10 Holiday Stories

by Dara Girard

  "What is?" she urged him.

  "It's the leftovers. My mom always buys two huge turkeys 'cause we have a lot of guests, but we still end up with a lot of leftover turkey. The real fun is all the things she does with it."

  Lewa stepped closer intrigued. "Like what?"

  He brushed his hair back and thought for a moment. "Turkey sandwiches, turkey pie, turkey enchiladas. You can do a lot."

  He was right. She could do a lot. She was thinking of the turkey as something whole that couldn't be altered, but who said she had to bake it like everyone else? She could treat it like the basis of 'anything,' making her options limitless. "Thank you," she said grabbing a big baking pan then pushing her cart into the main aisle. "Have a great Thanksgiving."

  "You too."

  Before going home, Lewa stopped at the international market and grabbed a packet of melon seeds and chili pepper then went home and baked the turkey--following a recipe she'd found--while she chopped a bowl full of miniature tomatoes and onions. She couldn't wait to show her family her new tradition.

  That Thanksgiving, Lewa boldly set her turkey dish on the table among the red jollof rice and yellow curried trout.

  "What is this?" her mother asked as Lewa took the foil off.

  Lewa looked at her mother with love, seeing the unease in her eyes. It would be another year before her sister gave birth to a boy and three years after that before Lewa walked down the aisle to an American man her family accepted with some hesitation, but none of those things--her sister's childless state or her unmarried one--mattered to her that day. She finally knew who she was and what Thanksgiving meant to her. She was thankful for the freedom to be a her own person--to be unique and different without shame. Now she had her own special dish that would add to the season of traditions.

  "It's meat pies," Aunty Elizabeth said recognizing a familiar staple.

  "It's turkey pies," Lewa corrected. "Spiced with chili peppers and I added some other ingredients."

  "They look good," her father said.

  "I bet they'll be delicious," Stillman added.

  "You'll make a good wife," her grandmother said.

  But this time Lewa didn't mind the mention of her single state. She looked at her sister and Stillman, with no envy. The man for her was out there, somewhere. And if he wasn't, she was okay with that too. She'd gotten her turkey for Thanksgiving and hopefully started a new tradition. One that suited her just fine.

  V

  The Other Woman

  The Other Woman

  The size 42DDD wasn’t hers.

  Andrea Hartnett looked at the bright pink bra she’d found in her top lingerie drawer wondering if she should feel perplexed or enraged. If her husband was cheating, why would this bra end up in her drawer? Wasn’t it something a wife would find underneath the bed, in the backseat of a car, or in her husband’s jacket pocket?

  If there was another explanation, what could it be? They’d had two kids—ages five and seven—within ten years of marriage and the thrill was definitely gone. Andrea glanced out the bedroom window as the descending darkness of night slowly devoured a bleak winter sun. Boredom settled on them some days more than others, but was that anyone’s fault? Wasn’t that normal? Robert was a good man, good husband and father.

  But had he gotten tired of it all?

  Had he met someone at the play dates he went to with the kids?

  Was this his way of rebelling against his role as a househusband? The arrangement worked for them, but at times she wondered if he missed an outside work life. If he missed being an electrical engineer and the chance to discuss the newest changes in his field, instead of the latest action figure. She knew he’d finished his holiday shopping—he was always orderly and regimented—she hadn’t even started hers.

  Should she confront him or be subtle? Andrea turned the object over in her hand, seeing the lacy white trim, feeling the satin finish, a flash of something crossing her thoughts—a familiar sensation or memory—before it was quickly gone. How could one be subtle about something like this? Did she approach him in the kitchen and calmly say, “Darling, I found someone else’s bra in my drawer? Do you know how that happened?”

  Did she really want to know?

  Did she just want to pretend?

  Andrea hurriedly shoved the bra back in the drawer when she heard footsteps approaching. Moments later, Robert, came into the room carrying a laundry basket stacked with freshly washed clothes that reminded her of the scent of tulips and roses in the sunshine. He set the basket on the bed then lifted up her cream blouse and held it up with a flourish. “Tada!” he said with a big grin, his teeth white against his cocoa skin.

  She frowned. “What?”

  “I got the wine stain out.”

  Yes, she remembered being upset that she’d ruined the blouse after only one wear. She’d been at a holiday office party where her colleague, Mona Shan, had gotten tipsy and splashed Andrea’s blouse. Mona had apologized profusely, but Andrea silently wondered if she was really apologizing for getting the promotion Andrea had worked two years for. But Andrea had laughed and made a joke, pretending that nothing bothered her and the tense moment was quickly forgotten.

  But she hadn’t forgotten it. The wine stain and Mona’s sloppy apology burned in her chest like acid. That evening, Robert had found her sitting on the side of their bed in tears. She told him about the stain, not the lost promotion, not the catty remarks her boss sometimes made about her performance or even how tired she felt sometimes, and he’d squeezed her shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, I can get the stain out.”

  And now he had and she wondered if it mattered. She stared at the clean, crisp blouse amazed that he’d managed to make it look as if it were brand new. Was size 42DDD someone who knew the best way to get stains out? Did she know the healthiest ‘green’ cleaning solution for countertops? Was she younger? Did she make him feel more like a man?

