Career Tip #9 - Show, don't tell
The value of action is far greater than that of mere words. Use this as a principle in your dealings in the workplace. Instead of bragging about all the things you can do, and then never actually delivering, you ought to show management what you are capable of.
Pacey touches a snow globe on her dresser before picking up a photo frame of Lilly and Joey running through a sprinkler together on a summer's day. Perched awkwardly on the edge of her bed, Joey's feet dangle in the air, watching him inspect her private spaces.
"Pink sheets, hey?" he asks, turning over a dolphin statue in his hands.
"They're mauve."
"I haven't been in this room for years. Last time I was here, I remember a bug catcher on your dresser with a grasshopper inside."
"Bugs were my tomboy calling card."
"And I, an actual boy, hated them."
Pacey has noticeably relaxed, his shoulders even and strong. A different person from the one who recoiled on the street at the sight of his father, but the very same one that kissed her for the second first time.
"About before," Joey begins. "We shouldn't have. I shouldn't have. And now your Dad…" she sighs. "I'm sorry."
"It was my stupid idea in the first place. I need to remember that Capeside has eyes."
"And ears," she adds.
Joey's legs pause mid-air while he looks at a watercolor she painted. It's a solid effort with strong composition, capturing the varied hues of the creek in fall.
"This is amazing," he says.
"I've been thinking…" deflecting the compliment, her tone makes him put the paper down.
"Uh oh."
"That maybe this," she points between them. "Is a bad idea."
"What this are you referring to exactly?" Pacey is careful with his words.
"I don't hate being friends with you, despite my earlier proclamations of the ways you drive me crazy. But I feel like the universe is trying to tell us that this acquaintance isn't in your best interests."
"The universe being John Witter?" He flops on the bed beside her.
"We're kids, Pacey. Our universe is our family and friends. Your relationship with him is strained enough without adding this complicated element."
"We're not kids, we're teenagers and it's completely normal at this age to rebel against our parents, especially when their opinions are ridiculous and unjust."
"I just don't want you to -" Joey's voice fades out and she picks at invisible stains on her jeans.
"To what?"
"To get hurt, for something as stupid as being friends with me."
"My dad's going to have a negative opinion about whatever I do. Whether it's my grades, my attitude, or the angle I park the Wagoneer. This isn't the first time in my life he hasn't liked one of my friends, Joey. It won't be the last."
"But whenever you see him, Pace, you shut down. That's terrifying to watch."
Pacey sighs, unable to justify it or put the fear he feels into words.
"I can deal with him, Jo, I promise. Tonight I'm just here hiding, buying some time before the inevitable lecture." The word lecture bears an inflection of hope.
"Right now, the only positives in my life are Screen Play, dare I say school, and hanging out with you. I have no intention of letting John Witter's grumpy ass get in the way of that."
"Then what's the endgame? We hide our acquaintance? Kind of hard when we work together."
"I don't know. It might be best to lay low for a while?" Maybe you should refrain from kissing me in the street again? I know it will require boundless restraint on your part." He smirks.
"Me kissing you?" Joey scoffs. "You're lucky I don't murder you in the street."
Pacey chuckles, pushing himself up on his elbows and glances at the wonders on her bedside table.
"Quit your snooping, Witter," she warns.
"Me, snoop? Never. I'm simply getting acquainted with the facets of Joey Potter I'm not yet privy to."
Bessie knocks once and pokes her head in the door. "It's almost eleven. Pacey, you better go home."
"Can I talk to you for a minute?" Joey leads Bessie into the hallway and out of his earshot.
"What is going on?" asks Bessie.
Joey's voice is a whisper. "Can he stay?"
"Absolutely not," Bessie shakes her vehemently.
"Please. He's having a hard time at home. He could really use a night away, a little breathing room."
"John?" Bessie asks.
Joey nods.
Bessie pulls her bathrobe tighter, sighing. "Fine, he can stay, but he must stay on the couch. One baby is enough in his household."
Joey's jaw drops. "Geez, dramatic much?"
