The Opposite of Music by Janet Ruth Young

to make it. Do you know this is our first Christmas apart?”
    â€œShhh, Adele,” Dad says. “Don’t even think about it.”
    â€œOkay, now,” Marty says. “Ready for your close-ups. One at a time.”
    â€œYou’re going to leave the camera on, Uncle Marty?” Linda asks when she comes back. “What if Dad gets something else that’s freakish?”
    â€œIt’s fine, Linda,” Mom says. “Have fun with it, Marty.”
    Mom had announced that we should keep our gift buying fairly simple this Christmas. Now we go around the room opening one present apiece, expressing more fake delight than usual. It’s hard to know whose benefit this is for—Dad’s, Mom’s, Marty’s, or the camera’s. Dad is the only person who isn’t playacting, although he tries to say something appreciative each time. It must be good for him to keep busy—even with the bass incident, he hasn’t had to get up and pace. Marty has given Linda a handheld video game console, Mom a personal digital assistant, and me a fancy electronic odometer I’ll never use.
    â€œCool!” Linda shouts, winding her face into a grimace that she’ll be embarrassed about five years from now.
    â€œI haven’t got your gift yet, Bill,” Marty tells Dad. “I need a little more time. I wanted it to be really, really special.”
    Linda made friendship bracelets for everyone—plain ones for the men and a daisy-patterned one for Mom. I bought a small box of oil paints for Dad, soap for Mom, and socks for Linda. Nothing for Marty because I didn’t know he was going to be here. “Don’t give it another thought, buddy,” Marty says. “You’re good to me all year round, right?” Mom gives each person thermal underwear and a box of hard candy.
    â€œNow it’s time for your father’s presents,” Mom says.
    â€œYou had time to shop, Dad?” Linda asks. “You didn’t have to get us anything.”
    â€œNot exactly,” Mom says. She takes a handful of small envelopes from the top of the brick room divider and gives one to Marty, Linda, and me, and takes one for herself. “Let’s open them all at once,” she says.
    Inside the envelopes are note cards saying

    WHEN I AM WELL
    I WILL TAKE YOU

    Mine says “to the Museum of Fine Arts.” Linda’s says “on the Swan Boats.” Mom’s says “to the North End.” Marty’s says “to Fenway Park.”
    â€œFun!” Linda shouts.
    â€œGod, bro, that’s so nice. I can’t wait.”
    â€œAdele helped me with them.”
    Marty’s chin begins to shake. “It’s been such a tough year, with the separation and everything. You’ve been amazing. Everyone else got sick of hearing about it.”
    â€œThere goes another one,” Linda says.
    â€œExcuse me,” Marty says. He goes to the hall bathroom, flushing the toilet as soon as he gets inside.
    â€œI guess that’s it, then,” Mom says, taking the big tray of cookies back to the kitchen.
    Linda and I collect the wrapping paper and stuff it into bags. When Marty comes back, he takes Dad by the elbow.
    â€œLet’s go for a walk, bro,” he says, walking him to the coat closet. “We’ll stroll up and down the street and see everybody’s decorations. Let’s get you good and bundled up.”
    Once they leave, Mom retrieves the turkey leg from beside the armchair and wraps it in foil. She turns off the room lights. Only the tree is still glowing.
    â€œThat wasn’t such a bad Christmas,” she says.

FRITZ SAYS
    Fritz says:
    â€œIt’s important for you to feel as functional and normal as possible while this is going on. So shower each day. Get dressed right away, as soon as you get out of bed—don’t sit around in your pajamas. Get some exercise daily, even a twenty-minute walk or some