Destiny - a novel - 9. Chapter 9: Christmas Day

Chapter 9: Christmas Day

I pull up the blinds; feeble gray light spills across my Hermione Motor Lodge room.

Nothing.

My brother does not stir.

I walk over to the side of his queen-sized bed – one of two in the room – and jostle my knee against it. The statue under the covers does not strain a marble muscle.

I shove it harder. "Jackson!"

Nothing.

He finally moves once I bounce the mattress with flattened palms. "Get up now, okay?" I tell him.

He rolls on his back and rubs his eyes, reminding me of when he was five, and getting ready after the very first time he woke up early because he had to. He had rubbed the heels of his hands in his eye sockets then as well, and did it to my mom's strains of "You don't want to be late for the start of Kindergarten, do you?!"

Jackson yawning, kicks his legs under the sheets, and shoots his arms straight up to stretch them too.

I verify, "You awake?"

He loosens his taut muscles like a deflating balloon slumping back to earth, complete with sound effects; my brother gives me a head nod.

I start to move away, and his morning croak of a voice calls out, "Hey, Lincoln."

"What?"

"You ok?"

"Sure, bro. You?"

He blinks cakey eyes at me. "Tired."

I come back to sit on the edge of his bed.

"You never told me…" I let my words slide through a grin "…how was your day alone with Dawn?"

"Dude. I'm not sure she likes me all that much."

I laugh a bit, not enough to be cruel, just enough to let him know I care. "Well, from what Jack tells me, Dawn is not the mushy type. Give her time. You just be you around her and relax. What will be will be."

Unexpectedly, a wave of hurt anger washes over me for half a second. I see flashes of that horrible video from the sheriff's press conference. Dawn and Jackson had showed it to me last night, and the one thing we all agreed on – especially his mom – was that Jack was not to see it under any circumstances.

"Hey, Lincoln?" Jackson's sleepy voice snaps me out of my thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you, brother."

He stretches again, this time pulling himself sideways by gripping onto the mattress and rotating his back until it pops. "It's not the same as it was when we were kids."

"Yup. But that might not be such a bad thing." I have to chuckle, but I instantly hear that I've missed my intended emotional mark. Instead of sounding goofy, like I'm brushing it off, I sound sad.

"Lincoln…"

My brother's soft tone again snaps me out of a stupor. I glance at him with lowered head. "Yes?"

"I'm really sorry about that Christmas, the one – "

I interrupt him; I know exactly where's he's going. "It was my fault."

Jackson is astounded. His hands crumple into his lap. "Linc, it was mine. I should have apologized then, but I was a dumb kid. I just want to do it now so you know that I am sorry, and feel guilty."

It's my turn to be amazed. "Jackson, you didn't do anything – I did. I always felt guilty about ruining your Christmas that year."

I rise to my feet and take a step or two towards the TV.

Jackson removes the covers and gets out of bed. He lingers at the foot of it like he wants a hug. "Nah, bro. Don't tell me we've both blamed ourselves for all these years. Fuck – it was their doing, after all, not ours. I think it's time to maybe forget it and move on."

I snicker, glancing down to where my brother's hands have settled in front of his tidy-whities. "Okay, Jackson." I reach around to the desk chair and toss him the towel draped there. His lizard-brain instincts kick in and catch it, confirming what I already knew. I laugh outright. "I would hug it out with you, bro, but I'm afraid your morning wood would get in the way."

Ha-ha, now that's a blush to put any red Christmas ornament to shame!

I let him off the hook with instructions to "Go shower and take care of that so we can get some breakfast."

He dashes off to the crapper like a scared hermit crab, while I try to focus on what still needs to be done.

As I hear the bathroom door lock from the inside, I sit at the desk and click on the brass lamp. I look through one of the shopping bags Jackson brought 'home' yesterday, and pull out the box with Jack's present in it.