"I might not be a teenager anymore, but I'm not stupid. In only a few short weeks, you two have progressed from enemies to employees, to friends, to sleepover friends. At the speed you're traveling, I wouldn't be surprised if parenthood is in your near future."
"I'm fifteen."
"Exactly. That is why he is sleeping on the couch. You sort out the blankets. I'm going to bed. And a proviso to this sleepover is that he has to call home, let them know he's okay. Things will only get worse for him if he doesn't show."
"But -"
"No buts, Joey. He can lie, say he's at Dawson's, I don't care what he says, but the last thing I need is John Witter banging on my door looking for his runaway son."
Joey nods, letting Bessie tend to a fussing Alexander in his crib.
Back in her room, Pacey is sitting at her desk, doodling with her best purple pen. Elbow resting perilously close to her diary, she swoops past, grabbing it and stuffing it under her pillow.
He doesn't stop drawing. "Don't want me to know your secrets, hey?"
"Wanna stay?" she asks.
Head shooting up, he nods. "Yeah, that will be good."
"I'll get you some blankets and set you up on the couch. You call your mom, tell her you're at Dawson's."
He obeys, Joey listening to the muffled tones of one-sided conversation on the phone.
She collects a sheet, an extra pillow from her bed, and a blanket, tucking them into the couch cushions while Pacey changes into a pair of Bodie's sweatpants.
He emerges from the bathroom, barefoot pads across the floor.
"Do you need anything else?" Joey asks.
His eyes drift to her lips and he licks his own, her taste still there.
"I think I'm all set."
"Well, you know where I am if you need something."
"Night, Jo."
"Night, Pace."
Lying on the couch, his gaze hovers over the pile of presents beside the TV cabinet, noting the lack of Christmas cheer so close to the holiday.
Shadows loom large on the walls, playing tricks on his eyes. Every time he drifts off, another creak of the house startles him awake, that or the smell of her shampoo emanating from his pillow.
After an hour of no sleep, Pacey pulls off the blankets and tiptoes down the hall to the bathroom. When he exits, he passes Joey's bedroom door, hovering for a few seconds, staring at the doorknob.
He could turn it, he could go inside. But he doesn't.
Instead, he makes his way back to the living room, back to the couch.
He stops at the threshold.
Joey is sitting on his makeshift bed. A gift in blue plaid pajamas.
"Can't sleep?" He asks.
She shakes her head.
"Me either."
He perches beside her on the couch. They sit in silence until seconds are swallowed by minutes. Moonlight limps through the window, just enough to see the tapering of her neck disappearing beneath her collar.
Joey lies down on his pillow, in the position he tried to sleep, snuggling into the crook of the couch.
Pacey swallows and mirrors her movement, laying beside her, keeping a healthy gap between their bodies. Of all the things in the world to help him sleep, Josephine Potter's body parallel to his is not a likely remedy.
"My mom used to make me a drink. She called it Sleepy Tea. When I couldn't sleep, she would make me a mug of it and it always worked," he says.
"What was in it?"
"Hot water, honey, and NyQuil."
Joey laughs softly. "My mom would bundle me under blankets, tuck me so tight I could barely move my arms. My body must have just relaxed, being pinned to the bed. I would be out in minutes."
"Wrapped like a burrito?"
"Yeah, I guess. Something about being wrapped tight makes you forget about the terrifying things you imagine lurk under your bed."
"Maybe I needed that? I was always scared of everything. Goblins, monsters. For a solid few months, I was convinced a Yeti was living by the creek."
"I didn't know Yetis were endemic to the Cape," Joey giggles.
"I saw some white tufts of fur wedged in the bark of a tree. Dearest Dougie shared with me the unlikely tale of a Yeti once being seen in the area, and the rest is childhood-nightmare history."
"Do you believe in ghosts?" She asks.
"As a kid, sure. But now, I don't know."
"I don't," Joey says, matter of fact. "I used to wish for a ghost, for about a year after mom died. I couldn't understand why there were Ghostbusters and Casper and haunted houses, but my mom wouldn't come to see me. I tried to summon her in all the usual ways; in the mirror, on Halloween night, but nothing. She died with two children and couldn't even come back to see us."
