by Karina Halle
Downstairs we find everyone gathered around the kitchen table. Contrary to what Lachlan said, they’re all dressed up. Okay, they’re still in pajamas, but Donald looks like he’s channeling Hugh Hefner and Jessica might as well be some old Hollywood star with her plush robe. George even looks dashing too, donning a striped, perfectly pressed set.
“You’re up, good,” Jessica says, gesturing to our place settings and pouring us juice. “Sit down. Where’s Brigs?”
“He’ll be down in a minute,” Lachlan says. “Says he thought he lost a glove outside in the snow.” Ah, such a good brother and so quick with the lies. And a few minutes later when we do see Brigs momentarily go outside with a plastic bag to go dispose of the newspapers somewhere in a snow bank (George is going to have a nice surprise when the snow melts – Merry Christmas old grump, here’s some shit), the cover-up is solid.
“So Kayla,” Donald says to me as Jessica dishes out the tattie scones, these wonderful triangles of potatoey goodness. “Are you ready to try haggis tonight?”
“I’ll try anything once,” I say just as Brigs sits down beside me.
“I’m sure you do,” he says with a smirk and I kick him with my foot under the table. I have to admit, it’s kind of nice to have this comradery with Brigs now, makes me feel more like I’ve been accepted into this family, especially on a day like today.
“Donald is in charge of the haggis,” George says, taking a sip of his tea with shaky hands. “Best haggis in town.”
“Ah,” Donald says, looking bashful. He clears his throat. “Well, thank you, dad.”
“Of course this town is full of sheep farmers and inbreds, so that’s not saying much, now is it?”
Donald laughs and I jump to his defense. “I’m sure it will be great,” I say.
“You say that now,” Lachlan says. “You do know what it is and how it’s made, aye? Puts black pudding to shame.”
“Yes, I know what it’s made of and I don’t need a reminder.”
“Well just so you know, I’ve made a vegetarian option as well,” Jessica speaks up, sitting down and spreading her napkin on her lap. “It’s very similar to the stuffing you Americans put in turkey on Thanksgiving.”
“Sounds delicious, both of them.” Wow. I should totally win points for diplomacy. I don’t think I’ve ever been so agreeable at this time of the morning before.
When we’re done with breakfast, we move out to the drawing room, taking our usual places.
“Kayla,” Jessica says, holding out a Santa hat, “you’re the youngest here, so we are passing on the McGregor family tradition for you to hand out all the presents.”
“Ha,” Lachlan laughs. “Sucker.”
I glare at him but politely take the hat and put it on. It would be so much easier to just sit back and open presents but now I have a job to do. The funny thing is, my own family had this same tradition and growing up I was also the one who handed out the gifts.
I end up telling them all this as I search for presents under the massive tree. “We even celebrated Christmas until January 6th, which was great for getting rid of those post-Christmas blues.”
“Why was that?” Donald asks.
I peer at a present that happens to be for him. “My father was Icelandic and that’s just the tradition over there. Naturally me and my brothers wanted the extended Christmas festivities, even if we had more of the Japanese culture in our house.”
I hand him the present. “For you.” Then I move about to the next ones, purposely leaving my presents till the very end, as well as the ones I bought for people.
Everyone tears into everything. Well, Brigs and Lachlan do, while Jessica and Donald open theirs neatly. My mother used to do that too, saving the wrapping paper in a big pile. Every single year. And then when Christmas rolled around again, she’d forget and go out and buy more wrapping paper. When my brothers and I started going through all the stuff in the house a few months ago after her death, I found boxes and boxes of the used and so gently folded wrapping paper in the closet.
The thought of that causes my heart to contract painfully and I have to take in a sharp breath. But as I watch the McGregors holding up socks and dishware and candles and even underwear and thanking each other with big smiles on their faces, I have to remember that even though the memories of my family, my past, will hurt for a long time, I can still smile through the pain. I shouldn’t be afraid to remember the good times, or the bad. I shouldn’t be afraid to hurt because the pain only means that whatever I had with my parents was so very beautiful. I’m gutted, scooped out by the loss of my mother and yet somehow filled that she was such a wonderful driving force in my life. She made me who I am. She’s the reason I’m here to begin with.
