by Holly Kerr
“Well, we’re having our first party to celebrate New Year’s and we’d like you to come. Bring a date if you like.”
Why does Ruthie’s face flash into my mind when M.K. says that?
“Thanks. I’ll be there, but solo. There’s no one I’d consider bringing.”
“There’s still a week to go. You’ll have lots of time for you to find someone.”
“That would entail me looking.”
“It’s when you stop looking that you’ll find your someone. Look what happened with me and Clay. Finding Mr. Right was the last thing on my mind.”
“Yes, but you found Clay, not Mr. Right,” I joke. Luckily, M.K. smiles in response. “So, what are the two of you doing for Christmas?”
“Clay took Theo to his parents’ place and I’m meeting them after I close up. Then it’s down to Niagara-on-the-Lake tomorrow afternoon. Clay wanted it to be just us and Theo in the morning.”
“Good thing Theo’s not big enough to unwrap yet.”
“Oh, he can rip things open.” M.K. sighs. “He got hold of something I got for Clay. I had to rewrap it pretty quickly.”
“Joy of having kids. You’re from Niagara, same as Flora?”
“We grew up there, same as Ruthie and Patrick.”
“Ruthie,” I say, like I’m trying to remember her. “She’s a bit younger than you and Flora, isn’t she?”
“Five years,” M.K. says, stepping out of the way as Reuben sets my coffee on the counter. “She just turned twenty-five.”
“A young ’un,” I say, pretending that Ruthie didn’t give already tell me all this.
“Flora calls her a puppy. She’s a lot like a puppy—excited and hyper.”
“I bet she bites, too,” I grumble.
“I really wouldn’t put it past her.”
“Speaking of puppies, I’d better get back to mine. I’ve got my dog in the truck,” I explain. “And I’m paying for my coffee, no argument.” I push a five across to her. “Keep the change. It’s Christmas.”
“Have a good one,” Reuben says, still hovering protectively behind M.K.
“See you on New Year’s.” M.K. gives me another smile.
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll be in before that.” I hoist the box along with my coffee. “Merry Christmas.”
Chapter Ten
Ruthie
My family home looms before me as Dean drops me off. “You going to be okay in there?” Patrick calls from the backseat as Dean pulls my bag out of the back of the Jeep.
“Just peachy.” I hug Dean goodbye, not because I’m a big hugger, but because he gives good hugs.
Dean drops a kiss on the top of my head. “Sorry you had to hear about Colton from me.”
“I’d rather it be you than some Joe Blow online,” I assure him, reluctantly pulling away. “See you soon.”
“Don’t start drinking without me,” Flora calls as I head for the door.
I throw up an arm in response. Who is she kidding? To properly deal with my mother, much alcohol is required, which means I start early.
Even though I told my mother exactly when to expect me, the door is locked, which means I have to fumble for my key at the very bottom of my bag. And since it’s a large purse with no pockets, I finally have to wave to Dean to drive on, because he’s a gentleman and is waiting for me to get in.
Finally I get the door open and immediately am hit with the heady scents of pine and mulled apple cider at war with each other. “I’m here,” I call.
“Ruth?” My mother calls from the kitchen. “Is that you?”
“Yes, even though you’re hoping for someone else,” I mutter as I drop my bag and coat in the hall and head for the kitchen still wearing my boots.
My mother sits at the island in the middle of the kitchen. I don’t know who or what is the more immaculate. She’s like a trendy ski hill—always perfectly groomed.
“Hello, dear.” Annette Shaughnessy raises her cheek for the dutiful daughter kiss. As soon as my lips brush her cheek, I get the expected once-over. “Those boots.” She sniffs.
I lift my leg up as high as it can go. “Don’t you love them?” Red fake leather booties with a three-inch chunky platform heel, all wrapped up for Christmas and covered in glitter.
“They make you look very tall.”