"If she could, you know she would."
"I know. But I was angry about it for a long time. Mad that she didn't become a spirit or whatever a ghost is, that she didn't try as hard as those haunting ghosts." When she speaks, her voice doesn't break, all emotion exhausted.
"Maybe the ghosts that we hear about on TV and movies are just wishes for ghosts, for something to explain the unexplainable?"
"When I gave up on the idea of her as a spirit I started to talk to her, in my head mostly. I still do. Each night, I lie in bed and imagine telling her about my day. Like a diary, I guess, all the things I'm too afraid to put onto paper."
"Do you think she can hear?" He asks, without an ounce of judgment.
"Yes."
"Did you talk to her tonight?"
Joey nods. "I did."
"What did you tell her?"
"I told her about the gift I bought for Bessie, about the Christmas Party, and about your stupid reindeer antlers." She shifts, sinking lower into the crook of the couch.
"Anything else?" He fishes.
"I told her you were sleeping in our living room."
"And what would she say about that?"
"She'd tell me to go back to my own bed."
"Are you going to listen?"
"She's not here. So I don't have to listen."
Joey's grief is a paper cut that never heals, invisible but endlessly painful.
Pacey pulls the blanket a little higher, covering Joey beside him.
She falls asleep in minutes, soft echoes of breath on his pillow. He relaxes, listening to the rhythmic exhalations, and closes his own eyes.
Behind closed lids, Pacey tells Lilly Potter about his day. He tells her he saw his father's face as he drove by, the way his neck craned and the light shone upon his frown. He tells her that he kissed Joey and for thirty seconds the world stopped turning.
Expelling the thoughts clears his clouded mind, and he falls asleep with ease, dreaming of first kisses and ghosts that lurk in the creek's shadows.
In the morning, Pacey wakes alone. Alexander's screams assault his ears before the sun has made its full arrival. Joey's couch crook is sunken and cold. He puts his hand on the place she was, the pillow over his head, and falls back asleep.
He hangs at the Potter house for the better part of the day, cooks breakfast with Bodie, and entertains Alexander while Bessie takes a nap. Every activity delays his inevitable return.
Outside a storm blasts a frigid wind across the Cape, leaving branches heavy with icicles. Pacey and Joey watch terrible movies, bicker, and sit by the kitchen window playing tic tac toe in the condensation that fogs the pane.
"You can stay for dinner if you want," Bessie offers reheated soup as the sky grows dark.
Pacey declines. Soup can't save him from the inevitability of home.
He collects his coat and thanks Bessie and Bodie for their hospitality.
"You're going to freeze," Joey says, pouting and drawing her rendition of a cold stick figure Pacey on her window canvas. She wipes icy fingers on her shirt and hands him her red woolen scarf off the rack.
"I'll be fine," he protests.
"Shut up and wear it."
He winds it around his neck. "I think I need to invest in a scarf of my own. It is warm and snug."
"Just make sure you don't leave it on the floor of the Wagoneer."
"I shall smuggle it indoors," he leaves with a wave.
From the window blurred by their fingertips, Joey watches as he navigates the slippery stairs and climbs in the car.
Bessie calls her to help with Alexander and she abandons her post. Unwatched, Pacey wraps the scarf tighter, covering his nose and drives home.
He walks through the door at dinnertime, trepidation pulsing through his veins. John Witter is at the family dinner table, splitting the fibers of a blackened steak, using his knife like a saw. He struggles with grip, the tremors in his hands scrape the plate.
"Oh, you're back, have a seat, Pacey," his mother stands, piling mashed potatoes on a plate and a steak that has been sitting in a puddle of yellow, glistening fat.
John finally removes a corner and shoves it into his mouth. "Where have you been?" He asks between chews.
"Christmas shopping," Pacey lies.
There is a glass of Coke beside John's plate. Today's alcohol consumption has yet to blur the lines between man and monster.
