“Turn right here,” I tell the cab driver, a man with the verbal skills of a talk show radio host. He hasn’t stopped talking since we left my apartment. At least the man kept my mind off what lies ahead: my first sober Christmas dinner. And Alistair’s return to our old neighborhood after fourteen years of absence. “Very beautiful street,” the driver says, his smart eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. “Many trees and decorations.” I agree and look over at Alistair. He’s been very quiet in the last minutes. He’s staring out at the mounds of snow lining the street, our street, and at the houses’ windows, which are glittering with lights. “I remember this,” he says, almost to himself. “My old house was here.” Now I’m starting to lose my nerve. Was this a good idea? The driver pulls up