Chapter 4

“So you can’t wait for Christmas,” Samir supposes.

Lisa rolls her eyes. “I have to go. I haven’t been back to Florida in four years. Last year the guilt was almost worse than the trip would have been. She sent out cards with a photo of her and my sister and my nephews wearing Santa hats at some gator farm, then wrote on the back, I’m sorry you couldn’t be in the photo, but we understand you’re too busy for Christmas. Jesus wept, she wrote. John 11:35. Now we know why.”

Samir, the third son of irreligious Lebanese-American parents, gasps commiseration. “Wow,” he says. “The Bible as crystal ball, predicting what a disappointing daughter you would one day become. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you, yes. Now you know why we have things like war and famine in the world: Jesus is too crushed by my divorce to get off his throne and tend to his business.”

“Shucks, now I kind of wish you were staying here. I’d love to see how she’d top that.”