Lucy's present from her mom arrived a few days before Christmas in a thin envelope. When her mom called that night, she told Lucy to open it.

  Lucy gasped. The present rated a ten on a scale from one to ten. Slipped inside the envelope was a gift certificate for a pair of mukluks, the hand-sewn boots worn by Native Americans. Lucy remembered the knee-high boots she'd seen in the mukluk store window in Burnum as a second grader. She had fallen in love then. Every year since, Lucy had checked to see if the woman still made them—the ones with the Navajo blanket tops in red, yellow, and black that went all the way up to the knees. With those boots, Lucy could cross snowdrifts and never get snow in her pants. She wouldn't take them off ever! But the boots cost hundreds of dollars, and Lucy's mom had always said that she wouldn't buy her a pair until Lucy reached her adult height.

  Lucy said, "But, Mom, my feet haven't stopped grow-fog."

  Lucy heard her mom laugh. Then she said she had paid for the mukluks with the money from "Found," the mountain goat photograph.

  "Thank you," said Lucy, staring down at the gift certificate. "Thank you!"

  Even with mukluks in her future, Lucy thought that Christmas day would surely be the most shoe-shuffling, tick-tock-went-the-clock day of her life. Luckily, Mrs. Rossignol invited Lucy and her dad over for Christmas.

  Christmas at the Rossignol house was Christmas bursting at its seams. Relatives sat in every chair, stood in every corner, and leaned on every counter. Their cars lined the length of Fifth Street on both sides. Arguments broke out and apologies were accepted with the regularity of the chiming of the kitchen clock. Lucy gaped happily at the commotion, until the aunts chased all the able-bodied relations out the door, one of them bearing a spatula, and another, a whisk, saying that a woman couldn't cook in such a din. Lucy and Zoë, along with all the others, donned their cross-country skis and took off into the park. When they got back, the aunts corralled them into the basement, where they were told to stay until Mrs. Rossignol called them. They waited, waited, waited. Stomachs moaned and stretched. One of the uncles swore he'd swallowed a cat, and if they listened, they could hear it mewing. They listened, and they could!

  "It's time," Mrs. Rossignol yelled finally.

  Everyone stopped midsentence, midknit, mid-Ping-Pong serve, and sprinted to the Christmas table.

  They ate for hours. Lucy lost track of the courses— vegetables, cheeses, meats, pastas, mushrooms, and on and on. The courses arrived from the kitchen in swishes of aproned women, each one initiating rounds of low murmurs and gasps, teasing, and stories. The men let out their belts.

  When it was all over, Lucy sank in her seat, one hand resting on her belly. She saw her red socks under the table and wiggled her toes. Her feet ached from skiing. She imagined her feet snug inside those mukluks. It made her feel sleepy to think of all that warmth. Lucy closed her eyes then and there, and a question sauntered into her head, like a cat checking out an unfamiliar room: Why did her mom choose this year to finally give in to the mukluks?

  Lucy's eyes opened. She sat up. It was strange. For years, her mom had stood firm. Lucy's feet needed to stop growing before she bought her a pair. It was almost a joke when Lucy begged. Why was this year different? Did her mom feel guilty? Was it a bribe for not coming home? Then the questions pounced on something in the corner of her mind. Mukluks were expensive. A pair of mukluks cost as much as a plane ticket.

  Lucy felt sick to her stomach.

  "Are you okay, Lucy?" said Zoë.

  Lucy broke away from thoughts of her mom and said quickly: "Too much food."

  Zoë laughed. "It happens to everyone the first time they eat Christmas dinner with us. Next year will be better. Your stomach learns."

  At nine thirty that night, Lucy and her dad cut across the Rossignols' yard to their little red house. Lucy leaned against him, grateful for the solid presence of him here, now—her dad. He gently straightened her green-and-yellow hat and asked how she liked Christmas.

  "Fine," said Lucy quickly. She didn't want to talk. Her stomach felt upset.

  When they got home, a message on the answering machine from her mom, grandma, and grandpa awaited them: "Merry Christmas!" they said. Then they sang "Jingle Bells."

  "We'll call them tomorrow," said her dad. "You look like you could use some sleep."