  “Thanks,” she said, plastering on a smile.

  But the smile didn’t fool him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Why?”

  “You look tired.”

  I’m not tired, she wanted to say. I’m sad. Sad that we’re keeping secrets. She went to the drawer to pull out the bra then stopped. She couldn’t confront him now. She didn’t want to be angry. She knew talks never worked when emotion came first. “I just had a long day.”

  “Dinner’s almost ready.”

  The scent of curried rice and the sweetness of mango chutney floated up the stairs. “Smells great.”

  He winked. “Tastes good too,” he said then turned.

  Andrea watched him leave wondering if 42DDD had also tried his cooking.

  She thought about leaving the bra on his pillow. Since she left for work after dropping the kids off at school it wouldn’t be hard to do. But he might not see it or—worse—make anything of it. She thought of leaving it between the couch cushions where he watched TV, but then the kids might find it. She thought about taking a picture and sending it to his cell phone with a message: Who does this belong to?

  She thought of checking his phone for private texts. She thought of calling in sick and following him around all day.

  But she didn’t do any of those things. Instead, she pretended like nothing had changed. On the weekend she watched him—building a snowman in the front yard, hanging holiday lights along the house trim, wiping Kendall’s tears when he slipped on the ice and hit his head, and vacuuming the car. He was a man in constant motion while she felt as if she were standing still. At times they passed each other like strangers.

  And she let two more days pass without mentioning the pink bra, wondering when she’d smell the whiff of someone else’s perfume on his shirt (would it be spicy, musky or sweet?), see a lipstick stain on his collar (bright pink, deep red or purple?), but he’d be too smart for that. He did the laundry and knew how to take stains out. She wondered when she would catch him quickly hanging up the phone when she entered the room. When would she catch
him in a lie?

  They’d never lied to each before. Even when they’d first met as interns at her first job out of college, they’d been honest with each other about their ambitions and hopes for the future. She remembered when she’d gotten the dream job she’d applied for and how proud he’d been to support her and her career. All things seemed possible back then.

  Had she made him feel devalued? She remembered the time he’d gone on a weekend fishing trip with his brother and she realized how much she depended on him. She didn’t know what to do with the kids or what to feed them. She had breakfast, lunch and dinner delivered the entire weekend. When she told him about her harrowing time, he’d just laughed and the next time he was gone for the weekend, he prepared the meals in advance and left instructions.

  But had that bothered him? Did he think she was useless? Was 42DDD a domestic goddess? Did she have children? Was she married too? Divorced? She’d seen some of the other mothers and the teachers at their children’s school. None looked like a 42DDD, but there were plenty who were fresh faced and pretty and young.

  The questions continued to loom and grow until she couldn’t ignore them anymore.

  She confronted him one evening after he’d put the kids to bed and was relaxing on the couch watching a science special about galaxies. In the background, the Christmas tree glowed with colored lights, its branches heavy under the weight of ornaments both store bought and handmade. The scent of peppermint from the candy canes their kids had devoured earlier still lingered in the air.

  “I found this in my drawer,” she said, holding out the bra.

  He looked at her—not the bra—for a long minute then said, “I wondered when you’d say something.”

  “Who…wait what?”

  “I didn’t think you cared.”

  “You put this there?”

  He nodded.

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Just wanted to see what you’d do.”

  She waved the bra in his face, fighting back tears of hurt and anger. “Is this how you wanted to tell me you’re having an affair?”

  His brows shot up. “An affair?”

  “Yes, with this woman.”

  He sat up, confused. “What woman?”

  She flung the bra at him. “The woman who wears this!”

  He caught it and briefly hung his head, rubbing his forehead. “There’s no...” He let his hand fall to his lap then looked up at her. “I love the woman who owns this, but she doesn’t wear it anymore.”

  He loved this other woman? What did he mean she didn’t wear it anymore? Had she left him? And why had he put it in her drawer? Again a flash of something—an emotion or memory she wasn’t sure—coursed through her thoughts before disappearing. “I don’t understand.”

  He took a deep breath. “So you don’t recognize it?”

  “Why would I recognize someone else’s bra?”

  “Because it’s not someone else’s. It’s yours. Was yours.” He paused. “From before.”

  She froze, a slow dawning casting aside the cobwebs of her mind and the flashing thoughts began to connect and take shape. She didn’t need to ask ‘Before what?’ because she knew: Before she had her breast reduction surgery. Before she was left with scars that made her feel ugly. Before she realized that the surgery had relieved her back pain, but not the other pains in her life.

  She felt tears build, tightening her throat, wetting her eyes, as she realized she had been the one with secrets, not him. They’d agreed to keep the bra as a reminder of all they’d come through together. To remind her of the past she’d left behind. She’d bought the bra years ago as a new bride and had never worn it—or had she worn it once?—before tucking it away. She’d forgotten it. The woman who’d bought it felt like a stranger to her.

  “You know I love you no matter what,” he said. “I supported your decision.”

