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The bathroom tiles gleam cold and sterile under the harsh overhead light as Jody Davis scrubs his molars with a worn toothbrush, the mint paste foaming at the corners of his mouth. It’s late, the apartment hushed except for the distant clatter of dishes downstairs. Then it comes—a muffled, hitching sob from Buffy’s room, thin and desperate as a winter draft under a door.
He spits into the sink, the sound too loud in the stillness. Uncle Bill’s deep voice rumbles faintly from the living room, tangled with Mr. French’s flustered tones as they wrestle with the bulky red velvet Santa suit, its fake beard dangling limply. Cissy’s door is shut, no light underneath. He’s alone with the crying. Jody pads down the hallway in his flannel pajamas, the cuffs frayed and brushing his ankles.
Buffy sits hunched on her narrow bed, clutching Mrs. Beasley, the doll’s painted smile grotesque against the tear-stained pillowcase. Her small shoulders shake under the thin cotton of her nightgown. Moonlight slices through the window, etching silver lines on her wet cheeks.
"Buffy?" His voice is a whisper, scratchy from toothpaste. "Why are you crying? Eve loved the doll. She smiled when she saw it."
He remembers the frail girl in the wheelchair, her eyes too big in her pale face, her weak fingers tracing the doll’s yarn hair. Buffy lifts her head, her eyes swollen pools reflecting the moon’s chill.
"Don’t you get it?" Her voice cracks, raw and too old for nine. "Why we did Christmas early? Why Uncle Bill brought the tree up in April?"
"Because…" Jody shifts his bare feet on the cool wood floor. "Because Eve is sick. Real sick." He repeats the words grown-ups use, the ones that hang heavy in the air like medicine smells.
"Because Eve is dying." The word explodes from Buffy, sharp as broken glass. She hugs Mrs. Beasley tighter, the doll’s plastic face digging into her neck. "Like Mommy and Daddy. They did Christmas early, too, remember? Before… before they went away in the plane." Her breath hitches again, a ragged gasp. "She’s gonna go away, Jody. Like them."
The air leaves Jody’s lungs. The hallway outside seems to tilt. He hadn’t connected the dots—the weird April tree, the carols playing softly in the sterile hospital room, the way Uncle Bill’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. It wasn’t just sick. It was death. A cold wave washes over him, not sharp like Buffy’s grief, but a deep, heavy ache settling in his chest. He wasn’t friends with Eve, not like Buffy was, whispering secrets and holding hands. But the knowing—the finality of it—hits him like a slammed door.
Wordlessly, he climbs onto the narrow bed. He doesn’t know what to say. He just wraps his arms around his trembling twin, pressing his cheek against the top of her head, smelling the faint scent of Johnson’s shampoo and salt tears. Her sobs shake them both, a silent counterpoint to the distant, muffled struggle with the Santa suit downstairs.