The Weird Sisters - Eleanor Brown [141]
“This is the prettiest time in Barney,” Rose sighed.
“Isn’t Oxford pretty at Christmas?” Bean asked. The streets were empty, only a few light footprints rapidly being covered by new snow showed that anyone had passed here at all. In the distance, the central campus quad lay pure and undisturbed.
“Not like this,” Rose said. “It’s wet. And there are these horrible neon lights that totally spoil the image.”
“The Baby Jesus would totally hate that,” Cordy said, straight-faced.
“Rude!” Bean laughed.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Cordy told Bean. “Are you going over to Matthew’s later?” Bean had begun dating a single father who lived a few towns over. He was older, his children nearing adolescence, but that was probably best for Bean, who was a great deal happier exchanging makeup tips than changing diapers.
“No,” Bean said. “He’s coming to the service tonight after he drops the kids off at their mom’s.”
“Oh, goody!” Cordy said, and thumped her gloved hands together as we turned onto our street. “It’ll be like the whole family’s here. Dan’s coming over after church. He’s a godless heathen, but I think he’s up for hot cider and Christmas bread.”
We turned into the wide patch of white covering our driveway, our lawn, our walk. The house looked beautiful, lit up and glowing, the Christmas tree in the front window glittering, warm lights in every window, our parents and Jonathan moving shadows behind the glass.
Inside, Ariel would be waiting for a feeding. Her every feature was the image of Cordy, of us. She was wholly our own. We thrilled at the sight of her tiny, helpless hands grasping at air as Cordy held her to her breast, and with each tiny breath taken, we felt the wonder in the world increase by a thousandfold. Perhaps the only person more infatuated with her was our father, who refused to let her out of his sight, or even his arms, unless she was feeding. If we had thought he preferred Cordy, that predilection paled beside the love he had for Ariel, and her birth had laid to rest any conflict between them.
Inside, our mother, healed and happy, would be turning the kitchen into a hearth, warm and sweet with the scent of dinner, bringing us the promise of her presence, this year and always.
Inside, our father would be rereading the Christmas speech from Hamlet, preparing for the toast he would give over dinner.
Some say that ever ’gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallow’d and so gracious is the time.
Inside, the tree, surrounded with presents, the people we love. Inside, our beds, our memories, our history, our fates, our destinies. Inside, we three. The Weird Sisters. Hand in hand.
EXEUNT.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Enormous thanks . . .
To Amy Einhorn (the BEE, and my BFF), for taking on The Weird Sisters, and for the jaw-dropping insights and thought-provoking questions that turned a manuscript into a novel. To Halli Melnitsky, for answering every question I could think up and making me laugh in the process.
To Ivan Held, Leigh Butler, Lance Fitzgerald, Marilyn Ducksworth, Mih-Ho Cha, Michelle Malonzo, Kate Stark, Lydia Hirt, Chris Nelson, and the rest of the incredible staff at Amy Einhorn Books/Putnam. Your boundless encouragement and expertise have been invaluable.
To Elizabeth Winick Rubinstein, a tenacious agent, an elegant, funny, and bright woman, a calm and patient presence in the midst of the hurricane—and one heck of an NYC tour guide. I am forever grateful that you said yes. To Rebecca Strauss, Alecia Douglas, and the team at McIntosh & Otis, for your enthusiastic support.
To my early readers: Dyani Galligan, Rebecca Kuhn, Lauren Wilde, Lily McGinley, Jennifer Eckstein Coon, Denice Turner, and Francesca H. Redshaw. Thank you for believing in me.
To the cancer survivors, oncology specialists, and OB/GYNs who took the time to answer my