“I am very tall,” I remind her. “I think that might be because of you.” Annette is five foot ten inches, and she likes to constantly tell me that I’m the taller one, like I need reminding.
“At least you have a proper foot size. Size eight is just perfect for finding… suitable… shoes.”
“What’s the fun in suitable shoes?”
I can hear the quick intake of air that signals disappointment as clearly as if she’s said it out loud. My mother isn’t much for verbal communicating, but I’ve learned long ago to read her body language. It speaks volumes.
The takeaway from our little chat is that my foot size works, but that’s about it.
“Where’s Dad?” The island holds a platter with an impressive array of cheese and crackers and I tap my lips with a finger as I contemplate where to start.
Brie is always nice. I cut a healthy wedge and add a dollop of the fig and shiraz compote that Annette makes from scratch.
“You could wait for our guests,” she chides.
“Flora won’t be here for an hour and I’m hungry,” I say through a mouthful of cheese. I drift over to the Crock Pot on the counter with the glass mugs set beside it, and help myself to cider. “Thirsty, too.”
“You might want to change before they arrive.”
I glance at my cream-coloured pants, wide-legged and made of a thick satin that feels amazing to touch. I found them a month ago and have been saving them for Christmas Eve to go with my wide-necked ecru sweater. My boots add a welcome splash of colour, as does my still rose-gold hair. But of course my mother doesn’t approve. “I’m good, thanks. But I will take my things upstairs,” I add, pushing my voice to sound unconcerned. I leave my dirty cider cup sitting haphazardly on the counter and as I head for the stairs, I know my mother will get off her chair to wash it.
“I redid your room,” she calls after me.
“You what?” I pause on the stairs, one foot held upright.
“I thought it needed a change from your younger years. You won’t be here forever and we’ll eventually use that room for guests when you’re gone.”
I back down the stairs and peer into the kitchen, to find her already at the sink. I don’t point out that the house has five bedrooms, and when I’m not there, only one is in use. She could have her pick of rooms for guests to sleep in, but yet, she wants mine. “I haven’t even been gone two weeks,” I say with disbelief. “When did you have time for that?”
“Henry moves fast,” Annette says with the trill in her voice that appears whenever she mentions their long-time handyman. “I wanted it ready for you for Christmas. As a surprise.”
“Great surprise,” I mutter as I continue up the stairs, while wondering what she might have found in my closet. Since Annette is as unpredictable with her cleaning rituals as she is predictable with her uptight behaviour, years ago I learned not to keep contraband in my room. She found my stash of empty vodka bottles under my bed when I was seventeen, and my baggie of pot in my underwear drawer when I was nineteen. After that, I found a secret cupboard in the library that still had a faded copy of Playboy from 1983, so I knew it was safe to keep things in.
As I stand in the doorway of my bedroom, I see that my room is no longer my room.
Gone is the violent violet of the walls and the heap of colourful blankets I use instead of a duvet. Instead, the room has been painted a serene blue-gray with off-white trim. The comforter is the same off-white with hints of blue-gray in the flowers scattered across it.
I stare at the room. It looks like something she found on Pinterest—what your adult daughter’s room should look like.
If this isn’t a sign that I should be looking for
my own place, I don’t know what is. I flop on the bed, still with my boots on.
She took my favourite pillow.
I focus on that rather than the whirlpool of memories that hovers over the bed like a canopy. Some, like sleepovers and stealing out of my window late at night, are happy. Others, like fights with Annette, are not. Still worse are the ones that I don’t like to remember, but they creep in through the cracks, like am early morning fog.
My earliest memory was from this room. It had been a few weeks after my third birthday, which had been celebrated in the hospital, like most things during the first years of my life. I actually have no memories of the hospital, or of the funeral, but I’ve been told enough that it’s like I can remember it. But this—that night—I know I remember.
