Forever Christmas

by Christine Lynxwiler

  Shawn pushes to his feet, his face still stormy. “You can have mine. I just lost my appetite.” He leaves without even a backward glance.

  Garrett raises an eyebrow. “Was it something I said?”

  I close my eyes and rub my temples. “Not you, me. I hate his job.”

  “But not him?”

  I glance toward the door Shawn just walked through. “No, he’s a nice enough Christian guy. But I can’t get past what he’s doing to this town.”

  “What is he doing?”

  I open my eyes and gaze at him. “Have you been living in an alternate reality lately? He’s getting the signatures for the petition.”

  “The petition to get the name change on the ballot.”

  I nod.

  “But even then it has to go before the town for a vote.”

  “Right.”

  He shrugs. “Remember when you worked that one summer at the vet’s office? You had to hold the animals still while the vet worked on them.”

  “So?” Garrett is one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met, but sometimes his logic is harder to follow than a gas station attendant’s directions.

  “You didn’t like to see the animals in pain from a shot or surgery, but it was your job.”

  “That was for their own good.”

  “Maybe—”

  I jump up, suddenly terrified of what he’s going to say. What if, for the first time ever, he’s not on my side? “Garrett, I don’t want to hear it tonight, okay? I couldn’t take it if I had to argue with you too.”

