swing round like they’ve been scalded. Kelly is rounding the spur with Lindsey at her heels, whooping as she waves. ‘Mama Heath sent us to round you up for Movie-And-Leftovers Afternoon. We saw you from the house, not that you had to make us trek all the way out here, thank you very much.’
‘Nobody asked you to,’ mutters Tobin, at exactly the same moment Christen snaps that it will help them work off the Christmas turkey.