Heart Thaw by Liz Reinhardt

after we were done, there would be hot cocoa and giggling, then the moms would stay up super late, and we would be herded into the ‘playroom’ in the basement, where the girls would sprawl on the pullout and Trent would suffer on an old cot with a sleeping bag thrown over it. We would chatter late into the night, pretending not to hear our mothers pop the bottle of Tott’s they kept for Christmas Eve and go to town putting out way too many presents under the tree.
    I saw in the way Ella’s eyes flashed frantically to my mom, then Georgia, as they yawned and blinked back tears that she wanted that time back. Eileen had spoiled my sister worst of all, and Ella dealt with the tearing, gripping, terrifying void of losing her by forging ahead and trying to plow right past all the rotten emotions.
    When Trent and I finally skid to a halt next to her, I can clearly see the reason she even stopped running. The icy glint of an upended bottle catches a streetlight’s shine as my baby sister chugs.
    “Hey, slow down.” Trent grips the bottle and pulls it out of her pink-mittened hands. “There’s no drinking during random caroling.”
    My sister’s eyes are bright with cold and impending intoxication.
    “According to tradition, our mothers would be here. And your sister. And it wouldn’t suck !”
    The last word rings out and echoes in the freezing air.
    Trent turns the bottle and reads, “Candycane vodka? Seriously? Your taste in alcohol is as shitty as our sisters.’” He licks his lips, squints, and brings the bottle up to his lips. “Bottoms up.”
    I’d estimate he drinks two or three shots, grimaces, and passes me the bottle.
    I should stop this. I should tell my sister that this is going to lead to a lot of tears and a rager of a headache tomorrow. But what’s the alternative? Doing this sober and remembering, every frigid step of the way, what is was like last year? When Eileen was just getting sick, but we didn’t know that it was so much worse than a stubborn winter cold?
    I study the lamplight, then follow the path of green and red bulbs that leads up to the McCallister’s staid mansion with my eyes. When I look through the bottle glass, I swear I catch a glimpse of our big-haired, loud-mouthed mothers, arms around each other, cackling and sliding on the black ice patches as they prepare to belt out a very out-of-tune rendition of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.”
    I whip the bottle away from my tricky eyes, and there’s nothing but the chilly wind, the lonely lamp, three lost, freezing kids, and a bottle of sweet-and-sharp alcohol.
    “Bottoms up.”
    I overturn the bottle to their exuberant cheers, and an immediate warmth trickles through my veins as the burning liquid rolls down my throat. My sister grabs for the bottle back with desperate hands, but Trent and I share a glance over her panda-adorned head. He takes the bottle.
    “C’mon, punk. No reason for the smallest to hog it all. Plus that, our singing is bad enough when we’re not slurring and falling over.”
    I notice that the sip he takes is tiny, and when he takes a second, larger sip behind Ella’s back, he spits it quietly into the snow.
    He and I leave a trail of spit vodka all along the lane that leads up to the biggest house in our tiny town, where Ella stops, arms akimbo, booted feet wide apart.
    This house is so topically merry, it’s hard to imagine that it’s inhabited by Satan himself. But old Mr. Fitzgerald is a shithead .
    “Time to wish my grandpa a merry fucking Christmas.” Trent spits a dash of vodka into the bow-adorned bushes.
    Ella turns around and her chin wobbles. “Maybe we could break all the traditions and just wreck his house?”
    “Nope.” Trent shakes his head. “He feeds off evil. It will only make him stronger. Plus that, mom wouldn’t care about a little holiday vodka. But this was her thing, and she wanted to carol. So, let’s carol. Do you have a request, m’lady?” Trent puts his arm around