“Stop. I know you’ve already set your mind to it.” She looks back and forth between the two of us. “But here’s my rule: You get six months. That’ll get us to summer, and then it’s back to reality for everybody.”

I’m not sure how she thinks summer is the magic cure for anything, but Mom and I nod like we’re entering into a secret pact right here and now. I feel the need to place my hand on a Bible or spit in my palm and shake on it.

The oven timer goes off right then and we move to head in. Both of them have to help me into my chair because I’m so stiff from the cold. But it was worth it. I’m the glue to their glitter. They can’t help but stick around because of me.

When we get inside, the kitchen is warm and smells like egg and sausage. Grandpa is sitting at the table with the newspaper and juice, and Elvis is singing “Blue Christmas” from the radio in the living room.

“My girls!” he says, and we go to him and it’s all right. It’s going to be all right.

“Thank you, guys!” I say, holding up my new spoke covers. They’re big black-and-white whorls that swirl like a hypnotist’s wheel. Mom snaps them on like hubcaps and sits back on her heels while I do a circle around the living room.

“Those things make me dizzy just looking at them,” she says.

“I love them.”

Mema and Grandpa wade through the crumpled wrapping paper to hug me. It’s late in the afternoon now, and we’re sitting in the glow of the little Christmas tree. When I say “little,” I mean li-ttle. It’s plastic and fits on the coffee table. When you push a button on the back, it dances and sings “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” Mema got it at Walgreens at an after-Christmas sale and swore she’d never put up a real tree again.

There’s a beeping in the kitchen.

“That’s my linzers!”

“Your whatzers?”

“My linzers, Grandpa.”

He gets that blank look he had last night at the church, and I feel the hairs on my arms prickle. Everybody freezes.

He looks from me to Mema. Mema looks from him to Mom.

After a second of silence, he says, “Either my dementia’s acting up or I have never heard of such a thing in my life,” and then actually slaps his knee and winks.

I laugh. I can’t help it.

Mema swats him lightly on the shoulder. “Jonah Cowan, you’re a mean old fart,” she says.

Mom looks a little shaky, but at least she’s smiling.

“It’s a cookie, Grandpa. You’ll like it, trust me.” I actually have no idea if this is true, because I have never made one before in my life.