And now, now this is a family I may one day call my own. Even for just today, even though the grandfather is a crotchety old fart with no filter, I do feel accepted. I at least feel loved – beyond loved – by the man with the tattoos, the troubled man with the giant, endless heart. And that feeling is enough to carry me on through the day and onto all the next ones.
“Kayla, you haven’t opened any of yours,” Jessica says. She points at a large one wrapped in shiny silver paper. “Here, open that. That’s from me, George, and Donald.”
I sit down at the base of the tree and start unwrapping, putting on my game face in the event that it’s something horrible and I still have to pretend to like it.
But it’s not horrible at all. It’s a bit generic, the kind of gift you probably would give the girlfriend of your son that you don’t quite know all that well yet, but nice nonetheless. A fancy bath set with Scottish oatmeal soaps, loofahs, that sort of thing, along with a silk red robe and fluffy slippers.
I tell them all that I love it but then Jessica says there is something at the bottom. I look through the tissue and my fingers clench over something hard and worn. I pull it out to find a leatherbound notebook in my hands.
I look at her expectantly and she just smiles. “It’s for your thoughts and your dreams. The journal has been in my family forever, never used, just always present. I fancied one day that someone would take a pen to it and write the next great novel, create a whole new world on the pages. I hope that someone can be you.”
Honestly, my black soul swells like a sweet red balloon. A tear spills down my cheek as I look over at Lachlan who nods, smiling softly, as if telling me it’s true, it’s real, it’s okay. I get up and go over and hug her, thanking her profusely for such a thoughtful gift. The bath stuff is great, but this came from the heart and I’m suddenly worried that my present won’t measure up in the way I wanted it to.
And Lachlan gets up, picking up our joint gift and giving it to them. He then hands a present to George – one that I said I would go with Lachlan on, and then the framed picture to Brigs.
They open them in order. Jessica and Donald fawn over the Christmas ornaments while George gives an appreciative grunt to the set of Cuban cigars we picked up for him. But Brigs’ reaction is the best. The minute he tears open the paper, his eyes widen and he bursts into loud, unabashed laughter.
“Where the hell did you get this?” Brigs asks between laughs, passing the picture around to Jessica and Donald.
“It was Kayla’s idea,” Lachlan says, nudging me.
I shrug. “I thought you could hang it up in your bathroom or something.”
He grins at me, taking the picture back from his parents and staring it over, him in Buster Keaton form. “I would be honored to have a Buster Keaton version of myself staring at me while I take a shit.”
“Brigs!” Jessica chastises him, but she’s still laughing.
“All right, my turn, then Lachlan,” Brigs says. “Of course Lachlan will naturally outdo me, the wanker.” He gestures to a thin, square box under the tree.
I open it to find a rugby calendar from years ago with a half-naked man on the cover. Actually, the half-naked man is Thierry. I nearly jump out of my skin. There’s the Frenchman, posing in a s
hower, with the photo barely cutting out his goods. I never thought I’d see Thierry like this but, damn.
“Oh my god, Brigs,” Lachlan moans, covering up his face with his hands and falling back into the sofa.
My mouth drops as I slowly open it. “Is the infamous nude rugby calendar?”
“I’m so glad I can’t see properly,” George mutters to himself.
“Look at Mr. September,” Brigs says happily while Lachlan lets out another embarrassed groan.
Making sure I don’t flash his family with this calendar of cock and muscle, I carefully flip through the months until I come to September. Sure enough there is a side view of Lachlan on the rugby pitch, his firm ass on display, those giant quads of his looking extra menacing in the shadowy, grainy photograph.
Shit. And to think this is the man I love, the man I get to screw every day. I give myself an internal high five, like I have many times over the past few weeks.