  Lucy nodded and went upstairs to her room.

  It took a while for Lucy to fall asleep that night. She twisted in the sheets for at least an hour, but eventually all that food had its soporific effect. Lucy fell asleep in spite of the fact that one thought kept circling like a goldfish in a bowl: Mukluks cost as much as plane tickets. Mukluks cost as much as plane tickets. Mukluks cost as much as plane tickets.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It aggravated Lucy Moon that her mom left places and never told them, like her family didn't play a part in her decisions, which, okay, apparently they didn't. Lucy's mom had left her grandparents' house early the day after Christmas. She was now driving toward New Mexico. This is what her grandparents said when Lucy called them. Lucy's dad didn't know a thing about these travels, either.

  When Lucy woke up the day after Christmas, she wanted to ask her mom one, single, solitary question. It was the question that woke her up at 5 A.M.: Why did her mom buy a gift certificate for mukluks instead of buying Lucy a plane ticket to Nevada? A person would think a mom could answer a question. It wasn't too much to ask.

  Lucy remembered how her grandma described her mom's destination: "We think she went to Santa Fe," her grandma said. "She did go on about a girlfriend and a dog—some enormous dog that liked to sleep on people's bare feet. I believe it was a Newfoundland." The phone muffled and Lucy heard her grandma yell: "Ernie, do you remember what kind of dog?"

  Great, Lucy had thought. So her mom left Nevada to visit a big dog. Maybe Lucy should practice fetching and rolling over.

  The next morning, two days after Christmas, Lucy ate her cereal and thought about what she knew of Santa Fe: Georgia O'Keeffe's round buildings, longhorn skulls, and black crosses; and a big dog jumping up and licking her mom's face. Every time Lucy imagined the dog jumping up, she thought, Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you? She was in a rather grim mood. She needed to talk to her mom about the plane ticket. But who knew when. Maybe her mom would call. Maybe she wouldn't call. Could be today. Could be days. Heck, why not a month?

  In the middle of these thoughts, Lucy heard a knock at the door.

  Lucy clanged her spoon down on the kitchen table and opened the front door. It was a police officer.

  Oh, no, Lucy thought. She didn't mean it. She was grumpy in the morning. Ask anyone! Please, don't let it be her mom. Lucy remembered what Miss Wiggins said about her mom at the gallery opening: "She's fond of risks, isn't she?"

  Lucy saw the scene in her mind: the compact car swerving off the road. Her mom lying facedown on the roadside, camera equipment splayed around her. Passing cars skidding on lens filters and developer fluid.

  Or it could be something else. Something like her mom running, glancing behind her. A grizzly bear catching her, striking and slashing with its claws. Oh, yeah, that was something her mom might do—get between a mama grizzly and her cubs.

  What if there wasn't a body? What if her mom was just missing? Lucy couldn't stand that—she knew she couldn't stand that. Lucy waited for the police officer to say something, anything.

  "Is there a parent at home?" said the police officer. He stepped inside and glanced around.

  Later, that's all Lucy remembered him saying. Maybe the police officer had said something before that. Maybe he'd shown a badge—weren't they supposed to? But if any of that had happened, Lucy didn't remember. What she heard was the squeak that meant her dad pulled the lever on the lounger to sit up. And then Lucy's dad was at the door.

  In a daze, Lucy followed the police officer and her dad into the living room.

  The police officer dug around in a briefcase and then handed Lucy a "Free Wiggins Hill!" postcard.

  Lucy stared at the postcard for a moment. It didn't make any sense. Then all her theories about the police officer's visit fell like rows of dominoes.

  "Is this about me?" asked Lucy.

  The police officer nodded. "Do you know what these are?" he asked her.

  "Oh, yeah," said Lucy. She relaxed. "Why didn't you say so?" All Lucy could think was that her mom was okay. Her mom was alive!

  That's when her dad took the postcard out of Lucy's hand and stepped in front of her.

  "What's this about?" her dad asked. "You don't ask my twelve-year-old daughter questions until I approve it. Is that clear?" He stared down at the police officer. Lucy gazed up at the solid plank of her dad's back and felt a little sorry for the police officer.