  I leave my nachos barely touched and hurry out into the winter night.

  ~~~~~

  Winter should mean snow. Not rain. I rest my forehead against the window beside the cash register and stare out at the gray day. As droplets of rain splat against the glass, I peer at the round thermometer on the porch. Only a few degrees above freezing. I’d guess one fourth of my Christmases have been white. But that doesn’t stop me from hoping every year. But only for snow. Something inside me says my parents are hoping for an excuse not to come. Freezing rain would be that excuse in spades.

  How many Christmases did Gran wait in this exact place for our car to pull up? She always met us at the curb by the time we rolled to a stop. Call me silly, but I want to do that for my parents. They probably won’t appreciate it, but it feels right to me.

  While I wait, I give the shop a second look. All the themed Christmas trees twinkle merrily and every ornament is in its place. I’ve straightened the tables twice and since the store isn’t open, I know there’s no point in checking them again.

  A movement outside draws my attention. Right on time. My parents are so prompt that I sometimes wonder if they ever pull off the road and stare at their synchronized watches until they’re sure they’ll reach their destination at the appointed minute. The shiny black Mercedes glides to a stop behind my Jeep Wrangler. Both in the Chrysler family at least, if not closely related.

  I snatch up my super-size red umbrella, scoop a handful of change from the bowl under the counter, and run out the door.

  My mother climbs out of the car, her auburn hair perfectly coifed. Her slate blue Liz Claiborne pantsuit doesn’t have a wrinkle or crease and she snaps open her own color-coordinated umbrella with practiced ease.

  “Hi, Mother.” I lean toward her and with the umbrella in one hand, she clutches my upper arms, her version of a hug, and kisses the air near my face.

  “Kristianna.” She reaches toward my hair and frowns. “Your hair has gone wild, I see.”

  Even though I know it’s futile, I attempt to pat down my curly mess. “It’s the same as always.”

  “A good stylist could do wonders for that, dear.”

  Speaking of futile. . .Number one rule of getting along with my mother. Don’t try to argue.

  Dad retrieves their overnight bag from the trunk then comes around to us, carrying a sleek black umbrella. His blonde hair seems a little grayer at the temples than it was at Thanksgiving. But, at fifty, he’s a striking figure in his well-cut black suit and light yellow shirt with a color-coordinated tie.

  For as long as I can remember, his wardrobe has only had two kinds of clothes. Gym clothes for his daily workout and suit/tie combinations. He smiles absently as if he’s surprised to see me. “Kristianna.”

  “Dad. Do you want me to get that bag for you?” I ask, even though I know he doesn’t. Gran would have folded him into a hug and come away with the bag. Then she would have kept him so distracted with conversation that he wouldn’t have noticed she carried it until she set it down in their room upstairs. I stand back as he walks past me toward the store. I’m not sure when we stopped hugging. But it’s been long enough that I don’t even consider doing it now.

  Dad offers his arm to Mother and she takes it. He has the overnight bag in his other hand and she has her wrap draped across her arm. They face the store and square their shoulders as if bracing themselves.

  I want to say, “It’s only two days. You can stand to be around me that long.” But instead I call, “I have to feed the meter. Be right in.” It’s one thing for me to get parking tickets, but my parents would have a fit if Doyle dared to slide one of those little green cardboard nasties under their windshield wiper. I don’t want them to declare war on Jingle Bells. We have enough enemies as it is. I funnel change into the candy-cane pole then hurry to catch up.

  They’re almost to the top of the stairs when I come in. I give the Christmas wonderland one more glance and throw a switch to turn off the lights. Don’t know why I thought they’d want to see what I’d done with the place. I run up the stairs, my Birkenstocks slapping each step, and get to the apartment door just as they’re about to go in.

  I lean against the top railing for a second, trying not to pant.

  Mother looks back at me. “I’ll never get used to going through a store to get to the living quarters.” She says “store” like it’s a dirty word.

  I shrug and pull myself upright. “It’s worth it to me.”

  She raises an eyebrow.

  I meet her gaze, unflinching, because like it or not, that phrase is true of most things they don’t understand about my life.

  She turns away.

  I catch my breath and follow them into the apartment.

  My dad stands inside the door staring at the tall tree in the corner.

  The trees in the store are artificial and themed, but for my own apartment, Garrett and I cut an eight-footer from Mr. Pletka’s Christmas Tree Farm. Every ornament I’ve ever had is crammed on its green branches and multi-colored lights glint off the shiny surfaces. As far as I’m concerned, it’s perfect.

  Mother just glances at it, then brushes past Dad. “Jared, why don’t you put that bag in our room?”

  He looks at her and nods. “Same place as always, Kristianna?”

  “Yes, unless you’d rather have Gran’s room.” I’d immersed myself into Gran’s life after she left it to me, but I drew the line at moving into her room. I have my own spacious bedroom, always have had, and there’s a nice-sized guest bedroom. I’ve kept Gran’s room essentially the same. “I put fresh sheets on the bed this morning. And it has its own bathroom, you know.”

  “No, this will be fine,” Dad calls from the hall where he’s already stashing their things in the guest room.

  Mother narrows her eyes at me.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. Last I heard, she wanted us to all just “get along.”

