Sad Janet

by Lucie Britsch

  Melissa drives us home singing along to Mariah and she seems genuinely happy and we let her have it because it’s Christmas and Christmas does funny things to people, like make people try to medicate other people who don’t want to be medicated. I regret not driving myself, because I’m starving and have no food in my apartment, but I know that once I get in my front door, I’ll lose any remaining desire to deal with humans. I’ll probably just have a little cry and fall asleep to Law & Order like a normal person.

  There was one good thing about Melissa driving, and that was that she couldn’t try to hug us. I give a little wave and tell Melissa, That was—I hesitate—fun, and Debs looks at me like, I don’t know her, but I know she’ll forgive me by the morning.

  See you both tomorrow, I say, and Debs salutes me and that’s that.

  Fumbling with my keys, I say, out loud, See? I can do it.

  It’s okay, no one hears me.

  * * *

  The next day at work, Debs makes me go to the bank. She doesn’t do online banking because she doesn’t trust the internet. She doesn’t trust people either, but she likes to see who’s fucking her over.

  It’s already getting dark out, and there are Christmas lights everywhere. All I can think is, If you weren’t epileptic before, you will be now. I heard that some kids ripped down some Christmas lights in town, and knowing my mother, she’ll probably think it was me. I wish I had that much energy.

  Out on the streets, things are strangely silent. No one carrying piles of gifts, no carolers singing on the corner. No one is in earmuffs, thank god. It’s like someone’s taken a regular doomy Monday and strung it with lights. There’s a feeling of anticipation in the air, like something is coming. Of course, that’s also true of horror movies.

  All the store windows are variations on the same theme—Look at all this shit! You need this shit!—with happy elves and flashing signs arranged so strategically your brain doesn’t stand a chance. Even the bakery is in on it. There’s a giant cake in their window with Santa’s big red face on it, and I think about what it would be like to bury my face in it, like men do to tits, but this would be so much better. I get myself a Christmas cookie, and only when I’m walking out do I realize I probably should have gotten some to take back, but it’s too late by then. I don’t want my love to be an afterthought; it’s not even love, it’s obligation, or medication.

  Even the bank has a Christmas tree. I’m disappointed it’s not a money tree. Maybe I’ll suggest it for next year. The teller is one of those people who wears ornaments as earrings. She sees where I work and says, Oh, we don’t usually see you! I let her look at me more than I would usually let anyone, because it’s Christmas, and because a long look at me in my big coat is a treat for all of us. It’s Christmas, I tell her, inexplicably. I’m allowed out once a year, I tell her, but she doesn’t know if I’m joking. She’s heard the rumors about the dog women in the woods.

  Well, happy holidays, she says when we’re done, but she says it like she suspects I’ll be dancing naked in the woods sacrificing something while she’s carving her turkey.

  And to you! I say, and I want to laugh out loud, but I push it down. Laughter is so rare and precious that I want to keep it all to myself—later, in the car maybe, like I’m hotboxing myself but with joy. Punching myself in the face with it so I really know I felt it.

  Before going back to work, I go and buy myself a shitload of candy. People will think I’m buying it for kids—or worse, a party—but it’s all for me. I always stock up when I’m out in the world and it’s nothing to do with all the ads for holiday candy. You can get it all year, you know! I want to shout at no one. You don’t need permission! It’s a shame I’m not online. I’d be great at the shouting-into-the-void bit.

  Driving back, I see It’s a Wonderful Life is showing at the Rialto. I saw it once, out of curiosity, because I thought a Christmas movie about suicide sounded right up my alley, but I couldn’t take it. I thought, I’d throw myself off a bridge too, if I had those annoying kids. And Mary’s worst fate is that she ends up a librarian? Everyone knows librarians are the best people.

  Melissa sees me pull up and waves. I feel bad for not bringing her a Christmas cookie, but she probably has dog shit on her hands anyway.

  Every time I go out in the world and venture into Christmas land, I feel like I’m being scored. Like Karen might be following me, taking notes.

  Like the pharma guy is still staring, who knows why.

  23

  It’s the last meeting. It’s basically Christmas. I could easily just pass out now, fall into the old holiday food-and-drink coma, and it would all be over. I would wake up and ask someone, Did he come? Santa, I mean, or anyone? If I passed out at my parents’ house, at least I could say I was there. What more do these people want?

  Karen is beaming at us all, and it’s making me nauseous. I’m sure she’s just glad we’re all still alive, that her head count didn’t take any hits. Every week, I’m surprised that no one subjects us to a medical check, or at least a pat down to make sure we still have all our limbs. If I know anything about medical trials, it’s that people are liable to lose a limb.

  The pharma guy isn’t writing in his notebook today. I’d like to think he’s finished his sitcom script, but chances are he’s abandoned it.

  I am desperate for the whole meeting—the whole experiment—to be over before someone tries to hug me or give me a certificate or something. I’ve showed up every week, played along as much as I could. If you asked me what I liked best about it, it’s just that no one else wanted to be here any more than I did—not even Karen, and she’s getting paid to be here.

