It was the first time Brian and Rachel had celebrated a real Christmas since long before Wendy died, so we’d gone a little overboard with decorating the tree. Brian had brought in a blue spruce from the back woods that took up nearly half the living room and we had covered it with so much tinsel and lights and popcorn and cranberries that you could hardly tell it was a tree at all.

   Rachel shocked us by crying when she opened Brian’s gift and shocked us even more by telling me that she loved me when she opened mine. And as I watched her try on the jacket I tried not to remember the real reason I’d bought it. Then we spent the rest of the morning preparing Christmas Dinner. I kneaded the dough for rolls, Brian stuck cloves into the ham in lopsided rows, and Rachel cried some more while she peeled the potatoes. She said it was because the three of us together felt so much like a family. And she’d never really had that before.

   My family arrived just in time for dinner. There were no awkward pauses or desperate glances across the table for rescue; just normal, pleasant conversation. My dad, for once, did most of the talking. He told us about his new computer, and said that he’d recently started playing chess online with people from all around the country. It made him think about doing some traveling after the divorce was final, because he’d never been outside of Maine. It wouldn’t be long because my mother had agreed to split everything with him, fifty-fifty. It surprised him, he said, because he hadn’t expected kindness. Hadn’t expected Going Down Without A Fight. Not that my dad would have fought her. He would have taken whatever crumbs she’d given him and that would have been that.

   When everyone was finished eating I piled the dishes in the sink. They could wait until later, because there was no reason to hide behind a wall of soap and suds. And for a moment I had a glimmer of what my childhood might have been like if She hadn’t been there. If every holiday had been just like this one. Even so I wondered--for just a moment--what Christmas was like in Europe. If there was snow in France. If there were spruce trees and tinsel and smiles. Or if she was eating her Christmas dinner all alone.

   Brian brought his chess board out from the bedroom closet and waited for my dad to finish ‘getting a breath of fresh air’ so they could play while Kim and Rachel sat on the porch to talk about nursing school. There were programs Kim knew about where students could trade the hospital this many years of work for that many years of school. They were having their discussion on the porch because I’d asked Kim, privately, to keep Rachel away from Matthew. Even if not having a baby really is the right decision for a woman--whether by taking a pill to prevent it or by driving to Portland to stop it--sometimes there’s still regret.

   But right now regret was gone for me, so I joined my brother and my nephew in the living room. Dave was reading aloud from a new ABC book, a gift. And the card had read:

   Matthew smiled and held out his little arms to me, tried to wriggle away from his father so his Aunt Tess could hold him. I balanced him on one leg and took over the reading.

   L. I looked right at Matthew and said the letter slowly. He watched my tongue slide against my teeth as it made the sound. So I said it again. “L…lollipop.”

   I made the “pop” pop for real and he rewarded me with a big laugh.

   “M...monkey.”

   It was my turn to laugh, because the picture showed a monkey who was so giddy that I had to wonder if it was one of those Hippie Chimps from the Congo; the kind that are always getting laid.

   “N...nest. O...ostrich.”

   Ostrich. A funny looking bird with a fat, feathery body and long, long legs and an even longer neck. But no head. It was buried in the sand. And for a moment I wondered why the author had chosen an ostrich. I thought about how much better, how much easier, life would be right now--right this moment--if he had chosen an Octopus instead. Or an Oboe. Or maybe even Osteoporosis. I kept right on reading the alphabet to my nephew, didn’t even miss a beat. But even as I told him about Peas and Queens and Raccoons I was thinking about Signs. The ones I had been ignoring for weeks. Ever since Rachel moved in.

   Because you can spend a few weeks telling yourself that the only thing responsible for your friend’s moodiness is hormones. That when a friend has had an abortion, moodiness--sometimes even insane, psycho bitchiness--is normal. Expected. And when, at the same time, that friend begins to vomit and have diarrhea and chills, it’s perfectly natural to believe that she has caught a stomach flu. Even when you live in the same house and you haven’t caught it. Even when no one else you know--and no one else your friend works with--has caught it, either.

