Home for the Holidays by Ros Baxter Read Free Book Online Page B

too, a bit.’
    ‘Humph, well, no thanks to you. You wouldn’t scare a flea.’ But she smiled a small smile as she sat down in the chair Dad had pulled out. It was the first smile I’d seen on her since The Breakup. I looked at Mom and Dad sitting in my cell. Traitors. I’d tried to tell them all the bad things about him. What he did for a job. How he’d never been to a protest rally.  How he thought Joni Mitchell sounded like a harp seal being battered to death. How he’d probably vote Republican if he had voting rights in the US. They just looked at me disbelievingly, like I’d said Clinton was a pro-lifer. And went right on loving him. 
    Right up until two weeks ago. The day I dumped him.
    ‘So, honey, how are you? How’s the thesis coming along?’ Math impresses Mom. Up to a point. A bit like thinking it’s cool that someone’s a forensic scientist but not wanting to know about when they sliced up some body last night. 
    ‘ Erh, fine thanks.’
    ‘How’s Harry?’ My thesis supervisor had taught Dad as well, back in the day. 
    I poked my glasses back up my nose. ‘What is this? A social visit? I’m in jail. Don’t you want to know what happened?’
    ‘What do you mean?’ Mom’s hands flew to her throat.
    ‘With the arrest,’ I bit out.
    ‘Oh, that.’ Mom exhaled a great sigh and beamed. She flicked a quick glance at Dad and sighed again. ‘Oh God, Lolly, we were worried you were going to talk about Wayne. And really, even though we love you and totally respect your decisions, we really just can’t bear to talk about it. Every time your Dad turns on the chess, he cries.’
    Dad contributed a limp nod. ‘Absolutely, sweetheart. Couldn’t agree more. A hundred per cent behind you. But let’s not talk about it, eh? Breaks my heart. Let’s talk about more cheerful things. Tell us about the arrest.’
    Oh. My. God. My parents were mourning him. My parents, who volunteer every spare minute at their local soup kitchen. My Mom, who teaches poor kids to read, and blockades and boycotts every other week. My Dad, who’s so smart he could’ve been a nuclear scientist but teaches math because he thinks it makes kids better. Like a Whitney Houston ‘I believe the children are the future’ thing. My parents, who told me since the day I was born that ‘everyone can make a difference and together we can change the world.’
    These people were mourning Wayne. 
    Wayne, who gave his life to making rich people — and himself — richer.  Wayne, who thought Doctors Without Borders was a pornographic film. Until I explained it to him.
    I wanted to rail and scream at them. But I couldn’t. Not because I was worried about hurting their feelings, but because, if I did, my own wellspring of loss and aching might bubble over and drown me. So I told them about the arrest. 
    Only in my family would discussing arrests be considered cheerful.
    ‘Well, you know about the big case they’re hearing down at the Supreme Court? The death penalty thing…’ 
    I told them about how carefully we’d organized it. About how we’d arranged camera crews to be there and how the plan had been to break in to the holding area and deliver care parcels of all-American treats to the plaintiffs who’d come up from down South. 
    Brownies and pecan pie and stuff.  
    At this, my Mom gasped. ‘Good God, I hope you didn’t bake them. Poor souls don’t need to be poisoned as well, they’ve got enough on their plates.’
    I gritted my teeth. ‘That’s hardly the moral of the story.’
    Mom took a breath, and I talked quickly to avoid the ritual re-telling of the Thanksgiving Turkey Story. ‘Look, someone else made them, okay? Home science major.’
    Dad started to look more interested. ‘Yeah? So what happened to the goodies after the cops came and interrupted the action?’
    I smacked myself in the forehead. ‘Dad. Really. It’s hardly the —’
    ‘Cops probably confiscated them. They’re probably all sitting