  Karen tells us again how proud she is of us and wishes us all a happy Christmas. No one laughs. We are all assimilated now. The experiment seems to have worked. Of course, until we get through Christmas without murdering anyone, we won’t know for sure, but everyone has their fingers crossed, the pharma guys most of all.

  As I’m leaving, Pharma Guy taps me on the shoulder. Hi, he says, and it’s too late to hide. Hi, I say, and it’s awkward.

  If you ever want to get together, he says, and his choice of words makes me laugh, on the inside. On the outside I remain composed because he has to know I’m not going to call him. The only thing I feel for him is bad, and I feel bad about enough things.

  He’s genuinely not awful. He has that great dog. But I don’t want to get together with anyone after all this, maybe for a long time.

  I can’t tell him, Sorry, I just like being single, because it sounds like a declaration I don’t feel I need to make. So instead I just say, Cool. Cool, he says back, and smiles, and I feel bad for him again. I mean, he works for some creepy giant pharmaceutical company whose mission is to medicate us all within an inch of our lives, he really hasn’t got a chance. But what do I know? People like their drugs. Maybe he’s a catch.

  Bye then, I say, and leave him standing there. He could have gone home with Karen again, for all I know. That wouldn’t be the worst thing, for any of us, really.

  * * *

  The next night, the volunteers all appear at the shelter, even the ones we barely saw all year. Melissa’s kid is there. Debs’s kids are off somewhere getting rabies.

  On the night before Christmas, all the dogs get walked together—which is less fun than you’d think, because a lot of them are psychopaths and don’t play well with others, like me. So the more experienced walkers, like me and Debs and this ex-marine, and the cop for some reason, get a head start with all the really difficult dogs. The volunteers follow us with their chosen dogs, all wishing Debs didn’t have such strict rules against carols or joy.

  The dogs all get a bone and a new squeaky toy with the squeak taken out, which is a metaphor for my whole goddamn life. There is mulled wine Melissa made, if anyone wants it. I usually wouldn’t trust anything she made, but the alcohol in it puts my fears to rest.


  I spend most of the night hiding from the kids, who think it’s a hilarious game, but I just really don’t want to spend my Christmas Eve swearing at kids.

  * * *

  After the last of the volunteers have gone, we close up shop and say good night.

  I go home to my apartment. It’s empty, but it’s really not that awful. I can eat what I want, watch what I want, I don’t have to pretend to feel anything I don’t, and it feels like Christmas might not be so bad. People who moan about being single are doing it wrong.

  It’s too late to get a tree, but I find some lights and hang them around a dead plant. The lights are pretty. The plant is still dead but I’m not going to be the one to tell it.

  Curled up on the couch, I don’t feel excited, exactly, but I don’t feel full of dread either. Mostly I feel relief. Like Christmas will happen and I’ll be okay. I have options—isn’t that what we all want?

  I’ve come this far. I’d have to be stupid to mess it all up now.

  24

  Usually what happens on Christmas Day is, I roll in to my parents’ place late, eat, and bounce. Keep it casual. Don’t get involved. I only stayed over when I had to, when I was at college; even then I thought about getting a hotel, but I knew my dad would be sad about it. I slept a lot, emerged when there was food, then packed up and went back to my life. My mother was in her own world, popping the pills she needed to get her out of bed, putting on a show for the neighbors, and I left her to it. I was the absent daughter even when I was home.

  This year, I treat it like a regular day. I get up and go to work, only work is my mother.

  * * *

  I show up thirty minutes before our customary—that is, late—dinnertime. If my mother chooses this of all years to be on time, well, I’m already going to hell anyway, so what does it matter.

  Happy Christmas, can’t talk, need to pee!! I yell, running straight up the stairs. They’ll probably assume it’s a side effect of the pill.

  Just as I’m bursting into the bathroom, my brother bursts out. What do you do, just hang around outside bathrooms now? he says.

  I ignore him and push past. I shut the door, sit down, and think happy thoughts. There’s no greater feeling than peeing when you need to pee. The relief is still washing over me when the horror of the day surfaces again, as the sound of Christmas music wafts up from somewhere in the house. The killer is inside the house, I whisper to myself as I wipe.

  I wash my hands and dry them on my mum’s robe; if she’s dumb enough to leave it hanging on the back of the door, she must know I’m going to use it to dry my hands. I think about sniffing it, to see if it smells of my childhood memories of her, but sniffing things is weird and I’m trying to not be, so I resist.

  My brother is lurking outside when I come out.

  Happy Christmas, lurker, I say.

  He looks me up and down like he’s about to critique my outfit. Mum said not to mention it, he says, but I wanted you to know I think it’s really great, what you’re doing.

  And what am I doing? I say, because the last thing I did was pee, in the toilet, like even some cats can do.

  This, he says, waving his hands over me like a magician. I think she thought she might have to pay you, he says.

  Wait—you think she would have paid me? What the fuck?

  She’s been paying me to not be a dick for years, he says, grinning.

  And yet you’re still a dick.

  But less of one. I might even let you watch my kids now, he says.