  “I know.” But she’d pushed him away anyway. She’d let words of warning from others shove aside his words of comfort.

  “Don’t do it,” she remembered one woman say in a support group. “My husband left me after I did it. Men have a harder time with the change than we do.”

  “It was the best decision I made,” another countered.

  “But you’re single,” the first woman argued.

  “Men started looking at me different and I’m still getting used to it,” a third said. She’d later developed a drinking problem and was now in therapy for that.

  And the closer Andrea got to the date of her surgery, the more unsolicited comments she heard, or had they just gotten louder? She wasn’t sure; she just remembered that each syllable felt like darts.

  “I don’t know why she’d get rid of what lots of women pay to have,” she overheard a family friend say.

  “I’m not surprised she’s the one wearing the pants in that house now. She cut off her breasts and he cut off his balls,” she’d overheard a great-aunt say at a family dinner.

  “I’d never let my wife do it,” a second cousin said.

  But she went through with her decision gaining strength from her husband’s support. Not knowing that his support wouldn’t be enough. That a new pain would replace the old one.

  She’d changed her entire wardrobe to accommodate the new woman she’d become, but inside she still felt as invisible as she once had been. In the past, she had to deal with people who didn’t think women with big breasts had a brain. She’d had to endure snickers all through high school and college from both teachers and students. She’d had to tolerate guys who’d ask her out expecting only one thing and shouted angry slurs at her when they didn’t get it.

  Robert had been different. He’d called her beautiful. He looked at her face and not just her chest. He thought she was smart. But she no longer felt beautiful and now she didn’t feel smart. She wondered if he’d noticed that too? She sat down beside him no longer able to hold his gaze. “I didn’t get the promotion,” she said in a soft voice.

  He blinked. “What?”

  She bit her lip then looked at him. “The night I got the wine stain on my blouse, that’s when I found out.”

  Anger lit his brown eyes. “But you’d worked your ass off for that new client and you’ve brought in millions of dollars to that company.”

  “I know,” she said, glad he sounded as outraged as she’d felt. “It wasn’t enough.”

  “If they won’t value you, then you need to start looking for another position that will.”

  “What if it pays less?”

  “And I can’t stay home?” he said, finishing her real question.

  She nodded, holding her breath.

  “What if it pays more?”

  She hadn’t thought of that, but she held her breath because he still hadn’t given her an answer.

  He covered her hand with his. “All that matters to me is your happiness and our family, you know that.”

  She’d let herself forget. She glanced at the 42DDD she’d placed beside her, remembering the woman she used to be. The woman he’d fallen in love with and who had fallen in love with him. For all her pain, that woman had laughed more and lived more.

  Andrea turned to her husband and hugged him, inhaling his scent. He used to smell like aftershave and leather; now he smelled like crayons and fresh coffee. She felt the strength of his embrace when his arms encircled her waist and she wondered how long it had been since she’d let him hold her this close. She closed her eyes.

  There hadn’t been another woman. Or rather she had to face the other woman she used to be and not fear or hate her…

  “Thank you,” she said, but what she really meant was ‘I love you’.

  Fortunately, Robert knew that and said ‘I love you too’ without words, pressing his lips against hers, letting his body say what words couldn’t.

  And the other woman faded away, in the hushed, warm silence of the evening, as they renewed their vows and discovered each other in an exciting new way. Andrea realized she still had many qu
estions. She still had to get her holiday shopping done and they had a lot of decisions to make for the future. But one thing she did know for certain, which suddenly made everything seem bright and beautiful, was that she didn’t have to fear losing him…or herself…again.

  VI

  The Perfect Christmas

  The Perfect Christmas

  A Clifton Sister Short Story

  He didn’t like the sight of the stones. Although they looked innocent as they lay on the front doorstep, glittering under the cold rays of a winter sun, they reminded him of something, but he couldn’t remember what, that left him with a feeling of dread.

  “What are those?”

  Kenneth Preston turned to his wife, Jessie, as she came up behind him carrying two bags in each hand, her red winter hat tipped at an angle. They’d been holiday shopping for their adopted daughter, Syrah. It was to be their first Christmas together as a family and they were both eager to make it special. He didn’t want anything to ruin it. Somehow he felt the stones would do that.

  “Probably nothing,” he said, bending down to remove the stones.

  She grabbed his arm. “Wait. Don’t touch them.”

  “Jasmine, don’t—” he said calling her by her given name. Only he was allowed to call her that.

  She stepped closer, putting her two bags in one hand, and gazed down at the stones. “Just give me a minute.”

  He didn’t want to. He didn’t like the look of interest in her gaze. The stones were bad news, he could feel it.

  Kenneth put the keys in the lock and opened the front door. “Come on, it’s cold.”

  “I wonder who left them here. The arrangement is very peculiar.” She bent closer to examine them.

  His wife had a special gift and affinity with stones. He respected that, but not now. He wanted her for Syrah and himself. He didn’t want to share her attention with anyone. Especially someone who’d left a strange puzzle on their doorstep. A puzzle that reminded him of something, but he didn’t know what. “Jasmine, we need to put the bags away before Ace gets home,” he said, using Syrah’s nickname.