"Why you all up in my grill, Frankie?"

I sucked on my bottom lip, arms folded, foot tapping, the image of what I'd seen in her trash can in my mind. All of a sudden I felt like . . . geesh . . . like . . . like her friggin' mother.

I asked, "His name wouldn't happen to be Blue, would it?"

"Please don't tell me he's on your B-list or C-list or whatever."

"I don't mix biz with my personal life."

"Thank G.o.d."

"And why are you d-a-t-i-n-g your n-e-i-g-h-b-o-r?"

"Not now, Frankie. Please, not now."

"Are you having . . . Are you . . . you know."

"I know you don't want to start a question-asking party up in here."

I went to the bay window and looked out on the streets. A red Miata was parked across the street. A white woman got out and stood there for a moment.

I said, "Looks like we're in the midst of gentrification."

Tommie came to the window. "I saw her out there yesterday."

"Looking at properties, a place to squat, or trying to get some coffee in her milk?"

She shrugged. "She was just sitting there like she was waiting on somebody."

"Looks like she's coming over here. Is that Monica's mother?"

Monica was between us, holding Tommie's hand. "My mother's hair is yellow, not red."

Right about then, an SUV slowed down in front of her. It was Womack and his family. They said a few words, and then the woman hopped back in her sporty little car and sped away.

I sat on the floor, grabbed some wrapping paper, and started helping Tommie wrap a few gifts. Most of the stuff she had was from either Old Navy or Pier 1.

She said, "Pick which one of those sweatsuits you want and put your name on it."

"I'll take the gray one because it looks like Blue is your color."

"Don't hate."

"How did you meet him?"

"Sometimes you have to open the curtains and look out the window."

Not long after that I kicked my shoes off, changed into a pair of Tommie's sweats. We cranked up Radio Disney and danced like we were losing our minds, Monica leading the way. Then she sat at the kitchen table and talked me to death while she bounced and ate a peanut b.u.t.ter sandwich. When I was tired of the preschool jaw-jacking, I went back into the front room and watched them interact. I'd never seen Tommie like that, playing the mother role.

Monica told me, "I'm practicing my spoken word for Daddy's present."

"Really?"

"I'm going to be a poem writer when I get bigger. Want to hear it?"

"Sure."

She jumped up, did a cartwheel, then ran to the middle of the room. "I love my daddy when he works so long it makes me saddy call him on the phone-"

"Whoa, whoa. Slow down, Monica."

"Now I'll have to start allll over again." She took a deep breath. "Call him on the phone. When he's gone too long. Always wish he were near. Wish he were here. I love my daddy."

Tommie and I applauded. Monica smiled and went back to doing her cartwheels.

Tommie's phone rang. She was busy doing cartwheels and backbends with the kid, so I answered. It was Womack calling.

He said that the woman out front was looking for Livvy.

A hand went to my hip and I raised a brow. "Looking for Livvy?"

"She was asking questions."

"Like?"

"If that was where she lived, then wanted to know if I knew who lived in your building."

"Was it somebody from Dermalogica?"

"I backed down with the talking. Something about her . . . Her a.s.s was being too friendly, smiling too much, you know? Didn't wanna say too much, know what I mean?"

"What did she say?"

"After I started asking her a question or two, she got uncomfortable, kinda freaked out, just ran to her car and took off. Frankie, that woman burned rubber like she'd seen a ghost."

"Thanks, Womack."

I hung up and told Tommie what that call was all about. Her expression was the same as mine, hoping Tony didn't have a string of paternity suits heading this way.

She took the phone from me and called Livvy's cell phone.

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FOURTH WEEK IN.

DECEMBER.

For every reaction, there is an overreaction.

Read dat somewhere.

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POETIC JUSTICE.

The theory, not the movie.

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Tommie.

Sunrise. Christmas morning.

Frankie is the most outspoken of us all. That's why she and Momma always went at it like two hardheaded, headstrong women. Livvy told me that it had been that way from the moment Frankie was born. When Momma was first diagnosed, Frankie was the one who held us all together. When Momma died, Frankie cried the hardest because she was the last one to cry. We'd been crying all along, but Frankie had refused to break down. She came unraveled when the dirt hit Momma's coffin. Frankie needed us to be her bookends, and we held her up.

"Tommie, where are your presents?"

I say, "Right here, Frankie."

"Livvy, get to moving."

Livvy snaps, "Out my face, Frankie."

That's the way we start our Christmas morning, packing up gifts and going to see Momma and Daddy. We always take them their presents first, always honor them the way children should honor their parents, the way we should honor our ancestors.

But we're still sisters. The morning always starts out with us fighting each other, somebody mad because somebody did this, somebody didn't do that.

"Tommie . . . dammit . . . get in the d.a.m.n car or I will leave you."

"Whatever, Frankie. I'll drive my-d.a.m.n-self."

"You know what," Livvy explodes. "And I'm talking to both of you, I don't need no drama."

In stereo Frankie and I shout, "Shut up, Livvy."

All of our madness is love and nervous energy. It's like that because we were going to see our folks. Something about going to see Momma and Daddy always makes us revert back to being their children;. gives us the right to throw adulthood and its problems to the wind, to become four, ten, and fourteen again.

And like every year, Frankie is the first one to go off on somebody, then the first one to cry. Her tears fall while we're driving up Prairie toward Inglewood Cemetery.

I blow my nose, wipe my eyes, and look around at the city. Christmas morning is just like any other morning in the desert, the only difference being less traffic and more tolerance for the next twenty-four hours. No one rushing to work. No one brushing their teeth while they sit in traffic. No one whipping from lane to lane, reading the morning paper, or shaving, or yelling at their kids, or doing their hair and makeup while they cut you off. Even the smog is gentle. It's a different world this morning. An abandoned town with no real trees. Most of the people who are out are sleep-deprived parents who forgot to buy batteries for the toys. People are polite, respecting signal lights and doing the speed limit. It's a safe day, maybe the only day that everyone pretends they respect each other. It's like a twenty-four-hour virus because tomorrow morning, L.A. will go back to being L.A.: smog, relentless traffic, and the middle-finger being an extension of inner feelings.

By the time we park, Frankie has a big box of tissue in her lap, half of the tissues used and on the floor.

I ask, "You okay?"

Frankie nods. Her sungla.s.ses can't hide the redness in her eyes.

Livvy wipes her eyes with the back of her hands. Frankie hands her a few tissues. Then she hands me a few. We have an eye-drying, nose-blowing moment.

I sniffle. "McBrooms?"

They both nod and speak in chorus, "We're ready."

We walk shoulder-to-shoulder, smile-to-smile to where our parents are laid to rest.

Frankie says, "Somebody's been here."

Flowers are already at the base of our parents' tombstone. Fresh cut roses.

We're all surprised.

Frankie picks them up, reads the card. "They're from Tony."

Livvy takes the card from her. Then I take the card from her. Tony has sent our parents his eternal love and his apologies.

Livvy frowns, shakes her head, looks around, but doesn't see him.

I wipe my eyes and tell her. "He came out yesterday."

She s.n.a.t.c.hes a tissue. "So, you've been in contact with him."

I nod. "He called me."

"Uh huh. Where was I?"

"n.o.body ever knows where you are, Livvy."