Last night, we all stopped by Walgreen's to get cards and gift-wrap – and cheap scissors! Now as I unroll the green and silver pinecone paper I selected because I know Jack will like it, I think back to Mrs. S. and me talking in Jack's room.

I position the box and figure out how much paper to cut.

I don’t know if it's ironic or what, but it's an interesting coincidence that me telling her about the car-slap relates to the same Christmas Jackson was just referring to.

As I hunt in the drug store bag for the tape, I don’t want to relive that event, but slowly the full episode unfolds itself from a long buried place.

The shower goes on in the other room, and I see myself sitting in the living room at home; it was the Christmas when I was thirteen.

"Why you so sullen – so mopey?!" my mom demanded of me.

My lip from where she had busted it open ached a bit as I shook my head. It was Christmas Eve, a couple of days after the slap. And as was usual for this night, the dopy old Yuletime vinyls were spinning out Bing Crosby, Jo Stafford, and other Time-Life holiday crusties – plus, as was also usual for this night, the room was sour smelling from the heavy dose of rum in my parent's eggnog.

We were gathered around the lit and decorated tree doing our ritualized ornament placement. It seems my dad's folks had this custom of not decorating the tree until the 24^th, and my mom had wheedled down the tradition to us simply placing 'the special ornaments' on the Tannenbaum last minute.

"I'm okay." Even I could hear the 'not okay' tone in my voice.

"Stop it, young man!" Pops threatened. "You will treat your mother with respect."

"Yes, sir."

Jackson, who was standing on the little footstool from the kitchen to place a wax angel high in the boughs, came down saying, "Let's enjoy our Christmas Eve, please."

Once on the floor again, he kicked up his elbows, quirked on a goofy grin for me and ran like the eleven-year-old kid that he was to the 'special ornament' box. He picked out a large glass bauble, and I glanced quickly to see Pops sit more upright in his lounger and lift his eggnog mug to a higher position. His reaction was due to the fact that usually my father placed it; it seems it was one of his mother's favorite ornaments, and an antique. Its center was an eggshell-thin red glass ball, shiny and deep looking. All around this was crinkly gold wire wrapping it tight, and off the bottom was a second cap like at the top. From here dangled a fragile glass bell that was hollow all the way around inside. Its faded blue paint revealed that feature, as I knew every inch of it well. Truth to tell, I loved that one too. When I was small I'd find a way to get to where Pops had placed it, and gently tinkle the little bell, for it even had a wire and glass bead clapper inside.

"Here, Lincoln." In a peacemaker tone, which he divided between me and our dad, Jackson said, "You place it."

Pops considered the suggestion for a sullen moment, then sent me a terse nod. It was brief, it made my mom gasp, but it was unmistakable.

I stood up, went to Jackson and watched as he threaded a thin wire hook through the top of the ornament.

Cupping the heirloom with both hands was an odd experience – we were barely allowed to look at his mother's treasures, much less handle or place them on the tree.

I walked up to a branch front and center, just as that Patti Page song, Christmas Bells, started playing. I knew Pops always chose such a spot for this particular decoration. The sticky-sweet, but sharp smell of pinesap stung my nose as I looked to mom and Pops for approval.

They nodded, and I carefully placed the hook amongst some of the soft needles.

Slowly, amazed by this miraculous happening, and maybe letting some healing and Xmas spirit come into my heart, I stepped back to admire my accomplishment.

As the four of us let out a sigh of relief, and as our eyes were trained on it, the ornament slipped off the branch and shattered on the floor.

I stared at the puddle of silver, red and blue shards entangled in an empty ball of gold wire with shocked disbelief.

My mother stood, Jackson inhaled as prelude to sobbing, and my dad launched himself at me.

I barely had time to take one step back before he was crushing my upper arms in his vice grip. He was shaking me, and my chest was suddenly wet with the warm rum, egg and milk spilt from the mug still crooked in his thumb. "I trusted you!" he shouted.

