One and Only

The Dennings family moved into our cul-de-sac back in July, but we rarely see them. There was a tall, gangly boy about my age, who must go to private school because the only times I’d seen him outside, he was dressed real formal. His father was a burly guy with a thick beard, like a wild creature that somehow wandered into suburbia. I thought the wife would be a wild card, but she actually looked like the other mothers in the neighborhood. Even while pregnant, she was petite, so petite that I knew she would attract only jealousy from the omniscient circle of mothers on O’Connor Avenue. The price of membership there was three children or more—extra benefits included if they were all natural births. 

My mom had no interest in joining, even though she had four children of varying ages and personalities. She liked saying it was better to lead than to follow. Mom always took hours to finish errands at Stop & Shop because everyone in town would find her for a “quick chat.” If she had a pint of ice cream in her cart, it’d be mush by the time she got home. In the summer, she tried her best to pull the Dennings into our bloc parties and community events. During her last attempt, she left the house at five in the morning, crossed the cul-de-sac in her house robes in a funny little run, then dropped off a bake-sale flyer into the Dennings’ mailbox. She came back smiling like she’d just committed the perfect crime. 

But the Dennings never showed up. 

I thought about introducing myself a couple of times, but there were other kids in the neighborhood—each willing to be my partner in whatever game I was feeling like playing: baseball, basketball, frisbee. If Mom or Dad weren’t pressing me to “properly” introduce myself, why even try? 

On the night before Christmas Eve, I was walking home alone after a cookie exchange with Jean, a friend from school. My coat smelled like cinnamon and chocolate and if I could package those two scents forever, I would. I was thinking of a way to hide my cookies from my brothers and sisters, who turned rabid at the sight of anything sweet, when I noticed that the Dennings’ living room light was on. I’d thought the Dennings had left earlier today, and their car still wasn’t there. What if some burglars had gotten in? I moved closer without thinking, without much of a plan. 

If the burglar caught me looking, would I just offer them cookies in exchange for my life?

Instead, I didn’t see any burglar. No, it was the Denning boy who was in the living room. He was crouched in front of the fireplace. As if sensing me, he turned. I didn’t have the thought to duck or to run away; I was frozen. Something about him made me want to stay. Then he smiled and waved before getting up and walking toward me. The window opened and a blast of hot air hit me. 

“Hi, there.” He leaned out, folding his arms. Now that I saw him up close, I thought he looked cute, not awkward and tall. Like, really cute. His brown hair was neatly parted. 

“Um, sorry, I didn’t mean to look like a stalker. Because I’m not.” Wasn’t that what stalkers said? “I just . . . I thought you guys were out, so I was surprised to see the light coming from here.”

He grinned. “Nope. I’m still here. Name’s Liam.”

“I’m Phoebe. So you’re home alone?”

“My parents went out for some party or something.” There were some guys who had an easygoing way about them. Nothing that could be taught or faked. And Liam had that kind of energy. 

“Oh.” I knew some parents didn’t want their kids to attend some grown-up things, but Christmas seemed like a special time for family. That was weird.

“No need to feel bad for me. My parents are cool.”

I nodded because I had no reason to refute it; I didn’t know his family. “Why are you so dressed up?”

“I have a feeling that my sister’s coming home soon. I thought I’d make a good impression.” 

I tilted my head. What an odd joke. “Well, you must be excited.”

“I am. My mom and dad really wanted another kid.”

“So . . . it’s a girl?”

“Her name’s going to be Lily.” He smiled. “She’s going to be my mom’s ‘one and only.’”

“That’s cute. Hope it comes true tonight.”

He smiled and shrugged.

I held up my tin box. “Want one? They’re cookies.”

“Sure.” He eyed the box, brows furrowed. 

“Oh, um . . .” I opened the lid and eyed the cookies, picking up one of Jeanie’s. She was a better baker than me. I picked up a chocolate chip cookie and placed it on Liam’s window sill. “It’s just chocolate chip. Hope you like it.”

“Thanks, I will.” He paused. “Hey, you like to play softball, right?”

“Baseball. I’m the only girl on the team and I’ll be captain next year,” I answered quickly, wondering what Liam would make of it. I might take the cookie back if he made a joke about me being a girl.

“That’s awesome. I see you sometimes, you know, playing. I have a gift for you then. Look down.”

By my feet was a baseball mitt. It looked almost brand-new. “I don’t really use it anymore. It’s yours.” I had planned on retiring my glove in the spring and getting a new one. So, this worked out. 

Liam and I said our goodbyes, and I made it back home, where Dad was slumbering in our living room. When I was younger, Dad used to say that he was guarding the Christmas tree from Santa. Upstairs, before pulling the covers over me, I looked through my bedroom window, shiny and slick with ice. The Dennings’ lights had gone out. 

*

I needed to find a way to thank Liam. The next morning, I rummaged through my mom’s crafts pantry, knowing she had enough thank you cards and ribbons to last two lifetimes. I picked up the least cheesiest one and went upstairs where I neatly wrote a note to Liam, before racing downstairs, out of the house. The Dennings had come back, so their Nissan sat in the driveway.

I rang the doorbell. Mrs. Dennings answered it. “Oh hi! I just. I just wanted to give this to you. I mean, to Liam.” I offered the card. “He got me a really, really nice baseball glove, so I just wanted to leave a note.”

Mrs. Dennings blinked. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Um, this card. It’s for Liam.”

She looked at me like my mom would look at an unbuttered baking pan. Mrs. Dennings pushed back my card. Hers was shaking. Did I get Liam in trouble, somehow?

“Please go.”

I was wrong before. I’d never seen that expression on anyone’s face. Did I get Liam in trouble? Why did she look so . . . hurt?