  The police officer sighed. "There was an act of vandalism on Wiggins Hill on Christmas night. A 'Free Wiggins Hill!' postcard was found on the scene. So we need to know where Lucy was that night. She's not the only one we're questioning."

  Her dad's hand gripped Lucy's shoulder. "My daughter was sleeping in our home," he said slowly.

  "She didn't leave for any reason?"

  "No"he said.

  The police officer smiled quickly, apologetically, and added. "You don't happen to have a toboggan around, do you?"

  "No," her dad said firmly.

  "Sounds good," said the police officer. He flipped a notebook open, wrote something down, flipped the notebook closed, and tucked it in a pocket.

  Lucy glanced up at her dad. He patted her shoulders.

  "Okay, that's it," said the police officer. He shook her dad's hand. "Thank you for your time." Soon after that the police car's engine turned over and the police officer drove away.

  Her dad patted Lucy on the shoulder one more time and then went upstairs. By the slope of his shoulders, Lucy knew she hadn't been the only one worried about her mom.

  By the time the Turtle Rock Times reported on it on New Year's Day—"Christmas Night Vandalism on Wiggins Hill!"—everyone knew most of the story: how Miss Wiggins saw a light on Wiggins Hill, that she drove her car to the bottom of the hill and arrived in time to see "five or six" sledders running away (one pulling a toboggan) through a freshly cut hole in the fence. Miss Wiggins claimed that all of the sledders disguised themselves by wearing big, bulky winter coats, and covering their faces with scarves and ski masks. "This was a premeditated, malicious action," said Miss Wiggins. "The police had better see to it that the culprits are caught."

  It was a good read. Lucy spread the Turtle Rock Times on the floor in front of her, while her dad watched the football game. She chuckled at Jessica Ar'dour's "Ear to the Door" column:

  A neighbor, who shall remain unidentified, heard a scream that sounded like "Merry Christmas to you, too" on Christmas night. When he peeked out his window, he swears he saw Miss Ilene Viola Wiggins in the middle of the street waving her arms. He also says she "wore only a satiny red nightdress and fuzzy blue slippers."

  "You don't think of this sort of thing happening in Turtle Rock, let alone on Christmas night," said the neighbor.

  This reporter then called Miss Wiggins to verify that she was, in fact, wearing a red nightdress. Miss Wiggins said, "Anyone thinking I wear skimpy clothing on a subzero night is clearly half-cocked, and that goes for those who print this rubbish in the newspaper, too." Miss Wiggins then hung up on this reporter.... Always listening in, Jessica Ar'dour.

  The police had questioned Lucy, Zoë, Edna, Sam, and Lisa Alt on December 26th. Lucy didn't blame them. Of course the police thought they had done it: a "Free Wiggins Hill!" postcard had been left at the scene of the crime. All five of them had been within walking distance of the hill on Christmas night. But none of them had done it.

  Lucy glanced at her dad, sitting forward in his lounger watching the game. He had asked her about the vandalism. Lucy told him what she knew, which was nothing. The last thing Lucy would do is cut Miss Wiggins's fence, sled on Miss Wiggins's hill, and then skewer a postcard as a calling card!

  The crowd at the football game roared on the television, and Lucy looked up to see a streak of gold on the green turf. The University of Minnesota had scored a touchdown.

  "A quarterback sneak!" said her dad, shooting a palm into the air.

  When the phone rang, Lucy raced up the stairs to answer it.

  "Happy New Year!" said her mom. "I'm in Santa Fe."

  "I know," said Lucy. "I talked to Grandma."

  "Oh, good," her mom said. She jabbered away. Lucy learned that her mom nearly drove off the road because of a cumulus cloud that looked like a face, that her friend's house was made of adobe, and that she owned a "spectacular" Newfoundland dog named Rufus.

  Lucy sat down on the hallway chair and let the words tumble until they were only sounds and rhythms. She grew angrier and angrier. First, her mom hadn't called for a week. Second, her mom had had enough money to fly Lucy out to Nevada for Christmas and didn't do it. And finally, Lucy was supposed to sit here and listen to her mom's litany of happiness, joy, and fun? Enough was enough.

  "Sounds great, Mom, Now can I say something?" Lucy said.