"Pops…" I started crying uncontrollably; the sour alcohol smell from his breath was now all over my clothes. "I…I…didn't – "

He wouldn't let me say anymore. A hand came up to slap the back of my head with the words, "To your rooms, the both of you! And no crying – not in this house!"

Jackson and I went to bed that night without any supper, and I don’t know about him, but I cried myself to sleep. How could I not? I had ruined it for my bro.

Christmas morning, Jackson and I got confirmation of that as we stood and stared at the vacant spot our tree had been in. It was gone; the rents must have spent the entire evening packing all the decorations and lights away.

Jackson drifted to the front window and moved the thin curtain aside. He silently gestured to me and I looked too.

Our naked tree lay in the gutter, ready for pick up like garbage.

Needless to say, my brother and I got no presents that year, and our Pops' statement was clear as a bell. He was even willing to show the neighbors that he loved a stupid piece of old glass more than he loved Jackson and me.

A tear falls on Jack's wrapping paper.

The shower is back on in my hearing, and I quickly mop up the spot of moisture before it ruins everything.

Jack's Christmas is not going to be ruined, not this year, not any of the many he and I will have in the years to come. If I have one last spark of true Christmas spirit un-extinguished in my soul, God, please hear my prayer.

˚˚˚˚˚

We're getting off the elevator, and everyone at the nurses' station looks up and smiles at me and Jackson. We jostle our shopping bags, return the greeting and move into the wide-open corridor to the right.

Beyond the light and activity of the entry, there's not a soul in the hallway, and approaching Jack's room like this always turns into a rough mental exercise for me. Especially now, first thing in the morning, the not knowing how my boy will look; the fear that he will have had a bad night; the guilt that I could not be there to hold his hand while he was sick. Those considerations add cruel gravity to my strong desire to look 'normal,' bright and chipper for his morale. They also lead me to consider Jack's mom, for morning after morning, the sheer exhaustion on her face helplessly reintroduces my frustration to me: I should be the one there with him at night. Love means sharing the burden, and I'm not allowed to do my part, which I hate.

I'll admit it, I hate feelings of powerlessness.

"Hold up, Linc." Jackson's hand latches onto the crook of my right elbow, making the two bags heavy with gifts that I am holding swing and strike the wall.

A bit stunned, I see my bro looking at his phone.

"Dawn sent me a text saying to wait up." He immediately starts typing. "Here, let – me – text – her – that – we…are…here. Done."

"What's up?" I ask, glancing down the hall. We're only two or three paces from Jack's door, and oddly enough it's shut and dark. His door is almost never closed like that.

"IDK," Jackson tells me, sounding as surprised as I feel. "But she said to wait before we entered the room and let her know we're out here. She wants to talk to us first, she said."

A rectangle of light appears from behind Jack's door; Dawn comes out and suspiciously forces the wood to close quickly behind her. She divides her attention between my brother and me, skimming our faces with worried looks of her own.

Hoofing it to us soundlessly, she gets right up to my chest before asking, "You know that vid..?"

I chortle bitterly, "The one accusing me of being a pervert? Yes, what about it?"

Silence.

Dawn gives me an overly-serious vibe, which I try to brush off, "And I'm not concerned – "

She interrupts by placing a forceful hand on my lower arm. The shopping bags full of presents react for me.

Dawn holds my eyes, and informs me under her breath, "Well, there's another surprise."

Jackson speaks up for me. "What's that, Dawn?"

Again, her look gets divided between us. "They're here," she says plainly.

"Who's here?" I ask, dreading the answer I'm about to receive.

˚˚˚˚˚

Once we get into the room – Dawn leading, Jackson second, and me last – I immediately notice all the lights are on. I glance at Jack sitting up in bed, and he's obviously uncomfortable.

I shove the shopping bags into my brother's hands and instantly switch off the overhead lights.

"Better, babe?"

"Yes, Linc."