“Wow,” I say, closing it before things get weird. “I think I’ll hang this in our bathroom too.”
“Please don’t,” Lachlan whimpers, eventually taking his fingers away from his face. I think the man is blushing for a change.
“So, Lachlan," Brigs says, slapping his thighs. “Let’s see what you can come up with.”
We are the only two who haven’t opened our presents from each other. For a moment my heart flutters, especially when I see his present under the tree, the only one left beside mine. It’s a small box. Like, small enough for a ring. And of course that gets me thinking, both in fear and excitement. It can’t be what I think it can…can it? So soon? Here? Now?
“Uh, why don’t you open mine first,” I tell Lachlan, throwing my package his way. It’s light and he catches it with ease.
I had no clue what to get him so I figured the easiest thing would be to get something for the dogs. For better or for worse, he loves those dogs more than he loves himself. So I went out and had three dog sweaters made with their names on them. I’ve heard him say a few times that they could use them when it’s snowing like it is and it just stuck in my head. Plus, how cute would they all look, walking together in matching outfits? No one could be scared of them then, even with muzzles.
Lachlan seems speechless as he holds up Lionel’s, Emily’s and Jo’s cable-knit sweaters, all with their names knitted in contrasting yarn.
“I’m not sure if they’ll fit,” I try and explain. “It was hard trying to measure Emily, she nearly took my head off.”
“They’ll fit,” he says, almost whispering, as he runs his fingers over them. He looks to me, his beautiful eyes burning into mine, trying to tell me all that his lips cannot.
I kiss him on the cheek and he relaxes himself against me, pulling me into a hug. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “This means so much.”
I run my fingers along his strong jaw and smile, careful not to get too carried away with a captive audience.
“Only one more gift Kayla,” Jessica says, clearing her throat. I pull away from Lachlan’s warmth and look at her shining face. Even she seems a bit emotional over the sweater situation.
I nod and pick it up from under the tree. As I slowly unwrap the plain brown packaging, I try not to let my thoughts run away on me. Runaway thoughts have never done me any good.
But, when the packaging peels away, I’m left with a jewelry box and it’s hard not to think about it. What if it’s an engagement ring? What would I say? Isn’t it too soon? Would Lachlan really take such a private moment and share it with his family, with his grandfather?
“Just open it,” Brigs says.
I do.
I gasp.
It’s not an engagement ring at all. In fact, it’s almost better.
I carefully reach in and hold up a silver necklace, a locket in shape of a heart, engraved with delicate flowers and stars across the face. It shines brightly, probably the prettiest piece of jewelry I’ve ever had. I look up to see Lachlan staring at me expectantly so I look for the snap on the side of the locket and pry it open.
On one side there is a picture of us together. Very small, just our smiling faces, but in black and white. I think it was taken at the Ruff Love gala over the summer. On the other side it says something in what I think is Gaelic. Something I can’t pronounce properly. Sibhe mo clann.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell him breathlessly. “What does it say?”
“It says, you are my clan.”
Jessica makes a dreamy sigh.
I feel like my insides are dancing, my heart buzzing, my blood fizzing like champagne.
“I’m your clan,” I repeat, my pulse racing loudly.
“Aye,” he says. “That and more.”
I swallow hard, those pesky tears finding me again. I want to take him upstairs and show him what this gift, this beautiful, thoughtful, emotional gift means to me. But I can’t. Not here. Not now. All I can do is hug him, kiss him and hope he knows that he’s my clan too, always and forever.
I feel like I’m walking on a cloud for the rest of the day. Even when we go outside to help Brigs dispose of more puppy poo and walk up the lane to check on Brigs’ car and to see if the neighbors are home yet (they aren’t), the cold doesn’t bother me a bit. My heart is a glowing furnace, keeping me warm, and the necklace rests against my chest like it’s always been there.