  "I guess I go on and on," her mom said, chuckling. "It's been real fun."

  "Okay," said Lucy. She paused and then came out with it. "Mukluks cost as much as plane tickets, Mom. How come you didn't buy me a plane ticket if you had the money?"

  "You didn't like the mukluks? I thought you wanted mukluks."

  Lucy tried again, spelling it out slowly and with emphasis. "Mom, that's not the point. I wanted to have Christmas with you and Grandma and Grandpa in Nevada, and you said we didn't have the money to pay for it. But you did have the money to pay for it! You bought me a pair of mukluks. Why didn't you buy me a plane ticket to Nevada instead?"

  The pause on the other end of the line was immense.

  Lucy waited. She heard nothing . . . nothing . . . nothing.

  "Mom . . . ?" said Lucy.

  "I'm sorry," her mom said softly.

  "But, Mom, you said I couldn't come because we didn't have the money," Lucy continued. "Mukluks cost lots."

  Another pause.

  "Yeah," said her mom, with a sigh that sounded like an orca breaking the surface of water to catch its breath.

  And then the answer finally came. It was scrunched together on a squeak of air: "I couldn't be a mom this Christmas."

  The words crashed into Lucy. Time grew sluggish. Lucy realized that she hadn't thought about how her mom might reply. She had been obsessed with just asking the question.

  Then she felt a dull ache. But hey, there was something to be said for hearing the truth, right? The truth was good.

  The ache grew into a raw hurt.

  Somehow Lucy's mouth began speaking. "But you are a mom. You're my mom. You're supposed to be a mom."

  "Lucy," said her mom.

  But Lucy didn't let her talk. "I thought you were taking photographs. You're not taking photographs? You're escaping me? At Christmas?"

  "No, I didn't mean that!" said her mom. What followed was a waterfall of words: "I can't do without you, you know that. I love you. I need you. I love being your mom and I'm real proud of you." On and on and on it went. But Lucy couldn't understand. It made no sense. And anyway, she couldn't hold the phone up to her head anymore, because her face seemed to be slick. She put the receiver down on the chair. Lucy could still hear her mom talking on the phone as she walked into her bedroom and closed the door.

  * * *

  Over the next couple of days the phone rang nonstop. No way, thought Lucy. Her entire body tensed as she sat listening to the ring until her dad or the machine answered it.

  Finally, on the third day, her dad came into her room. Lucy did not, would not, look up from where she sat in the armchair. She pretended she did not notice him. Couldn't he see she was busy with Ms. Korturn's winter-break reading?

  The bed wheezed when he sat on the end of it.

  Lucy continued to take notes on the Chippewa Native Americans. But beyond the sight line of her pen, Lucy could see her dad's shoes—big, brown, sturdy, reliable shoes with a shine that could only be achieved by polish and a brush. Lucy knew he would never think of getting a new pair of shoes. He had this pair and he would keep them. They were "serviceable." He liked things that were serviceable. Lucy wondered if he knew that Josephine, his wife and her supposed-to-be mom, was no longer offering any service at all when it came to being a mom, other than buying expensive presents over the phone and having store clerks sign the card.

  "Your mom told me what she said."

  Lucy stopped writing and decided to look up.

  He met her eyes. He looked pained, confused.

  Lucy raised an eyebrow. "Did she tell you she didn't want to be a mom?"

  "She said she needed a break from being a mom this Christmas," he said.

  "Oh," said Lucy, going back to her social studies. "That's not what she said." She kept taking notes. "For the record, Mom said—and I quote—'I couldn't be a mom this Christmas.'"

  Her dad sighed. "I'm going to tell you something." The air in the room seemed to thicken into gelatin, and each breath caught in Lucy's throat. "I think she's running away from me," he said. "She is taking photos and she's probably doing great work, as your mom always does. But I think this trip is mostly about me. And her. You got caught in the middle."

  Lucy wished he would shut up. She didn't want any more truths. She couldn't take any more words. Her dad's words stuck in the air, and Lucy couldn't breathe. Her mom's words replayed endlessly in Lucy's head, stinging every time. How did parents expect kids to swallow this kind of stuff? Lucy was full. She was full. Okay?