   And when, a week or so later, that same friend’s moodiness and stomach flu vanishes nearly overnight that makes perfect sense, too. Time goes by and hormones start to go back to normal and viruses die or move on. And if that friend starts sleeping more than usual, well there’s a logical reason for that too. The reason is probably that the friend’s work schedule has recently been changed. Days one day, nights the next. That explains your friend napping and nodding off during the middle of the day. Even when, a few minutes earlier, she was jumpy and restless and irritable.

   There are lots of explanations for all of the things we don’t want to see. And that’s one way to live. That’s just fine. As long as you don’t mind getting sand in your eyes.

   And so I read to my nephew and visited with my family. But the whole time I was blinking and rubbing. The sand from my eyes. And while everyone else was eating leftovers for supper, I pulled Kim into the living room to ask her a question. Because when you’re a nurse there are certain things you know. I wasn’t quite sure how to broach the subject, so I started this way:

   “So…what did Rachel have to say about nursing school?”

   “She didn’t have much to say about anything. Mostly she nodded and grunted and tried not to fall asleep.”

   “Oh. Well, she’s been working nights a lot lately and--”

   And.

   And, and, and…

   How many ‘ands’ are there, Tess? How many excuses? Are you still trying to convince yourself she’s alright? Just how the hell are you supposed to help her this way?

   Kim shook her head. “Tess…just look at her. You know what’s going on as well as I do.”

   I looked over my shoulder, into the kitchen. The guys were talking and laughing and stuffing their faces. Rachel was staring at her mashed potatoes, chewing on a thumbnail. Her legs were crossed underneath the table and both feet were bouncing up and down, just like my dad’s had done earlier when he was getting antsy for a smoke. She looked up at the clock, then back at her plate. She was waiting. Counting the minutes, probably the seconds, until my family went home. Until she could make her escape upstairs. Until she could escape from everything…

   I faced Kim once more and this time I asked her the question I’d wanted to ask before.