I push past where Hamish and Christie are standing to get to the window. I adjust the blinds and watch Jack's eyes for signs of comfort. Once the slats are partially closed, I get the signal I'm looking for and stop.

I smile warmly and stride over to Mrs. Shaw, who is standing in front of the lounge chair by Jack's bedside. I lean over and kiss her on the cheek. "Merry Christmas… Mom." Although she had invited me a few times before to try it on for size, this was the first time I had actually slipped on the m-word to see how it fit. It was nice; it felt comfortable and right.

Mrs. S. smiles completely. "Merry Christmas, son."

While she hugs me with warm hand-pats on the back, my sight slips over to Jack's siblings. They are floored. While I vaguely let myself acknowledge that Jackson must have set the presents down – because my brother is stealthily snapping pictures of both their state and me and Jack's mom hugging it out – I silently take pleasure in Hamish and Christie's internal chaos. 'Did I do that?' I wickedly wonder.

I go to Jack's side, and take my boyfriend's hand. Leaning over a bit with a grin on my lips, I stroke his forehead and adjust his white cap. Then I come in to plant a sweet kiss on his lips, and I'm rewarded handsomely once I pull back with Jack's smile beaming back at me brightly.

"You know what the only good thing about being kept away from your side is, Jack?"

"No, Linc."

"It's how sweet it is to be reunited with you. Merry Christmas, kid."

He squeezes my hand. "Merry Christmas, my beautiful Lincoln Oliver."

"Hello, hello!" a friendly voice and loud knock calls out from the door. In another moment, Dr. Kimball rounds the corner, and nods warmly at Dawn and Jackson standing together near the closet. He does the same to Mrs. Shaw, and then to Christie and Hamish.

Finally he walks straight up to Jack. "Merry Christmas to you from Marta! She's thinking about you especially hard today and wants your Xmas to be joyful." He uses the back of his hand against Jack's forehead to check for fever.

"Now I feel guilty," Jack chuckles. "Are you spending Christmas away from loved ones to be stuck here with me?"

The doc's bedside manner kicks in with an automatic laugh. "I'd be with you Jack, through any holiday, any season, if you needed me. But, tell me, how are you feeling today? Appetite? Chills?"

"I'm ok, Doc, and jazzed that I'll get one day without treatment. That should let me enjoy a bit of my turkey dinner tonight…" his hand reaches out to my waist "…with my Linc."

The doctor's painted-on expression morphs into a real one right before my eyes; a glaze of moisture seems to cloud his vision – which he blinks away – and a sniffle comes out of nowhere. "If any two people deserve a turkey dinner, Jack, it's you and Lincoln."

There's a dismissive sound from the heart of the room and none of us have to look to know it came out of Hamish's throat.

"Dr. Kimball," starts Mrs. Shaw with conversational bluntness. "These are Jack's siblings, Hamish and Christie."

The oncologist goes to them with an extended arm. "Ah, yes!" He shakes hands strongly with Hamish, and then gently with Christie. "I remember meeting you once before, a long time ago, when Jack first started seeing me."

The sibs pass an unspoken 'twin-speak' question of do you remember? The answer comes back no.

Dr. Kimball proceeds in a softer tone, "You've grown so much. You two were about ten and twelve then. Wow, how time flies."

"Yes," Hamish says without emotion.

Dr. Kimball slightly stiffens up against the non-warmth coming off of Jack's brother. "Well, Merry Christmas, and thanks for coming."

A startled "You invited them?!" slips out of my mouth before I can stop it.

"In a manner of speaking, yes." The doc turns and announces generally: "We want to run a donor match on Hamish and Christie for an experimental treatment involving bone marrow."

"Naturally," says Mrs. Shaw, stepping forward and towards where her older kids are standing. "I'm proud that they've come out here last minute to have a biopsy taken. I'm getting one done today too."

I grab Jack's hand with a new sense of hope. "Then, doc – test me."

