numb with the cold. “Come look at my new bike!”
“You got a bike?” Cincy shrieked. “Outta sight!”
She bounded out of the house, wearing flannel pajamas and rabbit-eared house shoes.
Lenora came, too, carrying her coffee mug and lifting her terry-cloth robe off the ground. Her hair hung loose down her back and glistened like mink in the morning sunshine. I pictured my mom’s short, kinky hair and felt guilty for making the comparison.
Pulling my red Stingray erect, I held it for my friends’ inspection. They circled and exclaimed until my face hurt from grinning.
“Come in and eat breakfast with us,” Cincy said, dancing in the cold. “We can go riding after it warms up out here.”
I laid the bike gently on its side and we all three sprinted for the warmth of the house.
Christmas carols played from a radio somewhere in the living room, and the house smelled like cinnamon and candles. The whole sunporch was their Christmas tree, except the one end Lenora kept sealed off for controlled research. I’d recently learned she was a real scientist, a lepidopterist.
Strings of tiny colored lights looped around the tallest plants and wound across the ivy-covered ceiling. Glass ornaments and silver icicles draped the other greenery, shimmering with every breath of movement. A few nights before, Cincy and I had sat on the porch with all the other lights off, whispering about the mysteries of Christmas and our approaching teenage years. In the dark, the place looked enchanted.
This morning, though, it was sunny and bright. Cincy and Lenora were having breakfast there. Lenora had set up a card table in a narrow space among the plants and covered it with a red cloth. She crowded in another chair for me and insisted on sharing her omelet.
Cincy went to get me a glass of orange juice and returned with two small packages tied in curly bows. She laid them in front of me one at a time.
“This one’s from me, and this one’s from Mom.”
My smile fell. “But I didn’t get you anything.” I searched Cincy’s face, appealing.
She made a brushing motion with one hand. “You weren’t supposed to, Gwendolyn. These are no big deal, believe me.”
She flipped her long hair behind her shoulder with a toss of her head, a motion that had become characteristic lately. “Go on. Open them.”
I tore into hers first, finding a pair of knitted gloves. They were white, with red-and-blue reindeer marching around the backs and palms between borders of holly. “Ooh, they’re pretty,” I said. I pulled them on and flexed my fingers.
“I told you it was no big deal,” Cincy said. “Grandma got me an extra pair and I knew you’d lost yours.”
“Thanks,” I said, adopting her lightheartedness. “My hands were frozen to the handlebars on the way up here.” But I wished desperately that I had presents for them.
As soon as I picked up Lenora’s gift, I could tell it was a book. I tore off the paper. “Wow.”
I ran a gloved hand over the picture of a tiger swallowtail on the cover and read aloud, “The Golden Nature Guide to Butterflies and Moths, 423 illustrations in color.” I glanced up at Lenora, feeling she’d entrusted me with something special. “Thanks. I love it.”
Lenora winked at Cincy. “See, I told you.”
“I know,” Cincy said, faking disgust. “Science. Gross.” She flipped her hair. “Come look at my Christmas loot!”
I tucked the book in my arm but hesitated. “Want us to help with the dishes first?” I asked Lenora.
She smiled. “Thanks, Bobbie, but since it’s Christmas, I’ll let you off the hook.” We streaked to Cincy’s room.
Later in the day the temperature rose into the forties and we rode our bikes across the bridge and into town.
“I ought to stop by and check on Mom,” I told her.
We parked in the driveway and entered through the kitchen. Cincy needed to use the bathroom, so I steered her down the hall and went into the living room alone.
The room smelled sour. Mom was asleep on the sofa, still in her sweat suit, the TV playing. She hadn’t even roused when we came in. Asleep, her face looked much older than thirty-five.
“She’s okay,” I told Cincy when she came out. “Anyway, she’s still breathing.” I had begun to develop a caustic edge about my mother’s drinking when I talked to Cincy. I never mentioned it to anyone else.
On the way back to her house, we traded and rode each other’s bikes.
Late that afternoon Cincy and I were watching It’s a Wonderful Life on TV when I heard the phone in the kitchen ring and Lenora answer.
She called into the living room. “Bobbie, your mom wants you to start home now, before it gets dark.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll sack up some Snickerdoodles for you to take to your mom,” Cincy said.
I went to Cincy’s room and put on my coat and new gloves. Luckily, the butterfly book fit into the oversize pocket of my car coat. My new bike didn’t have a basket yet.
As I came back through the dining room, I heard Cincy’s subdued voice in the kitchen. “Isn’t there something you can do to help her? Maybe she just needs a friend.”
I froze, my throat squeezing shut.
What was she talking about? She was my friend! And I didn’t need any help.
“I don’t think so,” Lenora answered. “Every woman has her own demons to fight. I don’t think Ruth wants to stop drinking yet.”
Heat flashed to my cheeks. They had no right to talk about my mother.
Despite my indignation, a realization spread over me, slow and thick as syrup. Alone in the dusky dining room with my hands clenched into fists at my sides, I understood for the first time that my mother was an alcoholic. Neither Cincy nor Lenora had said the word. It simply burbled up from within me like a belch, embarrassing and unwanted.
My mother is an alcoholic. And I knew beyond a doubt that this was how other people saw her.
If this was how people saw Ruth, how did they see me? The child of the alcoholic, an object of pity? Was that how Lenora and Cincy saw me? Did they include me in their family out of pity instead of love?
The edges of my world crumbled beneath my feet; my head reeled.
I waited two beats until I could control my voice, then yelled toward the kitchen. “I’m going now! Thanks for the presents!” And fled out the front door.
Cincy caught up with me as I climbed on my bike. “Wait! Here’s your cookies.”
“Thanks.” I tucked them in my other pocket, avoiding her eyes, and pushed off down the driveway.
The tires wobbled until I caught my balance, then began to pedal recklessly, gaining speed. I could hear the blood zinging through my veins, alcoholic, alcoholic, while I careened down the hill on the red bike my mother gave me, far too fast for my beginner skills.
The sun hung on the horizon in a lonely strip of sky between the river and a bank of gray clouds. By the time I reached the bottom of the hill where the drive turned left, my nose was running and I was flying.
My tires hit a patch of loose gravel and skidded sideways. The bike waffled and the steep edge of the road loomed close. Beyond, a rocky slope descended into a gulch that led toward the river.
I gritted my teeth, my heart pounding. Part of me wanted to give in, go sailing into the chasm. But some other, stubborn girl rose up on the pedals, gripped the handlebars, and fought for balance.
I