   “What do you think it is, Kim? What is she on?”

~~~~~

   When the last goodbye had been said and the red taillights from Dave’s mini van had faded away, Rachel said, “See ya later,” and bolted upstairs.

   It was seven o’clock. On the dot.

   Brian and I sat at the kitchen table. We talked for a few minutes about what a good time we’d had and how much we looked forward to the next time we could spend the day with my family. And it felt good to say those things and really mean them. But the whole time we were talking I was listening to Rachel. Waiting for the right time. Her footsteps had brought her into the bedroom. Then into the kitchen where she had turned on the faucet. Then into the bathroom. After the toilet flushed she wandered into the living room and plopped down on my couch. And--right now--she was spacing out. Nodding off. Looking at nothing. Feeling nothing.

   And that meant it was time.

   I cleared my throat. “Rachel left her gifts down here. I think I’ll bring ‘em up.”

   “Just stay down here and relax, Tess. It can wait till tomorrow. You’ve had a busy day.”

   “I’d better do it now. It’s chilly tonight and she might want those slippers.”

   He shrugged and stretched noisily. “Okay. I guess I’ll start the dishes.”

   I grabbed the gifts and climbed the fourteen stairs. It took her awhile to stumble to the door and let me in. I dropped her stuff onto the table, took a deep breath and turned to face her.

   “I need you to sit down.”

   She gave me a drowsy smile. “What?”

   “You heard me. Sit. Down.”

   She didn’t even hesitate. She grabbed the closest chair and parked her ass. I ran my fingers through my hair. I needed a moment to settle down. Because facial expressions and body language are important. Sometimes fear and nervousness can be perceived as anger. And Rachel needed to know.

   So I knelt down on the floor, looking up at her instead of hovering over her. It made her giggle. I took another deep breath and asked, “What exactly are you on?”

   She giggled again. “I’m on the chair.”

   “Stop it, Rachel. What are you taking?”

   “Nothing. Well, I was taking a nap until you knocked on the door, but--”

   I wasn’t going to get anywhere like this, so I grabbed her arm and yanked up her sleeve. Then the other one. There were no needle marks or bruises or blown veins, and that was good. But it wasn’t good enough. Because there were long, red, raw scratches all over her arms. And Kim had asked me:

   I’d noticed the scratching before, but never thought anything about it. Why hadn’t I? A person doesn’t just itch like that for no good reason. Why hadn’t I at least asked her about it?

   But it wasn’t the time to ask what if or why, so I examined her eyes…and saw what Kim had noticed right away. Pinpoint pupils. It’s hard to see that sometimes when someone has dark, dark eyes, like Van Dyke brown. Especially when your own eyes are filled with sand.

   “Oxycontin. Right?”

   She pulled her arms away from me and nearly fell out of the chair. I caught her in time and helped her lean back. Then I held her hands and looked into her eyes again, made her look into mine. Because I loved her. I really did. I loved her so goddamn much…

   “Rachel, you need to get some help.”

   She looked down at my hands. Holding hers.

   “Listen to me. I’m not mad, I swear. I swear to God I’m not mad. I know you don’t want to be like this. I know you tried to quit on your own after you moved in here. That’s why you were sick. Right?”

   She still wouldn’t speak. Still wouldn’t look at me.

   “But you’re gonna kill yourself like this. Either with the drugs or else Tim’s gonna get at you again and--”

   That got a rise out of her.

   “I’m not getting it from Tim. I’m getting it...from some friends.”

   “I know that. But tell me, Rach, where are your friends getting it from?” There was only once place. One stop shopping. “So they’re buying it for you and you think that’s not gonna get back to him?”

   She sighed. She was having a hard time sitting upright and her head rolled slightly to the left. I stood up, hoisted her out of the chair, and helped her over to the couch, where she could slump more comfortably. Then I knelt in front of her once more.

   “Listen to me. He’s gonna find out. Hell, he probably knows already. And what’s gonna happen when you run out of money? When your friends can’t buy it for you anymore? What’s gonna happen to you when the only thing you’ve got left to do is to go to him yourself?”

   Tess, there’s no such thing as weaning yourself off of it. It’s too strong, even if they don’t inject it. They crush it up and swallow it and it’s just like heroin. It’s that kind of drug.

   Just like heroin.

   “Rachel please say something. Please tell me that you’ll let us get you some help.”

   She smiled an almost-smile. An I-don’t-give-a-shit smile. Because she probably didn’t. “I don’t want any help.”

   “Rach…”

   “It doesn’t matter anyway, Tess, so why don’t you just go on back downstairs. Go back to Brian. I know I’m a fuck up and I know where this is goin’ because I ran out of money already. I don’t make enough to do it on my own and I took the last shit I had right before you came up here and I got nothin’ to sell anymore. Nothin’.” She chuckled. “Well, except that iPod Brian just got me. But I won’t get much for that, so I’m fucked. And I know it. And I don’t need you tellin’ me about it.”

