Chapter Fourteen Bee

Chapter Fourteen Bee

Thursday night, December 14, 2023

Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light...

Bee mouthed the words to herself and let herself be carried away by the simple melody, the old-timey chorus, and the orchestra

playing in the background. Her parents loved Frank Sinatra nearly as much as they loved the Temptations, and she knew every

pause and warble of every holiday song he’d ever sung.

It was the one part of the family holiday traditions that she loved, and possibly the only one she’d miss this year: Frank’s record spinning as they sat around the table, holding hands and thanking God for the food they were about to receive. Then Dad would pop a bottle of champagne, and they’d all be quizzed on their yearly achievements. As Bee waited for her turn, she’d inevitably start to panic, hot flashes of pain gripping her chest, and her head starting to ring. So, she’d focus on Frank’s voice—or Bing Crosby’s, when he made an appearance—and the gentle warble of their baritone voices would help her keep all the little pieces of herself from breaking off.

She felt that now, in the inviting warmth of Clover’s living room. Quiet, and slow, and whole. And she stayed like that, even

as the music changed and Nat King Cole’s soothing voice took over, then was replaced with “Last Christmas,” by Wham!, and

a slew of other classics. She did nothing but listen and let herself be.

If she’d been back home, another scene would be playing out, Bee was sure. One where she paced the floor of her tiny condo,

fingers clenched in her hair, tears fighting their way down her cheeks, as a hired car from her mother waited out front and

her phone rang, demanding that Bee answer, that she give in, that she submit. But Bee was across the country, address unknown.

Snow falling, cows mooing, and the radio playing as wood crackled in the fireplace.

I could stay here forever, Bee thought. And she felt, for the first time, that maybe she would. But no—she was certain she’d find something here that

made her an anxiety monster too.

Still, suffice it to say that the call had not gone well. Her sister had gotten her capacity for icy judgment and sharp appraisals

from someone, and she was not nearly as skilled as their mother. If Beth had an edge to her, their mother was a blade.

“What’s really going on, dear?” her mother had asked. “Are you sick?”

“No,” Bee answered. “I just needed a break.”

“A break?” she said. “A break from what? Your sister told us about the recent issues with the company. Sounds like you should be working harder, honey, not resting on your laurels.”

“Okay, Mom.” Bee rubbed her face.

She had let her mom berate her some more, with the occasional interstitial of “Well, I hope you’re warm there” and “Do you

need me to send an extra coat?” It was the type of whiplash Bee had grown accustomed to: the surprising reminders that her

mom did love her, in her own way. It just got lost in the utterly desperate need to demonstrate that their family was superior

to all others.

When she was finally able to convince her mom that she was neither dying nor sick and that yes, in fact, she was still not planning to come home for Christmas dinner, her mom switched tactics and put her dad on the phone. His method was offering

money to tide her over and suggesting that she needn’t travel across the country to run away from her problems.

“If the business is failing, honey, we can help with the investments,” he said.

Bee gritted her teeth and declined, and then again, and then again, until, finally, they both exchanged strained “I love yous”

and hung up.

She had sat back in her seat at the coffee shop and taken a few slow breaths. She hoped that was enough to get them out of

her system for a few days. Sometimes hearing their disappointment live and in action actually reduced the buzzing in her head,

like a junkie getting their fill. She was both repulsed by and addicted to their criticism; at this point, she wasn’t sure

what she’d do without it.

“Probably experience normal emotions like joy and satisfaction,” she muttered out loud.

But her mother’s final words stuck in Bee’s head: You always find a way to disappoint me, Beatrice. And yet she wondered why Bee didn’t want to come over for dinner. Funny lady, her mother.

She shifted from her position on the couch and laid a book from Clover’s library that she had been attempting to read facedown

beside her. When she was younger, reading had easily been one of her favorite pastimes; it was what had made her want to be

a writer, after all. But even that was something tinged with the expectations of her parents—something personal that was expected

to be turned into something profitable.

If you’re going to be a writer, you have to be a great one. Do you think you’re on the level of James Baldwin or Gwendolyn Brooks? Are you going to be published in the New York Times like—like that Roxane Gay person? What exactly were you planning to do with an English degree? And second place in some silly city writing competition? How many people are even in Poughkeepsie anyway?

Abruptly, Bee stood. Warm as the living room was, it was beginning to feel stuffy, closed in. She needed air.

She donned a set of warm winter outwear and ventured outside, grateful for the moonlight and the quiet hum of conversation

from a pair of neighbors across the street who were enjoying a late-night bonfire. She sat on the steps and looked up at the

stars, singing Nat King Cole quietly to herself and willing the wind to wipe away her memories of the last few conversations

with her family.