"I saw Miriam Horowitz at the store today," Mary begins. "She was telling me how nice it was to see you at Screen Play, Pacey. She even told me how helpful you were last week finding that Humphrey Bogart film. What was it again?"
"Sabrina."
"She must have got Pacey confused with someone else at the store." John chuckles at his own joke.
"Oh now, John, it sounds like Pacey is making a real go of this job. Hopefully, you don't screw it up, dear. What are you planning on spending your money on?"
Pacey shrugs, fishing a large lump from his mash. "Probably a car."
"Good. You can quit putting miles on the Wagoneer." John forks the mash into his mouth, lumps and all.
At the mention of the Wagoneer Pacey imagines himself inside. The five blissful minutes of solace from Screen Play to the Potter house. A tape, leather seats, and Joey. He wishes he was gripping the wheel right now, driving away. Anywhere but here, awaiting his fate over a checkered tablecloth and a plate of inedible food.
Mary chatters, filling the silence with meaningless words. How much a dozen eggs cost at the grocery store and her frustration at coming home with a yard less fabric than she needed to complete her latest project.
The once rowdy house is so quiet now she overcompensates. Gretchen is in her first year of college, Kerry married, and Doug living alone. Youngest of the Witter brood, Pacey is left with the weary remains of parents long tired of actual parenting.
John and Pacey scoop food into their mouths, letting Mary's words decorate the dining room until the phone rings, and she answers it, pulling up a chair to listen to Aunt Linda's day.
When she wraps and unwraps the phone cord extension around her hands, Pacey can feel John staring at him.
"I saw you last night," John says casually.
"And what exactly did you see?"
"I'm not entirely sure if I'm being honest. Because, as your parent, I made a specific stipulation regarding Joey Potter, and yet I pull around the corner to see you grinding against each other in the main street."
His voice is controlled, which frightens Pacey more than the yelling.
"It was nothing, it was just a mistletoe kiss."
"Outside?"
"Seriously, dad, she doesn't like me that way."
"It doesn't matter which way she does or doesn't like you. It's not going to happen, especially now."
"What does that mean? Now?"
"It means for once in your life you listen to what I tell you." He puts his knife down, a full stop to the discussion.
Mary continues to talk into the receiver, watching her dinner going cold and praying Aunt Linda's church gossip is delivered speedily.
Pacey puts down his knife. His plate is almost full, but he is done with dinner. "Why would I listen to what you tell me, giving orders about who I can and can't associate with? You have given me no explanation. None that makes sense."
"I'll talk to you tomorrow, Linda," Mary finishes the call and scurries back to her plate, a peacekeeping glance between her husband and son.
"What did I miss?"
"Nothing," John mumbles.
She knows that is a lie, cuts her cold steak, and begins the arduous task of chewing. Silence overwhelms the table. Eventually Pacey gives up, standing to carry his full plate to the kitchen.
"You sit the hell down and finish that meal," John's voice is a warning.
"Mandating what I eat, as well as who I associate with now?"
"It's fine if you're finished, Pacey. Just leave the in the sink," says Mary.
Pacey does as his mother says, scraping the food into the trash while she attempts to steer the conversation towards more palatable topics like Christmas dinner preparations. Did they want beans, peas, or both?
When none of the men respond, she sinks into her chair, conceding. "What can it hurt if Pacey and Joey are friends? They're only working together."
John's fist hits the table with such force that the salt shaker tumbles over, rolling to the floor. It takes Pacey a moment to realize that the furious reaction was meant for his mother, not for him.
"What part of no is unclear?!" Spittle flies from his mouth as he punctuates the words.
Mary blinks, collects her plate, and scurries to the kitchen. "You're right, dear. Pacey, I must say, on second thought, I agree with your father. It's really not the best idea to associate with the Potters. Who wants dessert? I've got some cherry pie I can re-heat. And ice cream too. I'll go get it out of the garage freezer."
She disappears, leaving the Witter men alone. John abandons his meal and collects a beer, making his way to his recliner. His son stands shellshocked by the dining table, staring at the salt on the floor. He bends to pick it up.