  Her expression smoothes out immediately. “Wrong?”

  I catch myself before I go ahead with the conversation. Rule number two. When my mother plays dumb, there’s no point in trying to smoke out the truth. It comes out soon enough. Usually before I’m ready.

  Chapter Eleven

  Even though I’ve grumbled about them only coming for two days, the truth is, I have no idea what to do with my parents without Gran here. And when in doubt, I overschedule. Thankfully, the rain stopped, so a-caroling we will go. That will t
ake care of a big chunk of tonight.

  Mother is in front of the mirror. I had told them to raid the front closet for warm coats, and somehow Emily Harrington had managed to find a stylish ski suit I didn’t even know I had, complete with matching gloves.

  “It looks like it was made for you,” I offer. I made a New Year’s resolution early. I may not be able to forgive my mother for her tirade after Gran’s funeral, but I don’t have to make us all miserable. She glares at me. We can’t seem to get our good intentions in the same time zone. When I’m nice, she’s not and vice versa.

  Dad’s inspecting the fireplace and I do a double take at his outfit. Jeans and a long sleeved polo shirt. He didn’t find that in my closet, so he must have brought it. My dad has gone casual.

  “Y’all ready?”

  “I really can’t believe you signed us up without asking,” Mother mutters, leaning in to check her lipstick in the mirror one more time.

  “Come on, Emily. Maybe it will be fun.” Dad picks up a down jacket from the back of the couch and puts on his hearty “meet the judge” smile. My heart sinks. He’s dreading it worse than she is.

  “There’ll be hot chocolate after.” What I don’t say is that by then our hands may be too frozen to hold the cup. “We’ll just do a few houses. Then if they keep going, we’ll come home and I’ll fix homemade cocoa.”

  Out in the frigid air, we walk to meet the others on the court square. We instinctively huddle together, but don’t really touch each other.

  When we arrive at the square, Barry Stewart is organizing. Not only does he arrange flowers, apparently he arranges music. He immediately places Dad in the bass section and Mother with the altos. “I paint,” I say when he gives me a questioning look.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Just put me anywhere.” Singing isn’t a talent of mine, but I love doing it. Especially caroling.

  He stands me next to JoAnne Simmons, a teller from the bank. Thankfully, she has a beautiful soprano voice, strong enough that I don’t get her off-key, and loud enough to give me the luxury of singing out. Thirty minutes later, we’re on Sugarplum Street behind my store, singing “Jingle Bells” (What else?) for the twentieth time. I look over at my parents. Dad is belting out the tune and Mother has her lips pursed, but I can’t tell if she’s grimacing or singing. Either way, at least she’s here. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.

  When we pause, a voice speaks up from the back. “I’d like to see them write a song about Summer Valley.” We all turn to look and Sam staggers forward.

  Oh no. I can smell the alcohol all the way over here.

  “At least Summer Valley wants to give us jobs,” Fred Moore growls from beside Dad.

  “Jobs? What about our self-respect?” Sam adjusts his engineer cap.

  “Self-respect don’t put food on the table,” Fred fires back.

  “Yeah,” Billy Farmer chimes in. “I don’t think my kids would be very happy with a package of self-respect under the Christmas tree.”

  I know what he means, but I also know his kids. A little self-respect wouldn’t hurt them any.

  Billy shakes his fist. “Go drink somewhere else. I signed that petition and I’m proud of it.”

  Sam latches his left thumb in his overall strap and points his right finger at Billy. “Sally Harrington would turn over in her grave at the sorry lot of you, signing that petition like it’s manna from heaven.” I can’t help but agree with Sam’s words, even though they’re slurred. But I see Dad’s face tense. And Mom pinches her lips tightly together.

  “If my mother were here,” Dad says in his commanding courtroom voice, “she’d likely remind you gentlemen that Christmas Eve is no time to argue.”

  I give Barry a “hurry up and start a song” motion.

  He jerks as if he forgot he was in charge. “Silent Night,” he calls out and the group obediently begins the song. Even Fred and Billy sing.

  I watch Sam weave his way down the street and slowly out of sight. How do you help someone who has a heart of gold, but can’t seem to break free from that bondage? I stare after him and send up a silent prayer. For his safety. And for his release.

  Before I can rejoin the song, a drop of rain hits my face, then another. The singing becomes disjointed and hesitant. Then the heavens open, like an unexpected spring shower, only freezing, pounding down on us. The carolers squeal and scatter.

  “This way,” I yell and motion to my parents. We run, with me leading the way, down the alley behind us to my back door. They crowd against the wall without speaking as I fumble with the key.

  When we’re in, I shiver and glance up at them. Mother’s carefully applied makeup has melted, giving her a forlorn look. And Dad’s nose is red enough to guide a sleigh tonight. “Mother, you take the hall bath, and Dad can use Gran’s.”

  “What about you?” Dad says, as they peel off their outerwear.

  “I’ll wrap a blanket around me and start the cocoa. Whoever gets out first can finish stirring it while I bathe.”

  Mother doesn’t protest and for a minute, I feel an odd pain. Gran would have insisted on me going first. But then she enjoyed taking care of me.

  Because she loved me.

  Tears mix with the water on my face as I start upstairs. For the first time in my life, I’ll be glad when Christmas is over.