I had been in bed, sent early to my room because of my refusal to eat dinner. I have no idea what had been for dinner, or why I didn’t eat, but whatever it was made me vomit all over the table, and therefore sent to bed. The room had been pitch-dark, since Annette had angrily refused to turn on my flower night light, but the crack of light under the door had widened when she pushed it open.
I saw her in the doorway, but I pretended to be asleep, even when my father stood beside her.
“Why didn’t it work? Ruth is fine and healthy but Amelia is gone.”
“We can’t blame her.”
“Who can we blame? There has to be a reason Amelia was taken from us. If you say it was God’s will, I swear I will scream. That’s bullshit.”
It had been the first curse word I’d ever heard.
“There is only one reason that Amelia is gone and that’s because Ruth failed. She failed, Archie, and I’ll never forgive that.”
I scrunch my eyes shut, just like I did all those years ago. But the words are still there. They’re always there.
Back in the present, I hear my father’s voice downstairs, and I pull myself off the bed before I dive into the oh-so familiar feelings of being the world’s biggest disappointment.
Instead, I get up and smooth the indent I’ve made on the bed. As I shut the door behind me, my glance lingers on the still-closed door beside my bedroom. I never want to go in there, but it calls to me, as easily if there’s an actual voice calling me.
How long has it been since I’ve been in Amelia’s room? Has Annette done anything to change it?
Rather than dwell, I pull myself off the bed to investigate.
For this, I take my boots off.
In the hall, the never-ending serenade of Pentatonix drifts up the stairs. Annette starts the Christmas playlist the first of December. She’s probably still in the kitchen guarding the cheese. Slowly I turn the knob, waiting for the creak that will give me away and bring my mother up the stairs at a run as I push open the door.
My eyes widen as I take in the room, and the cheese I just ate drops like a stone in the pit of my stomach.
Nothing has changed.
It’s like time has stood still. The room is still pink and ruffled, with a scattering of stuffed animals, now faded from the sun.
Even the picture is still there; a smiling three-year-old Amelia held by an equally smiling Annette and Archie. The three of them wear matching Christmas sweaters, and it’s hard to tell who Amelia looks more like.
Certainly not me, who came along the next year, after the cancer had begun to ravage my sister’s body.
And despite my mother’s love and care, and my carefully planned stem cells, there had been nothing I could do to save Amelia.
Trev
I get all the way into my parents’ house before the dog realizes there’s another dog inside. As I open my mouth to call a greeting, I hear the familiar woof and then Dodger comes at me in a run.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, scratching his ears. Since the yellow lab has always been ‘my’ dog, he gives me a perfunctory sniff before moving on to Drogo all atremble beside me. “Play nice,” I warn, releasing Drogo’s collar.
“Did you bring Drogo?” Mom calls, rolling into the hallway from the kitchen. She’s been in the wheelchair so long that the ranch-style bungalow has every barrier-free, wheelchair-accessible item known to man. Ramps and pulleys and a stair glide down into the basement. Roll-in showers. Instead of my father taking on the kitchen duties, he renovated the entire kitchen to make it easier for Mom to keep cooking.
I give her a hug and kiss and settle the box of pastries from Pain au Chocolat on her lap. “I’ll put these on a plate,” she says and wheels back into her Mom-cave in the kitchen.
“Would you still let Trev bring the dog if he brought a girl, too?” My eldest brother Travis calls from the living room.
“He brings the dog because he doesn’t have a girl to bring.” Middle brother Trace laughs, confidence in being the only married Cain brother evident in his voice.
I wince in sympathy; Trace has never been subtle and usually misses social cues. Travis’ recent divorce might have culled the Trev doesn’t have a woman comments from most people, but not Trace.
After hanging up my coat, I poke my head into the living room. “Merry almost Christmas.”
“You better have a good present for me,” Trace warns, lifting his beer in greeting.
“I have a better one for your wife.”