"Go to bed. Get the hell outta my sight," John barks.
"I'm just clearing the table to help Mom."
A beer hisses its opening. The remote pointed at the television. "She made the mess. She can damn well clean it."
Pacey ignores him, collects the plates, and retreats to the safety of his room.
John leaves for work early the next morning. Listening from his bed, Pacey waits until the sound of his bacon grease stops popping. The familiar key jangle rings and the front door clicks closed.
Emerging from his room to an empty house, Pacey finds a stale Pop Tart, grips it between his teeth, and pads down the stairs into the basement.
There he sits surrounded by photographs. They've gathered dust and some of them have water damage from the constant damp that seeps through the walls. There are boxes labeled Kerry, Gretchen, and Doug, but none with his name. Instead, he finds an assortment of his childhood memories still in the paper slips from the one-hour photo. No one bothered to even label a box for him.
Most of the photos are family shots where Pacey is present. Dawson and Pacey, matching bowl cuts in the late eighties fishing in the creek. He finds Joey only in class photos, exhibiting her gap-toothed smile and ponytails.
When he's done inspecting his own meager collection, he thumbs through a box labeled "TO SORT". It's an assortment of family gatherings, kids in Halloween costumes, and the one family vacation they ever had to Niagara Falls. He flicks through the last few glossy photos and stops.
The image in his hands is unfamiliar. His father, sitting at a table, has a spread of playing cards resting in his left hand. Cheeks flushed, he has a relaxed smile on his face and his right hand rests on a man's shoulder. Pacey inspects the man as though he is an apparition. He's wearing a checked button-down with a full, dark mustache. The man is Mike Potter. On the other side of his father is a woman, unmistakably Lilly Potter. She is smiling, a glass of red wine in her grasp, her mouth curled up in a familiar smile. If he squinted, it could be Joey.
The more he looks at the picture, the more confusing it becomes. Its only clue is the date, imprinted on the bottom left, 09 : 05 : 1992. He flips the photo over, checking for his mother's handwritten description that often accompanies photos. It's blank.
Glancing at the pile, he sees another. This time it's his mother and Lillian. They're standing on the Potter front porch. Mary has a jacket on with a beanie, Lilly is making a face to the camera, her tongue poking out.
He inspects the stack of photos again, but he finds nothing further out of the ordinary. Just two photos, evidence of something he didn't know existed.
Pacey pushes all the other memories back into their haphazard piles. The two he found sit safely in his top pocket as he climbs the stairs out of the den.
Christmas Eve at Screen Play video is a ghost town. Through the windows they watch the late-night shoppers cross the main street with bags filled with gifts, but no one comes inside. No one wants to rent Ace Ventura tonight.
Joey doesn't even pretend to work. She flicks through the New Releases catalog and chews on the granola bar that doubles as her dinner.
Pacey is mirroring her mood, slumped over the counter, watching the pages swoop past his nose as she turns them.
"Be careful. I might give you a paper cut."
He shrugs. "Will it get me out of Christmas lunch with the entire Witter clan?"
"Doubtful."
She flicks another page, peering at the Drama titles that will arrive next month for overnight rentals.
"This might sound like a strange question," Pacey lifts his head. "But do you remember a time growing up when our parents were friends?"
"What?" The pages stop turning.
"Were they friends? Like the kind that has barbeques and play cards?"
"No," Joey shakes her head, adamant, squinting like she's conjuring a memory.
"I found photos. Photos of them in 1992. All of them together, looking happy and friendly."
"Photos? What kind of photos?"
"Like ones that suggest they weren't just acquaintances whose kids happened to be in the same class, but actual friends themselves, the kind that have dinners and games nights."
"Our parents? Your dad once liked my dad?" Her brow is creased. "I don't buy it."
"I'll show you the photos sometime."
She shakes her head again, not sure that photographic evidence will convince her.
"It's funny now you mention it. I can remember my own friends growing up, but not my parents' friends. I know they went out for dinners and I would be left with Bessie or babysitters, but I can't remember who they went with. As a kid, I'm not sure I cared."