   It took me a moment to absorb everything she’d said. “Sell? What the hell are you talking about? What did you ever have that you could sell?”

   She let go of my hands and scratched the insides of her wrists, then her fingers, before she said, “Your rings.”

   “What rings?”

   “You had a ring in your jewelry box in the bedroom. I sold it to a guy at a pawn shop in Westville.”

   I opened my mouth, but there were no words. None in my brain or my heart or on my tongue. Nothing.

   “I’m sorry, Tess. I really am.”

   And she probably was. The real Rachel was probably dying deep inside there, somewhere. Ashamed and guilty. But not this Rachel. Not the one I was looking at right now. She said it again anyway.

   “I’m sorry, but I was out of money and I had fuckin’ nothin’ left and I had to have some. I probably should’ve sold your stereo and all that electronic shit instead, but it’s all too big and there’s no way I could get it down the stairs by myself. So I looked through your jewelry box. I know you don’t wear expensive jewelry, but I thought maybe you still had an engagement ring hiding in there, ‘cause some women hang onto ‘em. But you didn’t, so I took the only thing you had that looked like it might be--”

   She was still talking, still saying lots of words; but I didn’t hear any of them. Because my heart was shrieking, shrieking, fucking shrieking, so loudly that the only thing I could hear was Jason’s voice:

   Until I heard the words:

   “--and the guy at the store thought he could sell it to this jewelry store in--”

   “Rachel…wait. When did you sell it?”

   “Friday, after you left for work. I didn’t want to, but I used up the last of my tip money, and it wasn’t a pay week so I--”

   Friday. She’d stolen my ring and sold it. To buy drugs. And then she’d frosted sugar cookies with me on Saturday. She’d even asked to borrow more money. Just like it was nothing. And she was still talking. Still. Even though the room was spinning and cold. It was frozen, frigid. Because winter was here. For real.

   “--but I’ll pay you back, Tess. I swear. The guy gave me fifty dollars, but I know it’s probably worth more than that, right? So I’ll--”

   “Fifty. Dollars?”

   That did it. She finally stopped talking, because even through the haze she knew.

   She was in some deep shit.

   “He gave you...fifty fucking dollars for that ring?”

   “Rachel, that was my engagement ring.”

   Watermelon tourmaline, emerald cut. Pale, pale pink and the palest spring green, swirled together into one beautiful gem. It was surrounded by tiny, delicate diamonds and set on a thin, gold band. The clasps that held the gemstone in place had always reminded me of Jason’s hands. So that when I was wearing it, it felt like he was right there with me. Even when he wasn’t…

   “Jason had that ring made for me. He...because…Rachel, that was a custom. Made. Ring.”

   “Oh.”

   “Don’t worry, Tess, I’ll pay you back. I can--”

   “Rachel, I don’t give a fuck about the money!”

   I had, honestly, no idea how much the ring was worth. How much Jason had paid for it or what kind of money it might bring now. As far as engagement rings go it was probably a bargain. But it didn’t matter. I didn’t care. Not then and especially not now, because it wasn’t the money. It hadn’t been for Jason, either. He would have paid whatever it cost to get me any ring in the world he thought I’d like.

   It’s why I couldn’t wear it anymore, why it had been sitting in my jewelry box for over a year. Because it was the ring that meant I Love You, More Than Anything. But I had saved it anyway because there was always Someday. When the hurt and sadness were gone for real and it might just be a beautiful ring. And I might be able to wear it. But even if I could never put it on again there was always Passing It Onto Someone Special. It might have been Cassidy. Or even Rachel…

   Right now--right now--someone else was wearing my ring. It had probably been a Christmas present. And that Someone would never know the story behind it. The story about a man who had loved a woman so much that he thought she was too beautiful to wear just a diamond. So he searched for a stone that was as colorful and lovely as he thought she was. Then he took her on a summer picnic in a field of wildflowers and gave her that ring. And when he asked her to marry him it sounded like this:

   “There was never any color in my world, Tess. Not until I fell in love with you.”

   And they made love in the wildflowers, in a fragrant breeze of pastel petals. They loved each other for a very long time and they were very happy. Until the love went away. But even after the love was gone she still had the ring. A whisper of summer. Because that’s what Jason was. Summer. Just like Brian was Fire.

   How many hits had it bought her? A day’s worth? Maybe? She’d traded my ring for a day of haze and now it was gone. The ring and her drugs, too. And she’d need more. Once the haze wore off and the ground returned, along with the shaking and puking and chills and diarrhea. She’d stolen my ring and it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

   So I took a deep breath and let it out with a loud, clear, ringing cry. Not a cry for revenge; a cry for help. Because she needed more help than I could give her. More help, even, than the name I called out could give her.

   “Brian!”

   But at least he’d make her get it.