"And me!" Jackson rings out.

"And you better not refuse my sample either," Dawn says in her in typically inscrutable way.

The doctor looks temporarily overcome with emotion. "Yes – I'm getting tested as well." He restores all of his attention on Jack. "And so is Marta when she gets here in a few days."

"That's cool," Jack says. "So, she'll be with you for New Years."

"Yes. Yes, she will." He pulls out a snow-white handkerchief. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go and add three more names to the biopsy roster."

˚˚˚˚˚

The late afternoon quiet has overtaken Jack's room. We're waiting for the last two of our group to rejoin us; Jackson and Mrs. Shaw are getting their bone marrow biopsies taken right now, but quite frankly it's a tense situation for Dawn and I to be in the same room with Jack's sibs. 'The vid' is on our mind, and so is a high-volume confrontation with the evildoers about it, but the truth is, we don't. Not here, not now, not while Jack knows nothing about its existence.

From my position standing in front of the closet, I have a good view of Hamish and Christie on the couch. They are sitting uncomfortably, rocking from side to side and complaining about how painful the procedure was.

I can feel a sour look screwing up my face as I glance at Dawn. She's standing at Jack's bedside, with my boyfriend's hand firmly locked in her own. I imagine I can see a flush of anger at the sib's kvetching when Dawn's eyes meet mine. I know exactly what the brother and sister are grumbling about, I was there, had the same thing done – and so has Jack's bestie. We were laid out one by one on our left side atop a stainless steel bed, given a shot and told not to look, as the needle was extra long. Then, after the anesthesia kicked in, a pressure was felt, and a sort of corkscrew motion perceived, and then it was over. A stitch, a bandage, a sitting up, a question if we felt all right, then on our feet and into our clothes, and now I can feel the Advil dulling the residual discomfort quite nicely. It's a tolerable pain – Dawn's eyes confirm that – and it seems we both agree that for Jack, and considering his pain, it's nothing at all.

My chin kicks up at the siblings. I keep my voice calm. "It was a bit burning, but I'd do it again, do it a million times, if it helps Jack."

"Aww, thanks, babe." Jack jostles Dawn's hand to show his adamancy.

I go to him, and Dawn laces my beautiful boyfriend's fingers with mine. I bend down to kiss him, however motion from across the room catches my eye; Christie and Hamish indulge in private, 'told you so' lip pursing. I don’t want to hate them, but…

There is the sound of rustling fabric, and the sibs look up. Mrs. Shaw and Jackson come into the room. Jackson slips next to Dawn's side looking like he's trying to hide some mild agony, but Jack's mom sails into the center of the room all smiles and perky enthusiasm. Gotta love her.

"What time is your flight?" she asks her eldest.

Hamish duly replies, "Seven PM, out of SFO."

His mother's hands clap together like there's all the time in the world. "Good! That means we can have our little gift exchange in a bit, but do it before you have to go."

Everybody nods like they are lost in their own world, and Christie gets to her feet. She stretches a moment, and then her eyes affix on something, while a wraith of a smile washes over her face; it's the kind that's suppressed but fueled from behind the scenes with the force of a kid on Christmas morning.

She comes straight up to me as if in a trance, and I have to let go of Jack's hand and move towards the closet to give her room. She heads for the bedside table. "May I?" she asks, and after Jack nods, Christie picks up his snow globe. A light shake, and the girl's eyes rise all wonder-smitten as she holds it up to the light.

"Lincoln gave me that."

"It's beautiful," she says truthfully, and a bit of that truthfulness even shines on me in the form of an unguarded smile.

"Speaking of which…" As the snow globe gets lowered with her hand, Christie's mood is suddenly all business. "I sent you a bouquet of flowers with a big orange ribbon. Did you get it, because I don’t see it in the room."

Jack blinks and looks desperately at his mom.