Tessa stands to hug me, her lifeline during family gatherings. “Good to see you,” she says in a soft voice. Everything about Tessa is soft and sweet, from her cloud of hair that looks like white-gold cotton candy, to her smile with the slick of scented lip balm and the dimple embedded in her cheek.
I have no idea how she manages a brute like Trace.
“Grab yourself a beer,” my father grunts from the depths of his recliner that’s seen better days. “Game’s gonna start.”
I head to the kitchen where my mother already has a cold beer pulled out of the fridge for me. I don’t make mention of the Labatt’s Blue label; for as many craft brews I’ve brought for my father and brothers to try, they still keep going back to their tried and true.
“I’m so sorry about what happened with Freyka,” Mom begins.
“Don’t be.” I tip the bottle to my mouth and wonder if Mom just set a record. How long do I have to be in the house before she starts on my love life?
“What happened with Freyka?” Tessa asks, having followed me into the kitchen.
“Trev!” Travis shouts. “You’re missing the face-off.”
There is always hockey being played someplace in the world over Christmas. If there isn’t a game televised during Christmas Eve, Dad will pull up a game from his PVR.
Hockey and holidays. That’s how it is in the Cain house over Christmas.
“We broke up,” I say to Tessa, rather than answering Travis. “It’s no big deal.”
“That’s too bad. She was nice.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I think that’s a problem when that’s the only thing you can say about her. She’s nice. She has a good job. That’s about it.”
“What do people say about me?” Tessa wonders.
“You’re a great little helper,” Mom says, wheeling forward with three bottles set between her legs. “Now, why don’t you go and bring the boys another beer?”
I can’t miss the flash of resentment as Tessa takes the bottles from Mom and disappears into the living room.
I hide the sigh and take another swallow.
“About Freyka,” Mom begins.
“There’s nothing to say about her. It’s over and I’m okay with that. Happy even. It wouldn’t have worked, as much as you wanted it to.”
“Maybe the problem is that you didn’t want it to work,” she points out.
“I didn’t,” I agree. “She wasn’t for me.”
“Which is a good thing, because I’ve found a really nice girl for you.”
I don’t bother to hide my groan this time. “I can meet women on my own, Mom.”
“But you’re not, so I’m helping. Paulina is so beautiful, and classy. Just a lovely woman.”
“And who is this Paulina?” I ask with resignation. “Where did you find her?”
“She came to me,” Mom says proudly. “She’s our new insurance broker. She stopped by yesterday to get us to sign something. Made a house call, just for us. How considerate is that?”
“Very considerate,” I reply dutifully.
“When she asked about the pictures of you boys, I just knew she’d be perfect for you,” Mom crows, pulling open the oven door.
“Do you want me to get that?” I gesture to the huge lasagna waiting on the counter.
“I can manage just fine,” Mom barks. “All of you treat me like an invalid.”
“No one treats you like an invalid,” I say patiently, feeling the heat from the oven filling the room. “You run this house, this family, and we all know it. But you can always ask for help.”
“Tessa treats me like I’m helpless,” Mom confides in a low voice, as she hefts the lasagna off the counter and positions herself by the oven door.
I rest the cool beer bottle against my forehead to warn off the oncoming headache of arguing with my mother. “No, she doesn’t.”
“She does. She’s always asking if she can help, like I can’t do anything.” To prove her argument, Mom slides the pasta dish into the oven.
“She’s trying to be helpful. That’s what daughter-in-laws do. Get used to it.”
“Why?” She slams the oven door and whirls in her chair to face me. “Are you bringing someone home?”
Shouts from the living room signal that someone scored.
I finish my beer and grab another before I head in to find refuge with Tessa.
Chapter Eleven
Ruthie
It isn’t until Christmas night, after the presents and the turkey, when bellies are full and Patrick gets us to play Cards Against Humanity, that I remember to do something about Colton.
As we sit around the kitchen table, finishing the bottle of champagne with Patrick’s younger brothers, I suddenly pull off the plastic ring and set it in the middle of the game board.