"Kids are supposed to be selfish, parents aren't. I'm telling you, I think that's the reason why my Dad is so mad that your Dad got arrested. Maybe he felt betrayed by a friend?"
"Was it taken at a school function, some kind of PTA meeting?"
"Possibly," Pacey answers, doubtfully. He was certain it was the Potter's dining table in the photo.
They brainstorm, concocting theories as to why the photos exist. But nothing they conjure can justify it. The store is so quiet that between seven and nine, not a soul enters. They're free to speculate uninterrupted.
Pacey locks up while Joey rubs her hands to warm them. They're alone on a dark street, just like a few nights before. The red scarf he returned at the beginning of their shift covers her nose.
In the Wagoneer, Pacey drives Joey home. They go the long way, weaving up and down the streets, searching for the best Christmas light display. Some houses only have tree lights peeking through an open curtain, while others cast a chaotic glow across the street, complete with sleigh and snow machine. Kids watch in awe, bundled in jackets, their pajamas underneath. Pacey and Joey watch through the windshield, little desire to venture into public spaces where they might be seen.
At the Potter house, Pacey leaves the car running, the heater on full. Reaching into the back seat, he pulls out a green gift with a red bow and sits it on her lap.
"I would say Merry Christmas, but I doubt you're in a celebratory mood. So please accept this an acknowledgment of the festive season and the gift-giving customs associated with said season."
"I didn't think we were doing presents," she says.
He shrugs. "Can't a co-worker give a fellow employee a gift?"
"It's a pretty big gift," she considers the box.
"I thought size didn't matter to girls."
She glares in response.
"Should I open it now?"
"No," he shakes his head. "Wait until tomorrow morning."
"Is it a gag gift? Are a dozen baby snakes going to slither out and infiltrate my house?"
"Just open it slowly," he jokes.
"If it's evil, I'm going to punch you."
"I would expect nothing less."
"Wait here," she opens the door, taking the gift with her. He watches her bound up the porch stairs, disappear inside, and appear back in seconds.
She passes a gift bag through his open window, a picture of Santa with jolly pink cheeks on the front.
"I didn't think we were doing presents," he mimics.
"Don't get excited. It's not much. I don't have a lot of cash right now."
"It will be fine." He plays with the handles of the bag, resisting peeking inside. "Will Bessie make Christmas dinner tomorrow?"
"She'll try. I know she wants to make it special. Especially as it's Alexander's first Christmas."
"Infants are notorious lovers of the festive season," Pacey says dryly.
Joey chuckles. "He has a ridiculous number of gifts for someone who can't even hold the weight of his own head, let alone independently open them."
"First-time parents," says Pacey. "They're excited."
She stands by his window, shifting her weight between legs to keep warm.
"I hope you have a good day, Pace."
"It's unlikely. But I'll try." He fakes a smile. "Merry Christmas, Jo."
"Merry Christmas, Pace."
At home, Pacey waits two hours from the first crack of a beer can. A rerun of the White Sox vs the Guardians game plays at booming volume. The game was over months ago, but John still hurls abuse at the pitchers. Beer after beer after beer empties until he staggers to bed, deep snores setting an even tempo. Mary's sewing machine hums over the rumbling.
Safe to exit, Pacey leaves his bedroom and joins his mother at the dining table. A Singer sits perched on Doug's dinner place. Her foot works the pedal, the needle tracking a frenetic line while her fingers guide the fabric. She is finishing a quilt for his nephew, James as a Christmas present. Patterns of trucks and tractors are arranged on a John Deere green backdrop.
He takes a seat beside her, waiting until she has finished the run. Reversing the stitch to end the line, Mary pulls out the fabric, snipping the threads off, and looks at her son.
"Why are you up so late?"
"Can't sleep." He fingers the cotton scraps that litter the table.
"A glass of milk will do the trick," she smiles and picks up another swatch of color, arranging it on the machine, foot at the ready. "You're too old for Sleepy Tea."
When he says nothing, she continues sewing as if she's alone, mouth pursed in concentration, eyes trained on the needle.