"Yes, dear," Mrs. S. says. "They arrived yesterday, and I'm sure they made some sick child in this ward very happy."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…" and here Mrs. Shaw's glance around the room is to indicate it was a group decision "…once the media exposed Jack's location, this room got inundated with orange-ribbon flowers, teddy bears, chocolates, balloons – you name it! It was all too much, so Jack suggested, and we all agreed, that everything coming for him should be diverted to kids who don’t generally get that much attention – minus the notes and cards, which we collect – "

Christie cuts her off rather curtly to directly confront Jack. "You don’t care about your public?! It's just like with the memorial at the house."

At first it appears that my boyfriend's shock resides in the fact that his sister would speak so roughly to him, but in another moment, calmness reasserts itself and he reaches out his hand.

He touches the bottom of the snow globe so Christie has to raise it up again. "A gift like this from a loved one matters, not a hollow gesture from some busybody stranger."

A slow-creeping but unmistakable dawning of recognition moves across Christie's face. She stares blankly at the hand holding the globe, and looks like she's sorry.

"OK!" Mrs. Shaw's enthusiasm returns with a hand slap. "Time for our gift exchange. Get your bags, and let's reassemble back here. Ready, set, go!"

Jack's siblings stand aside by the couch, and I notice his sister opens her backpack to retrieve something.

The rest of us form a line to get access to the closet; we had stashed our Christmas goodies in there. We rustle and laugh a bit too as we untangle shopping bags. Eventually, Mrs. S. takes up position on Jack's left, standing in front of the lounge chair, and Dawn pushes me forward so I stand at Jack's right-hand side. Dawn and Jackson settle mid-bed, with the girl on my side and my bro next to Mrs. Shaw. Then and only then do Christie and Hamish sidle up to stand sheepishly at the foot of Jack's bed. Whatever it is Christie has in hers hands, she keeps it below the level of the mattress, and well out of sight.

Mrs. Shaw's hands come together one more time. "Merry Christmas! It's so wonderful to be with family on this day…" her glance purposefully falls on me and her hand reaches across to take mine "…and with extended family, Linc, Dawn and Jackson." Our fingers loosen and my gaze falls to see a beautiful contentment on Jack's face.

Soon the gifts begin to flow. Jack's bed becomes a sea of torn wrapping paper roiling under a tangle of seaweed ribbon.

My boy's mom gives him a pair of silk pajamas with comments about "It's good for your skin," and he gives her a cashmere cardigan with buttons that look like pearls; she slips it on right away. To Jackson she hands a big flat box that turns out to contain a cool, faded-gray sports coat. It's printed down the right hand side in pale white designs looking like tattoos; it is dressy but casual, swank but cool. My brother, like the good kid that he is, thanks her profusely, saying it's the kind of thing he needs. He also lets a telling nod and smile slip onto Dawn, as she was the one who had picked it out for him. In return to Mrs. S., he gives a heavy box of Neiman-Marcus Texas Fruitcake slices. When her enthusiasm slips a bit, Jackson explains that now she'd have something to snack on while sitting up the night with Jack. Dumb, but sweet, kid; Dawn and me exchange an eye-roll on that one. I bet Texas fruitcake at 2 AM is exactly what Jack's mom is hankering for.

In any event, Mrs. Shaw's hand reaches out and pulls Jackson in for a kiss on the cheek, and does it with a "Thank you, dear" delivered in all honesty.

To me she gives a really cool sweater with a fleecy feel and long strands, and I give Jack's mom a clip-on LED light for her sewing at night; that also earns me a kiss on the cheek. She's actually upset when she calls on Dawn to unwrap the gift she was supposed to buy for herself in Mrs. Shaw's name, but Jack's mom soon says she would have done the same thing, and the little storm clouds of doubt gathering on Dawn's face dissipate. All is well again.

