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âYou guys, over here.â Angela, the fastest-walking sister and family ringmaster, breaks into a jog. Late morning on the first day of Winter Break, the snow at Tukâs is already packed from the early birds. Angela closes her eyes and offers a silent thank you. Her pant legs will be dry at the seasonal sister summit. Damp legs would undermine her fragile composure.
Unlike its spruce and fir neighbors, the apple tree is full and green on top, slender on bottom. Angela reaches a mittened hand for the single fruit dangling from the lowest branch.
Jeanne arrives behind her, catching her breath. âWeird. White apple.â Jeanne reaches for the apple. âLet me see that.â
âNot so fast.â Angela raises an arm. âLet Daphne catch up.â
âKeep dreaming, little sisters.â Daphne never lets a slight pass. Her silver spiked hair glistens in the strong sun. Jacket tied around her waist, sheâs stripped down to a tank top, tanning her bronze decolletage. âRight here the whole time.â She pounds her hot pink cane twice, her gavel since the Harley skidded off the highway three years ago. Some retirement celebration. âOut of season.â Daphne frowns, suspicious.
âJust this one, huh?â Angela snaps the stem, polishing the apple with her mitten.
âPick a white apple?â Daphne tugs heavily on Angelaâs sleeve. âThatâs four years fruit rot.â Daphne releases Angelaâs jacket and cranes her head, beady eyes surveilling Tukâs tree farm. Ruddy-cheeked teenagers in festive knit hats trail handsome men in thick sweaters. Toddlers sit atop the shoulders of the handsome men, who find faults with each tree. Smooth-haired women in abundant scarves lead the way, documenting the others. âAnyone see you?â
âNot a fruit orchard, Daphne.â Angela shakes her head. âBut a good scolding gets me in the holiday spirit.â She sweeps hair out of her face. She had her roots touched up last week. She wants to look fresh, but not trying-too-hard, for the seasonal sister summit. Her sisters donât care if they get together or not. For Angela, itâs never mattered more.
Jeanne grabs the apple. Her bite reveals pink flesh under the white skin. âDonât give us that old hippie nonsense. Weââ she gestures between herself and Angelaââlive in the conventional world of squares.â
Angela raises an eyebrow. âI concede the âsquaresâ part. Conventional?â Jeanne, like always, is dressed like a beekeeperâcovered head to toe in UV-protected clothing. Angela hasnât seen her sisterâs legs in 20 years.Â
âWe donât believe inââ Jeanne continues ââHuh?â She lists forward, her eyes trained on a spruce trunk. âWhatâs that?â She points, drops into a squat and braces herself against the ground, peering closer. âSomething ran under there. On two legs.â She sits back on her haunches, rests her chin on her closed fist. âElf?â
âNo elves here,â Angela says. âElves arenât real.â
âWhat about Elf on the Shelf? Thatâs real.â Jeanne pushes herself up from the ground. She takes a second bite and draws the apple into focus. With a twinkle, its pink flesh becomes yellow. âSomething strange here.â She extends the fruit toward her sisters. âYou two see?â
âEnough.â Angela claps her hands. âWeâll miss our lunch reservation.â She gently lowers Jeanneâs arm. âElf on the Shelf is a behavior modification strategy.â She turns, marching away. âCreepy, too. Letâs keep moving.â
Daphne shrugs. âIâm open to elves.â She taps the pink cane to the ground before setting off after Angela.
Angela stops at a Fraser Fir. âLadies? Do weââ Before she can finish, the tree begins vibrating.
âTreeâs buzzing.â Daphne says.
âBees?â Jeanne says.
Angelaâs hands rise to her hips. Her breath quickens, she fights the tell-tale wobble. For nearly sixty years, âthe wobbleâ has bubbled up when her sisters conspire against her. âWhatever you two are doing, whoever youâre in cahoots withââ She takes in the live action snow globe surrounding them. Well-dressed, fully moisturized people cavort among the trees. Which teenagers did her sisters bribe? Daphneâs idea, surely. âGive me a break, will you?â Her voice cracks. They think sheâs ridiculous. The seasonal sister summit means so much. Especially this year. Itâs everything. All three sisters together. And not at a bedside, a graveside, or a lawyerâs office. She crosses her arms, tucking her hands under her jacket. Silly, mustering holiday cheer. She knew better.
Jeanne lifts two fingers, âScouts honor, sis. Weâre not doing anyââ The vibrating gains intensity. The sisters exchange glances. Parents chase children. Teenagers follow parents.
âWe the only ones who see this?â Daphne asks.
Before her sisters answer, red baubles spring from the branches, dancing back and forth. A tiny wooden staircase winds upward from the earth. The sisters stand motionless, mouths agape. Each wonders if this is how it started when their father had his stroke. None can believe itâs been less than a year. Last Christmas, they delivered the tree to their childhood home. Fifty-five years their parents lived in that house. This year, someoneâs turned the old house into a âbreathing studio.â Theyâll take the tree to Angelaâs condo. Fully ascended, the stairway stills. A parade of tiny, four-limbed creaturesâ elves, youâd really have to sayâascend the staircase. A dozen, give or take. Pointy ears, striped pants â the whole shebang. The elves hum a tune, their pitch so high the sisters canât make out the words. The elves join hands and circle the tree, now buzzing, jiggling and vibrating in time. The boldness of a surreal scene that cannot be, after a year of anguish that should not have been: poor prognoses, treatment-resistance, long-shots not realized. Transported from their grief, their numbness, collective and individual, the sisters are mesmerized. Christmas-tree shoppers mull around them, united in holiday generosity of ignoring three middle-aged women staring at the snow, tears streaming down their faces.
A few songs inâthree?, five? no sister could sayâan elf breaks from the group, approaching Jeanne. The elf stands on the tips of royal blue felt shoes to pluck the white apple from her hand. âNot a curse,â it says, holding the now vibrating apple in two hands. The skin from the bite Jeanne took wrinkles itself back together, a wave receding into the ocean. âQuite the opposite. Unlocks our magic. You wouldnât believe how uncomfortable some people are about a little magic.â
The elf resumes its place among the others. The tiny, other worldly carollers descend the wooden staircase, as it disappears into the earth. No jiggling, no buzzing.
Snatches of Christmas tree scrutiny bring Angela back to the world she knows: gratitude for dry legs and sisters who indulge her. She wipes the tears away with both hands. âWell,â she says to her sisters, her eyes wet. âSpruce?â
Kelly is an emerging writer whose work has appeared in The Dillydoun Review. I work as a scientific funding consultant for a public health institute in Zurich, Switzerland. I live in Houston, Texas with my partner and two kids. To view more of Kellyâs work please visit https://www.kellyturner.ch/