"Why did you change your mind? Why did you agree with him?" he asks over the noise.
She stops, turning to face Pacey. "Because he's right."
"Why is he right? What am I missing in this equation? Maybe I can understand it if someone will just explain it to me rather than barking orders and closing the subject."
"Your father has his reasons, and you've lived in this house long enough to know that the statement alone should be enough for you."
"But it's not enough, Mom." He contemplates his next words. "Were you ever friends with the Potters?"
Lips pursed, Mary shakes her head. There is an almost imperceptible octave change "What are you talking about?".
He pauses, giving her an opportunity to tell the truth.
She doesn't take it.
"I was looking through photos today and I found some of you, Dad, Mike, and Lilly Potter. You were playing cards, you looked like you were friends. You had your arm around her in a photo. Why can't I remember that?"
"We were friends, for a short time," Mary pins pieces of fabric, her voice low. She won't look at him. "When you're a parent, you end up making friends with parents of your kids' friends. It's not out of the ordinary. We went to a few dinners with them, Mike and John would watch the game together. They both liked to drink."
"What happened?"
Mary listens for John's continued snoring before she answers. "Mike Potter is a drug dealer, that's what happened."
"No Mom. That was years later. What happened before that?"
"It wasn't the best friend situation that you're imagining. We had a few dinners, some social catch-ups. That's it. Not all relationships need to be long term."
"If I ask Dad about it, what would he say?"
Mary's body stiffens. "Don't," is all she can say.
"Why?"
"Because it would only upset him. He'd say it's none of your business, Pacey, and he'd be right. Now get back to bed," she dismisses him.
"I saw Lilly Potter slap Dad in the grocery store when I was nine and Dad just let it happen. He let her yell at him and he just walked away. Can you even imagine a world where he would walk away? I can't. Something happened to end your friendship. Something is fueling his hate."
Mary raises her face to Pacey, her eyes telling him this is the first time she's heard about their grocery store encounter.
"This conversation is closed, Pacey."
"But-"
"No buts. Keep out of the photographs. Keep out of the past. It doesn't do anyone any good."
"Mom!"
Her tongue peeks between her lips in concentration and she goes back to watching the needle penetrate the fabric.
"Go to bed," she whispers. "And for both our safety, you need to leave this alone."
Pacey stands beside her, waiting for an explanation that never comes. He trudges to his room, delivering roundhouse punches to his pillow until his arm aches, then flops onto the bed, panting.
The sewing machine drones on and off, its sound traveling while he stares at the ceiling. Flipping over, he reaches his hand beneath his bed frame, feeling for the familiar item and pulling at it. He should wait until the morning, so he has something to look forward to. But he can't.
Santa's cartoon face and bulbous nose stare back at him. Attached to the gift bag is a small card. He opens it, reading the words out loud.
To Capeside's #2 Video store clerk.
Merry Christmas - Keep warm.
From Capeside's #1 Video store clerk.
Inching open the gift bag, he finds inside a pile of knitted wool. He retrieves it with a smile, an identical scarf to Joey's, but in blue.
He twirls it around his neck, letting his fingers intertwine with the tasseled ends. And on Christmas Eve he falls asleep wrapped in the scarf, uncommonly warm.
Grief is a burden tied to your bones. In life's big moments, it's at its heaviest, tarnishing the sheen of the festivities, dragging you to the sea floor.
Just when Joey thinks she's okay, it's Christmas morning, and her mother isn't here, her father isn't here and she is not okay.
An immovable frown has set up residence on her face. It remains throughout the present opening, surrounded by wrapping. Bessie and Bodie exchange concerned glances her way, promising a breakfast that will lift her spirits. Joey excuses herself to change out of her pajamas.
She doesn't.
Instead, inside her room, she drops to the floor and, with an outstretched arm, collects the gift from Pacey that hides beneath her bed. It slides across the carpet and into her hands.
Still lying on her stomach, she delicately unwraps the paper. A photo album sits in a nest of wrapping. Burgundy, embossed with tulips with cursive 'memories' printed across the front. She has seen this for sale at the gift store downtown.