His mom says Jack is up next, so Dawn feeds my boy packages from her shopping sack. First, my brother's clothes fest continues as he unwraps 3 retro looking faded tee-shirts with old cartoon characters on them – like, Yogi Bear, and Mutley, the snickering dog. In the same box is a pair of white jeans, and Jack comments about spring being around the corner. That elicits an ear-to-ear reaction, and a "Thanks, bro!"

In return, Jackson gives him a small rectangular box, that when Jack opens it, contains a weird little machine. To my boyfriend's puzzled look, my brother announces "It's a sweater depillar, you know, a shaver to keep them looking sharp." My scowl at him instantly becomes red-faced as he adds "It's so you, Jack, can depill your boyfriend's sweaters anytime you want, you know, in private." Cheeky brat… Anyway, everyone laughs, so he gets what he wanted with his gag gift. Jack being more knowledgeable about his bestie's stubbornness than his mom, motions to Jackson – whom he'd asked to get a gift for her in his mom's name – and to hand it over.

It's a cool sweatshirt, a little lighter than 'chocolate brown,' but with pale pink hearts here and there; it's girly, but on the tough side of missy fashions. Yeah, Dawn's unshielded grin tells me my bro got at least one gift right – the one that matters to him..? My contemplations are halted abruptly when Jack mentions Hamish's name. We pass down two gifts, and Christie and her brother open them at the same time: Hamish holds up a cool wallet with suede trim, and Christie unfurls a long silk scarf in peach and rose hues. This scarf immediately gets spun around her neck a few times. They offer a combined "Thank you" to Jack, and he nods. The sibs act pissed as they realize Jackson has stealthily been taking pix of them opening up and admiring their gifts.

Our Santa for the day says my turn is next, so I have Jackson pull out the gift for Dawn he got me. When she tears in and holds up a three-pair pack of pastel ankle socks with lace frills, I tell him flatly "Remind me next year what a lousy shopper you are, ok bro?" He just laughs: "Well, I thought they were cute!" That earns him a death-wish snigger from Dawn. "Hoped you saved the receipt," she mumbles, and again, we all laugh. Jackson pulls out a thin box and places it in my hands. I open it to find a super slick pair of Italian racing gloves. I try one on, knowing my happy display of teeth is totally outrageous, and I also know my bro can do all right in the gift department when he sets his mind to it. Feeling a little bit bad, I slip him the gift I got for him from the drug store. He palms the wrapped six-inch tube a second, probably guessing what it is, and rips off the paper from a can of Axe Body Spray. I say "Hint, hint, brother." "Thanks very much" he says as he lightly mists the air. "Dark Temptations" I croon. "Somebody's personal favorite…" my head drifts in Dawn's general direction, and her death-wish teeth gnashing turns to me, the other Oliver brother. This time only Jackson laughs.

"What about you, Dawn?" Mrs. S. says. "Who do you have left?"

Dawn fishes in her bag and angles up a box the size of a small toaster. It goes in Mrs. Shaw's hands, and soon is unwrapped to reveal a Lancôme skin and make-up kit. Mrs. S. is over the moon. To Jack, she passes a small envelope, and he pulls out a gift card while Dawn explains "It's for iTunes, classical only, so check out the Mozart, ok?" Jack likes it, and smiles as he says "You got it. Thank you!" To my brother she hands a soft package and a shit-eating grin. Jackson opens it up to find 3 pair of dress socks. "Ha-ha!" Dawn chirps. "I saw you buying those stupid granny socks, so I returned the favor with grandpa examples for you." To Jackson's beet-red blush, Dawn adds "Besides, you can use them! Hint, hint, change your socks more often – pee yu!" Jackson fingers them, looks side to side like he taking his medicine, but I know him well enough to see he's loving every moment. He's slowly putting this event into his long term memory, and feeling the fabric for what it is, a tangible connection to Dawn.

"Well…" Mrs. Shaw's hands come together silently. "I guess that's about everybody…unless…" Her eyes fall on Hamish and Christie.