So, I ran. Ran as fast as I could home. My heart thudded and my mind could only replay the moment her face collapsed, the moment my own words broke her. 

*

It was evening when I heard our doorbell ring. Then whispering down the hall. I couldn’t understand what happened. The mother wasn’t angry, even if the sound of her voice. She sounded sad. Sadder than the word could even manage to describe. But why? I was wrapped up in my blanket, lying in the fetal position, when the door slipped open and Mom knocked--not her usual springy knock but something with more hesitation.

“Phoebe, Mrs. Dennings is here to talk to you.”

“I’m sorry,” I blurted out. My feet touched the floor.

Mom blinked. “Why are you sorry? What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t she tell you?”

“She just said she wanted to talk to you.” Then Mom shifted, hands on her hips. “What did you do?”

I just shook my head before making my way downstairs, like a prisoner on the path to the chair. Mom followed close behind.

“Would you like some cocoa? I can whip up something.” Mom offered, looking between me and Mrs. Dennings. She fidgeted with her hands--worried. I should expect an interrogation later on. 

“That’d be great.”

I felt Mrs. Dennings’s curious stare as we waited for the water to boil. She and my mom chatted about the neighborhood and the town and how much it’s changed since the summer. Whatever the things were. I snuck a few glances at Liam’s mom, struck by how her hair seemed so effortlessly curly. 

My mom handed over the mugs so that I could hand one to Mrs. Dennings and her eyes passed along a clear message: We will talk about this.

Outside, I breathed in the icy air. I don’t think I’ve ever sat outside like this, in a chair, with a mug between my fingers. I felt like I was much older. 

Mrs. Dennings started. “I wasn’t sure if I should come. I’m sorry for not introducing ourselves when we first moved in. We kept to ourselves most of the time. It’s just the way it’s been for the longest time.”

Mind still reeling, I could only nod.

“I don’t want to delay things and I don’t mean to accuse you of anything.” She peeked at me, probably wondering if I’d interrupt her. I kept my mouth shut, my mother’s voice warning me inside. “You said you had a card for Liam. What did you mean by that?”

“I meant that Liam gave me the glove.”

“But--” Mrs. Dennings paused. “Nevermind. Can you tell me what happened?”

“I stopped by the night before because I saw that he was alone. I wanted to say hi because I’ve been seeing around all the time. And then when I did, we talked a little, and he gave me his mitt.”

Mrs. Dennings lifted her mug to take a long sip, even while hot. She held it in her mouth for a second too long, then struggled to swallow. If it burned her, she didn’t say.

Instead, she just shivered. 

“Liam died, honey. When he was really young. If he had lived . . . . if the cancer--” She paused. “I think he would have been your age.”

Cancer. So young. Too, too young. Mrs. and Mr. Giles had lost their seventeen-year-old boy to leukemia, and though that must have been horrible, they at least had time with him. But that wasn’t the case for the Dennings. My mind felt swarmed with thoughts. How could I have seen Liam? How could I have felt the warmth of the fire he was building? How could he have looked so solid in front of me. 

Mrs. Dennings said shakily, “You’re old enough to know that it’s just wrong to lie.”

“I’m not lying!”

“I just don’t understand,” she said, ignoring me. “How could you know this and why would you say such a thing?”

 It all flooded out of me. She needed to know that I wasn’t a liar. “He said he loved you guys. He was so happy. He said he’d always wanted a sister. And she’d be your one and only.”

Her breath caught. “I’d call Liam that. My one and only. And . . . and we don’t even know if it’ll be a girl or a boy. How . . .  on earth . . . would you know that?” She touched her belly, and I worried I might have upset her again--or worse, the baby. I don’t tell her that Liam had called her Lily. 

I shook my head, the fight leaving me. I was probably only making things worse. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. It was him. 

“You have to believe me. I wouldn’t tell a lie like that.”

Mrs. Dennings was quiet for moment. Her thumb traced the rim of her mug. 

“We moved here because we wanted to start over again. After Liam passed, it was years of living in darkness, of being angry with each other, blaming each other for something out of our control. So when I got pregnant and Paul was up for a promotion, we thought we were getting a second chance.” 

I’d forgotten to drink from my mug by now, placing it between my thighs. 



“But it’s been so hard. Everyone has a family here. Everyone has a child. Everyone is perfect at being a mother, at being a father. And we thought we didn’t belong. That was why we never accepted any invitation . . . as hard as your mother tried to include us.”

“It shouldn’t really be about belonging, though,” I answered. I was channeling my mother before I could stop myself. “If you’re looking to belong, you’re looking to follow. And it’s always best to lead, not follow.” 

Then I shook my head. This time, I’d say my own piece. “I think you’ll be wonderful as a mother. And Liam thinks--” I corrected myself. “He would say the same thing.”

But by the look on Mrs. Dennings’ face, I could see that she believed me about seeing Liam the last night. There just wasn’t any other way to explain it. “How is this possible?”

“I really don’t know.”

“My one and only . . .” she whispered, almost to herself.

She tipped her head back to look out into the cul-de-sac. The heat from our hot cocoa rose, unfurled and disappeared. We sat like this for about an hour, sharing a blanket that Mom brought out for us. Mrs. Dennings asked me if I liked school and if I was excited for baseball next year, and we just talked and talked. By the end, I knew this woman was just meant to be a mother. She would be a good one, just like my mom. 

*

The next morning, as snow began to stick to the ground, I heard the neighbors’ garage door open. Groggily, I sat up and peeked through my blinds to see a distressed Mrs. Dennings waddling down the driveway, cradling her stomach while her husband sprinted from the garage, a large black bag in hand. Once in the car, they backed out, their wheels squealing away. 

Their baby was born a few hours later. They named her Lily.