She expects it to be empty, the familiar plastic-coated sleeves to insert your most precious moments. But it's not. The first page has two photographs of Lilly Potter. One in which she is pregnant, her arm wrapped around her father, in the other she is holding a baby Joey recognizes as herself, sitting on the Leery's front porch.
Joey flips the pages of the album. It's full. Photographs she's never seen before, stills capturing life from another time. Her mother, laughing at a PTA fundraiser with Gale Leery, another shot of her with Dawson and Joey - chaperoning them to their second screening of Hook.
Not one of them is an image she can recall seeing prior. Candid snapshots of Lilly's life taken by her friends and kept safe in their houses, in their albums. Each page is a memory of her mother's, now shared with Joey, turning what were echoes of Lilly into clear voices.
Toward the back, she finds the photos that Pacey told her about. Her mother makes faces to the camera with Mary Witter. Despite Pacey's description, the other photo still startles her. A wide shot of her mother and father sitting at a table, John Witter beside her dad. Casual camaraderie. Mary must have been behind the camera, her subjects looking at her, cheeks flushed from laughter, an array of empty glasses before them.
Joey screws up her face, bringing her eyes closer to the images until they blur. Inspected, they make even less sense.
When she reaches the end, she closes the book and immediately opens it again from the beginning. An adventure on the floor of her bedroom, legs bent at the knees, pure joy kicking in the air.
There is a knock at the door and Bessie's head cranes inside. "Do you love it?" She asks.
"You knew about it?"
Bessie joins her on the carpet, gazing at the photographs, and nods. "Some of them I found from scrounging through some old boxes in the garage. Most of them were from Gale, some from Aunt Rebecca."
Joey shakes her head in amazement, a broad smile. "Secret gift business, hey?"
"It was all Pacey. He just asked me to help."
"I thought I'd seen every photo there was of her. I've been through all our albums a hundred times."
"We never thought to look for her in other people's collections."
"Why do you think he did this?" Joey asks.
"Because he sees your sadness."
"Is he trying to fix me?" Joey runs a fingertip over her mother's long hair as she sits on the beach, staring back at her.
"No. I think he's trying to help you because he cares."
"I feel bad that I only gave him a scarf," her's forehead hits the album in shame.
"I'm pretty sure that if you gifted Pacey a rock, he would treasure it for eternity."
"Unlikely," Joey deadpans.
Bessie smiles knowingly and points at the photographs. "Can we start from the beginning?"
Nodding, Joey flips the album and they journey through it together, sharing memories, their tears hitting the protective plastic sleeves.
When they come to the pictures of the Witters, Joey asks, "Did you know they were friends?"
Bessie shakes her head. "I can't remember it. But there was a time, when we were both younger, before Mom got really sick, that they had lots of friends. They were always social, going out to parties. Mom loved dancing, Dad hated it, but she would drag him along to bars with her favorite bands. Aunt Rebecca would sometimes babysit us when they went out, or Mrs. Nash from down the creek."
"I remember Mrs. Nash put pickles on everything, even pizza."
Bessie smiles.
"I don't have the answers. But it makes me wish I had asked more questions. I wish I could go back and ask Mom what she did every day, what she thought, how she felt. I was an angry teenager when it happened, rebelling and running away from it instead of spending time with her. I would do anything for just another day to ask her everything I didn't. I'd do anything just to hear her voice."
Joey nods, dropping her head onto Bessie's shoulder. "I'm sorry I've been the Christmas Grinch this year. I know you're trying. It's just this time of year. It makes me sad all over again."
"It's okay. I get it."
"Do you want to start from the beginning?" Joey asks, flipping to the front cover.
"I do."
At the sight of the first photo, both sisters break into a grin. Their mom's infectious laugh and deep brown eyes leap from the glossy pages and into Joey's bedroom.
On the day she thought she couldn't possibly smile, Joey can't seem to stop. Because for Christmas, Pacey gave her the one thing she could never have - her mother.