***
When the darkness starts to fall, bathing the house in twilight, I gather with Brigs in his room with Lachlan and the puppy. Christmas dinner is almost ready, the house smells absolutely amazing, and I’m gearing up to finally try haggis.
We’re also playing with the puppy, whom Brigs has already named “Winter.” I called my brothers back home earlier to wish them a merry Christmas, and while it was so good to hear their voices, it also cut deep to not be with them. But puppies are a quick fix to pain.
“You can’t give the dog a name if you aren’t going to keep it,” Lachlan tells Brigs.
“Sure I can,” Brigs says as he sits his tall frame on the edge of the bed. “You name your shelter dogs all the time. Besides, if it turns out it’s not the neighbor’s dog, then you’re keeping it, not me.”
“What?” Lachlan says as the little fluffball plays with leftover wrapping paper. “The shelter is no place for a dog that young. He needs a home. Training. Complete love.”
“You need to take him,” I tell Brigs. “The little guy already looks up to you. He thinks you’re dad. You just named him for crying out loud.”
Brigs shrugs. “I’ll try again in the morning. Then I have to leave and the dog isn’t coming with me.”
“Well aren’t you just a puppy Scrooge,” I tell him.
He doesn’t seem that phased though I can tell from the way he’s playing with Winter, that he’s far more attached to the white pup than he pretends. I just hope by the time the holiday is over, Winter is reunited with his family or Brigs comes to his senses.
Eventually we make our way downstairs ready for the feast. The kitchen table is prepped with silver candlesticks, elegant cutlery and a range of steaming dishes all laid out on a pristine white tablecloth with red trim. In the middle is a beautiful centerpiece of pine cones, ribbon, holly and fir that I have a hunch Jessica made and arranged herself. She’s a regular old Martha Stewart this one.
We take our seats, Lachlan and I beside each other with George at one end of the table and Brigs at the other. While I’m just wearing a simple black dress and maroon cardigan, my necklace the star of the look, everyone else looks done up. Even Lachlan is wearing a white shirt with no tie, unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of his tattoos.
Jessica leads us into a quick prayer and then it’s time to eat.
I’ve just dolloped out a scoop of mashed potatoes and am thinking about the haggis, which really does look like a type of stuffing, when George says, “Where the hell is the wine? Not even sherry?”
Jessica gives him a placating smile. “We have sparkling apple juice or the mulled wine from IKEA.”
Donald gets up and grabs George’s glass. “Let me get you some of the sherry, dad,” he says.
“Get me some? Bring the bottle here. There’s two bottles of red in the cupboard by the sherry, bring those too.” He eyes Jessica. “I don’t want to take from my own collection, but I will if I have to. It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake. Yes, his literal sake.”
I flinch while Lachlan has grown still beside me, holding his breath and avoiding eye contact.
I put my hand on his arm. “Are you okay?” I whisper.
He nods. “I’m fine. Really.” He attempts to smile but the pain in his eyes betrays it.
I believe him too, that he will be fine, until Donald comes back with the wine and George insists he pour some for everyone.
“None for me,” Lachlan says quickly, covering his glass.
“Me neither,” I add. “But thank you though.”
George narrows his eyes at us. “No wine? Lachlan, you were usually the first one to finish the bottle. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing is wrong with him, grandpa,” Brigs says but offers no more than that. None of us want to be the one to say it, if we even have to say it at all.
“Well something is,” he says. “I haven’t seen him for a year. Suddenly he’s stopped drinking and has some half Chinese girlfriend. I don’t even know you anymore, do I Lachlan. Perhaps I never did,” he adds under his breath. “You Lockharts are a strange breed, not like us McGregors.”
You can cut the tension above the table with a carving knife. I can see what it comes down to, even now. While Lachlan considers me part of his clan, George doesn’t consider Lachlan to be part of his. I don’t think it matters what Lachlan says or does, if he was a rugby player or a politician, an alcoholic or a church-going saint – in his eyes, he’s not one of them.
