Free The 13th Gift by Joanne Huist Smith Page B

resolve, I head downstairs to assess the state of things. The rec room is littered with boxes, but there is a narrow path leading to Ben’s basement hideaway. When I flip on the light switch, his room comes alive. The television turns on and so does the fan.
    Rick’s beige coat is lying on the floor next to the bed. A plastic bag from Dollar Tree sticks out of the pocket. I can’t help but look inside. There is no booze. No pot. No cigarettes. The bag holds a foam ball and a kid’s basketball hoop that attaches to the wall with suction cups and two comic books in a plastic sleeve.
    “Christmas gifts for Nick and Megan?”
    It’s enough to make me cut my search short. Only my guilt leaves the room with me. For months I have been suspicious of Ben’s actions, wary about his late nights, suspecting that hemay land in a scrape with the law. Now, I know where the grocery money went. Could he be our Secret Santa? Or is he buying Christmas gifts for his siblings because he knows I have not.
    This has been a day for lessons, and I don’t like learning any of them, but in my heart I know I need to.
    I spend an hour in the rec room looking for good reasons why Nick should not move down here, logical ones that he will accept without argument. There are bins of outgrown clothes and broken toys, bundles of old newspapers, and boxes holding the remains of Rick’s office at Gem City Engineering: pencils, pens, family photos that used to sit on his desk. All is protected under double layers of bubble wrap.
    Crates of Rick’s record album collection are stacked in piles, just as he left them after he replaced our favorites with compact discs. Leo Kottke, Pink Floyd, Yes—the groups set the early years of our marriage to music. The song lists feel like old friends, and the cardboard album jackets, individual pieces of art. I start sorting through them and set several aside to share with Ben, who inherited his dad’s taste in music. This room is crowded with memories that would need a new home if Nick’s bedroom displaces them, but perhaps that wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen.
    The doorbell rings, giving me an excuse to escape from my contemplation.
    By the time I reach the living room, Nick is running up the driveway with a gift bag in his hand.
    He reenters the house excited, but hesitates when he sees me. I suspect he is gauging whether my meltdown has reached nuclear magnitude, or if I’ve cooled off. In truth, I’m somewherein the middle, but I smile and motion for him to have a seat beside me on the sofa.
    “I didn’t recognize the car,” he says, slightly out of breath.
    He pulls five angel note cards from the gift bag and hands them to me. He notices my bandaged finger.
    “What happened?”
    “It’s just a little cut. I’m clumsy.”
    “Mom …”
    “We’re good,” I tell him. “Let’s see if we can find a clue on our Fifth Day of Christmas card.”
    We compare the new card to the earlier ones.
    “This one’s a lot different, simpler,” Nick observes. “It doesn’t look like the same person made them.”
    “You could be right,” I agree.
    There are no hand-drawn holly leaves or embellishments. The card is made of green construction paper cut with pinking shears, so the edges are zigzagged.
    “The date is written at the top. That’s different,” Nick says. “And the words are printed, not in cursive.”
    The message on the card is similar to the others.
    12-17-99
    On the fifth day
    of
    Christmas …
    your true friends
    give to you …
    5 angel note cards
    4 gift boxes
    3 rolls of gift wrap
    2 bags of bows
    &
    1 poinsettia …
    for all of you
.
    “Who would do this for us?” I say out loud, not really questioning Nick, but the universe.
    He shrugs his shoulders.
    “Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, might as well be the bogeyman for all we know,” he says.
    Our conversation lulls, until Nick spots the stack of albums I carried up from the basement. He folds his hands as if praying,