  ~~~~~

  The early ending to our caroling leaves me with a huge blank in my schedule. When we’re all warm and dry, I glance over to where Dad is flipping through a Canoe and Kayak magazine. Since his only other choice was Christian Woman, I guess he decided to take the river. “Want to build a fire?”

  Mother, ensconced in the glider chair, with her reading glasses on and her Sudoku book drawn up close to her face, glances up. “Do you think that’s safe?”

  “Gran always did it. I’ve just been nervous about building a fire without her here to help.”

  Dad slaps the magazine on the couch and stands. “Sounds good. Wood still out back?”

  “Yes.” He’s two feet from the apartment door when I realize that when he’s gone, I’ll be alone with Mother. “I’ll go with you.” I can almost always count on Dad to be the strong silent type.

  We tramp down the stairs and out the back door to my wood stacked next to the building. The rain is still pounding down on the alley, but now it’s bouncing against the pavement in tiny balls. “Freezing,” I mutter as I grab a couple of sticks of firewood.

  “We need to get ready,” Dad says and gathers an armload.

  “Ready for what?” I make my way carefully back up the stairs with my burden.

  Even with his arms full, Dad reaches around me and pushes open the apartment door. Who said chivalry was dead?

  “Thanks,” I grunt. “Ready for what?” I repeat.

  Dad has dumped his wood. “Where are your candles?”

  “Candles? For the fireplace?” I don’t remember this step in starting a fire.

  “What about flashlights? Do you have flashlights and batteries?” Dad walks away from me toward the dining room.

  “Third drawer in the kitchen,” I call after him. “Why?”

  He sticks his head back in the door. “Ice is starting to build up on the electric lines. There’s a good chance we’ll lose power.”

  “Let’s go to a hotel,” Mother says from her chair.

  “A hotel wouldn’t have power either if we lost it here.” Dad hurries through the apartment, divvying out the candles and flashlights to different spots in the house.

  Mother rests her puzzle book on her knee. “We could go back to our house.”

  I give her an incredulous look. It’s Christmas Eve. My parents decorate for Christmas entertaining. But we all know the maid packs those away as soon as their last party is over. A hotel would be more festive.

  “We wouldn’t make it to the Interstate,” Dad calls.

  “Maybe we won’t lose power.” I lay the wood out in the fireplace the way Gran showed me last winter.<
br />
  Dad kneels beside me and helps. “Might not, but we need to be ready. You have to think ahead.”

  As he strikes the fireplace match and holds it to the starter log, Mother walks over to watch. “My goodness, Jared. Obviously if she understood that, she’d be out making her own footprint in the world, instead of living your mother’s life here in the middle of nowhere waiting to go out of business.”

  The wood bursts into flames. The muscles across my shoulders tighten, but I don’t look up from the newborn fire. What she means is I should be living the life they planned for me.

  Dad glances at me, then at her. “It’s Christmas Eve, Emily. There’s plenty of time to talk about the future later.” I notice he doesn’t disagree with her. Just her timing. Jared Harrington is famous for his timing in the courtroom. He wouldn’t dream of being any less perfect in his personal life.

  The smoke makes my eyes water so I push to my feet and squeeze Dad’s arm. “Thanks for helping me. Now I think I can do it on my own.”

  Dad nods and clears his throat, obviously uncomfortable with my gratitude. “Yes, well, I need to go check on the weather.”

  He scoots out of the room before I can go with him.

  Mother peers intently out the window. She doesn’t look any happier to be alone with me than I am with her.

  “At least we’ll stay warm if the electricity goes off.” I rearrange the couch pillow and sit down to watch the fire.

  Mother purses her lips and nods. “That’s one good thing.”

  “So, what did you get Dad for Christmas?”

  She frowns as if I’m interrupting her favorite TV show. “You know what I always get him. A subscription to The Wall Street Journal and a new suit.”

  “No surprises this year?”

  “No.” She gives me a level gaze, her blue eyes hard to read. “We never want for surprises as long as you’re our daughter.”

  “That’s my job.” My laugh is forced, but at least it’s an attempt. “To keep your lives interesting.”

  Dad stomps in the door with a load of firewood. He dumps it beside the hearth and claps his hands together. “We’re in for some interesting weather.”