Before his siblings can say anything, Jack speaks up. "Ok, I'm sick and tired of ignoring the elephant in the room. How could you? How could you go to the police and try to get Lincoln in trouble like that?! Do you really hate me that much..?" By the end, his anger has dissolved into simply wanting the truth.

Dawn, Jackson and I all stare at each other with open mouths; Jack wasn't supposed to see that vid, but then a glance at Mrs. Shaw's downcast eyes tell us who had shown it to her younger son.

Hamish tries to bolster Christie's pretty apparent wavering on this issue with a stern look. He tells Jack without emotion, "It's a matter for the law to decide, not us."

Stunned shock reverberates around the room; that was an arctic blast if ever there was one.

"Um," Christie stumbles over her tone as she clears her throat. "We – Hamish and I – have a little something for Jack. Merry Christmas, brother."

An unwrapped box of chocolates gets passed from hand to hand over the sea of torn and tattered gift-wrapping on Jack's bed. They must know he'll be unable to eat them.

At first, nothing but anger seems to show as Jack fingers the box, and then like he's remembering something, he turns a smile to me. "Look, Linc – chocolate covered cherries. You like them, right?"

The tone of my clever boy's 'right' is clear enough. He hands me the box, silently asking me to play nice, but all I can manage is a tepid sneer and head nod towards his sibs, which seems to placate my boyfriend and his mother.

I feel something flat stuck to the bottom of the box. Flipping it over, I see the price tag from the SFO Gift Shop still attached.

Mrs. Shaw clears her throat; her tone is icy. "Well, we ah, can't have you two miss your flight."

Dawn begins to motion to her shopping bag, thinking Mrs. S. is about to gift her two eldest, but a grim look from Jack's mom halts it.

"I'm sorry, Christie and Hamish, but with all the stress, I'm afraid all I can give you this year will be a check."

As she slides past Jackson and goes to her purse, my bro, Dawn and I exchange glances. I know Dawn said she got presents from Mrs. S. to give them, but maybe their mom's decided they do not deserve them.

"Come on, Christie; Hamish, let's get a cab called for you." Mrs. Shaw makes to leave the room. Hamish follows right away with a waxy "Bye, Jack" trailing behind him.

His sister lingers a bit. "Take care, Jack," she says, sounding somewhat teary, but leaving right away too.

Somehow, with them gone, the air in Jack's room feels a million times lighter. We all actually sigh in relief.

"Don’t worry, Lincoln," Jack tells me.

I kiss him. "I'm not, baby."

"Hey you two," Dawn chuckles. "Did you notice anything missing in the gift exchange?"

Jack and I share wide-eyes and shrug.

"Yeah," Jackson chimes in too, dipping in his shopping bag. "One gift remains un-gifted, Lincoln. Here." He hands me a small, but exquisitely wrapped box. 'For Jack…' the gift tag says '…with all my love, Lincoln.'

My eyes become a bit cloudy, but not so much that I don’t see Dawn place an identical box in Jack's hands. We both look at the culprits.

Dawn explains, "Jackson and I decided to coordinate your gifts this year. We hope you like them."

I shoot a puzzled scowl to my bro; he figures out what I want to know.

"Sorry, Linc. I had you wrap an empty box this morning – I didn't want to spoil the surprise."

"It's okay," I concede.

My boy and I exchange boxes with a kiss, and mine is tagged: 'For Lincoln Oliver, with all my love, Jack.'

We open them, and simultaneously hold up a heavy gold charm on an equally golden rope bracelet. The dangles are half-a-heart each – mine on the left, his on the right; mine inscribed: 'Jack loves Lincoln,' and his saying: 'Lincoln loves Jack.'

My boy and I silently press them together to form a whole heart.

"It's like us, baby."

"Yes, just like you and me."

We put them on each other's wrist, which is easy, as they clasp with a magnetized catch.

"Merry Christmas, kid."

"Merry Christmas, Lincoln."