  How gracious of you, but don’t forget I turn back into a pumpkin in a few hours, so you better get all your digs in now while I can’t punch you in the face.

  I’d love a pill that kept me from wanting to punch people in the face, he says.

  Wouldn’t we all, I say, starting down the stairs.

  Oh, and Mum also told me not to tell you I got a promotion and we’re having another kid. But I figure you can handle it, right?

  Why wouldn’t I be able to handle it? I don’t want either of those things, I say.

  Well, you know, he says, she wants us to . . . tiptoe around you. I mean, now that you’re doing so well and all. Because you’re doing so well, right?

  Right! I say, remembering what day it is.

  People want things, Janet, he says, because I need reminding.

  My mother appears in the hallway. Are you two coming down ever? she says, even though we’re literally walking down the stairs.

  We’re just bonding, my brother says, kissing her on the cheek.

  Just make it through dinner without saying anything stupid, I tell myself. How hard can it be? I do it at home every night. Of course, I’m generally alone, but still.

  * * *

  Everyone is surprised and delighted to see me, but I can tell they don’t want to show too much enthusiasm, lest I crawl back under my rock. Don’t startle her, whatever you do, my mother must have said while I was peeing.

  My brother and his family are all there, and one more inside his wife, which I find strangely comforting because I prefer strangers. My uncle and his family are there, grinning and saying hello over and over again, as if pleasantries will make this all easier. My aunt is there, with her second husband, who looks exactly like her first husband, so we just pretend that’s who he is and that seems to work for them too. There are two additional women in sports casual, who must have something to do with my mother. They smile and tell me what nice eyes I have, which means the rest of my face needs work. If one of them had said it, I’d just have said thanks and resented her silently, but they both say it at the same time, which feels a bit The Shining, especially because of my mother’s hideous carpeting.

  My brother’s phone starts playing Elton John’s “Step into Christmas,” and suddenly he’s holding his phone in front of my face. I push it away. He restarts the song and does it again. I wonder if I’ve time-traveled back twenty years, when Elton John was always in the charts and my brother was always in my face.

  My dad snatches my brother’s phone. Quit it, he says, both of you.

  I read somewhere, my brother says, that if you play that song at them it makes them go nuts.

  Them? I say.

  She’s not a robot, my dad says.

  She might as well be, my brother says, taking his phone back and starting the song again, like he is ten and it’s a booger and I give a shit.

  Enough, my dad says, grabbing the phone and putting it in his pocket.

  It’s fine, I say to my dad. You can go to hell, I say to my brother.

  * * *

  To escape my brother, I head to the kitchen and ask my mother what I can do to help. She looks shocked, then tries to hide it immediately and tells me I can write out name cards for the table. I want to write the names of their prescriptions instead, just so everyone knows what really brought us all together on this special day, but I don’t.

  At Christmas, throughout the day, my mother barely sits down. She hovers, one foot at the table, the other in the kitchen, for the entire meal. That poor kitchen has given her its best years. It makes us all unnecessarily anxious, and we’ve already had enough necessary anxiety between us for a lifetime. The mysterious ladies in Lycra are weirding us all out enough. If one of them starts cutting the other’s meat, I’m going to have to ask them what business they have here.

  I find my mother in the kitchen, peering at her open laptop on the counter. A recipe? I wonder naively. Some show she really has to watch? Maybe she’s more like me than she lets on.

  She sees me and slams her laptop shut.

  I open it, hoping to see those pesky cowboy robots we all loved but didn’t understand.

  She was on Facebook, talking about me with her friends.

  A woman called Brenda said she heard about someone on the pill who tried to have sexual intercourse with a Christmas tree. Has Jan
et seen your tree yet? she wrote. Did it arouse her? I imagine the real-life Brenda whispering sexual intercourse, maybe with a lisp.

  My mother replied: She touched it, yes, should I be worried? (She’s right: I did touch the tree and all its decorations. Fingered them, you might even say. I wanted my mother to see that I appreciated her efforts. Also that I was a bit high, maybe.)

  Is she doing songs? someone named Joyce asked.

  No, no songs yet, my mum wrote back, though I might have heard her humming. I’ll let you know. (I was indeed humming when I arrived, only it wasn’t a Christmas song, it was Lizzo’s “Truth Hurts.”)

  She’s an angel, my mum had said. It’s Christmas, and they all want an angel, and she was trying to impress them.

  I look at my mother.

  She just shrugs. People want to know, Janet, she says.

  You can tell Brenda your tree really isn’t my type, I say. I like more bush, I add under my breath, heading back to the table.

  Well, I’m obviously not going to tell her that, am I, my mother says, having heard me.

  When we get back to the living room, we both smile our best vapid Stepford smiles.

  My mother gives a short toast, to say how happy she is to have us all together on this happy day. If she says happy once more, I might not make it. As usual, she’s trying too hard. I’m trying just the right amount. My brother’s kids clearly need Ritalin, or horse tranquilizers, something, but for now they’re free and I feel strangely protective over them and want to take them aside quietly and tell them they don’t have to take anything they don’t want to, but I don’t.