“You’ve got a nice voice.”

Bee jumped, and Knox chuckled.

“Sorry,” he said. “Clover hates when I do that.”

“You could’ve been a spy in another life,” she said. Though she didn’t mean to, her gaze couldn’t help but sweep over him,

her skin growing warm. What was it about this guy that made her heart beat so fast? “Where are you coming from so late?” she

asked, in an effort to change the subject.

“Rehearsal,” he said. He pointed to the guitar case strapped onto his back. In the darkness, she hadn’t noticed it until now.

“The chorus asked me to accompany them on some songs for a performance they have coming up.”

“At that talent show?” At his surprised look, she elaborated: “I went to the coffee shop this morning. Overheard some people

talking about it.”

“Ah.” He nodded. It seemed for a moment that the conversation would end there. She prepared to wish him a good night, but

then he cleared his throat. “Do you think you’ll perform anything?”

She laughed harder than she meant to. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? I meant it before—you didn’t sound half bad.”

“Because I was half singing under my breath. Believe me, you don’t want to hear me try to bust out a real ballad. It won’t

go well.”

He grinned. “Something else, then. I’m sure you’ve got something up your sleeve.” He gave her a playfully inquiring stare,

his eyebrow and chin raised, like he knew what she was hiding and was patiently waiting for her to admit it. God, he was charming.

“Fine,” she said with false annoyance. “I write, a little bit. I mean, that’s what I do at home. But it’s mostly, like, web

copy, and blah blah blah. I don’t really write creatively anymore.”

“But you used to?”

“In college,” she said. “A little after, I guess. A little before. I’ve got poems and stories shoved in a closet somewhere.”

He nodded, this time his head down like he was listening hard and trying to solve a problem she had presented to him. Then

he lifted his head like an idea had struck him. “You could read something.”

“I’m not performing!”

He put his hands up as he laughed. “Okay, okay. Sorry. All my friends are doing something at this show, so I guess I’m just

used to being the hype man. It’s the big event of the season, besides the tree lighting.”

Bee thought about everyone’s disappointment around the Christmas party Clover’s family used to throw. She wanted to ask him

about it, but it didn’t seem right at the moment.

“I’ll cheer you on at the performance,” she said instead.

He touched the back of his neck, then. It made him suddenly look like a young boy. “I’ll look forward to it.”

His eyes stayed on hers as another moment of silence passed between them, and Bee fought to tamp down the electricity coursing

through her chest. This is just the way he is, she told herself. This is what Taylor and her friends had been talking about earlier that day—he was a charming guy just out

of a years-long relationship. If he was doing anything, it was playing the field, just like Roger would do, and Bee wasn’t

looking for games.

She wasn’t looking for anything.

She stretched and stood. “I should get to sleep,” she said.

Knox blinked. “Of course, yeah. Sleep well, Bee.”

“You too, Knox.”

She wrapped her coat tighter and walked quickly back inside.

Hours later, she lay staring up at the ceiling above her bed, all too aware of the fact that it was long past midnight. But

the day’s events haunted her, keeping her head filled with too much information to process into a good night’s sleep. Taylor,

and Clover, and Knox, and all the details of their lives and the ways she’d crept inside them were enough to keep her mind

preoccupied, but something else was keeping her mind racing.

You could read something.

The idea that Bee could do anything creative these days was nearly laughable; chopping wood with Knox the other morning had

been the most unique thing she’d done in years. But... there was something inspiring about seeing Knox with his guitar

tonight and hearing the enthusiasm with which the chorus had talked about singing earlier that day, once they were done gossiping

about Knox’s love life. None of them were professionals, so far as she knew, and the talent show was merely an opportunity

to share themselves with one another. No prizes or accolades were up for grabs.

What would she have to lose if she did share... something? If anything, she could get something back: that spark she thought she’d lost so many years ago. What did it matter if it never made it into the New Yorker or the Paris Review ?

Pushing the covers off her, she riffled through her purse, finding a crumpled napkin from the coffee shop, then a pen. She

cleared off space on Clover’s side table and began to write what came to her.

You’re wasting your time, a voice whispered in the back of her mind.

She kept writing.

You’re going to embarrass yourself, it whispered again.

But she didn’t stop. Not this time. She forced herself to keep writing, crossing out words and scribbling into the edges of

the napkin. When she was done, she looked at her handiwork. It looked like a serial killer wrote it, or maybe a hostage forced

to write out her own ransom letter, but at least she’d done it.

She wrote something for herself.

Take that, Mom.