“There were the dresses, and the food, and the flowers. Those deposits were nonrefundable, unfortunately. Luckily, we hadn’t sent out the invitations yet.”
“Yes, we were lucky with that one. Too bad all the other things will go to waste.”
I sit there pondering the situation for a moment, with an idea forming in my brain.
“If I can figure out a way to use those things, are you on board?” I suggest, giving him a sly smile.
“Your ideas have been golden to this point,” he says, giving me a wink. “Whatever you need, just make it work.”
Headed to Mom and Dad’s for the Christmas fiasco. Er, I mean feast. I am really looking forward to it, naturally. There’s nothing I would rather be doing right now, except perhaps having all my hairs pulled out by the roots, or walking across hot coals, or pressing red hot pokers against my bare skin. A girl can dream, right?
Maybe it won’t be so bad. Brittany’s not pregnant anymore, and she’s got a beautiful new baby girl (or so I’ve been told), so she won’t have anything to complain about. In fact, she should be downright cheerful. Mom and Mrs. Huber won’t have anything to fuss over, either, except for cooing over the new baby. It could turn out okay, in the end.
As I pull into the driveway, however, I seriously consider throwing my gift at the house and running. One knock is all the warning I give them before I push open the door, and I’m nearly bowled over by Marilyn.
“Aunt Maddie!” she shouts, flinging herself against my waist. Jordan follows close behind.
“Where’s my present?” he wonders, pulling at the gift in my hands.
“Uh-uh,” I scold. “You’ll have to wait for the gift exchange to see whether I got your name.”
“The gift exchange is only for grown-ups, Maddie,” Mom chides from the kitchen. “You were supposed to get gifts for the kids.”
Great. Already I’m the bad aunt, simply because no one informed me of the rules.
“Here,” I say, opening my purse and fishing through my wallet. “Sorry my gifts aren’t wrapped.” I hand each of them a fifty dollar bill.
“Cool!” they exclaim, almost in unison.
“Way to go, Maddie,” Brittany proclaims from her chair in the corner. “Spoil them with cash, and then they won’t like any of their other gifts.”
I guess I was wrong—she can still find things to complain about.
Looking over to the corner of the couch, I spot Dad sitting next to Lance, who is holding the new baby. I quickly place my gift next to the tree and walk over to them.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, kissing him quickly on the cheek. He looks slightly miserable. I believe he may be dreading this as much as I am. He can’t escape and go out to his workshop with all the company.
“Hi, little Abby,” I whisper, touching her tiny fingers.
“Abigail,” Brittany growls from the recliner.
“Sorry,” I whisper, directing my remarks to the baby and not Brittany. “Hello, Abigail.” She wraps her little hand around my index finger and wiggles slightly in Lance’s arms. As I watch, her face crinkles and she stretches her legs.
“Look, she’s smiling!” I exclaim. Lance grins at me and then back down at the baby.
“She’s got gas,” Brittany states.
Must run in the family.
“Don’t worry, Abigail,” I tell her quietly. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“No,” Brittany interjects. “I mean she’s not smiling. She’s making a face because she has gas.”
“Well, I’ll just go on thinking you’re smiling,” I continue to talk to the baby. “It’s a lot sweeter than having gas. You are entirely too cute to have gas, anyway.” Of course Abigail chooses this exact moment to let loose a noise that would have made me blush, had I done it myself, and a horrible odor begins to waft through the room.
“It’s your turn, Lance,” Brittany orders. He simply nods and gets up from the couch, taking Abigail into one of the bedrooms.
“Can we open presents now, Mom?” Jordan asks, standing at Brittany’s feet and practically jumping up and down with excitement. “Aunt Maddie’s finally here.”
“Ask your grandma,” Brittany directs. “I guess we wouldn’t have had to wait for Maddie anyway, since all she brought was cash.”
Keeping my mouth shut, I plop down on the floor next to Dad’s feet, glancing over at Mr. Huber, who is sitting across from us on the love seat. He never says a word. Sometimes I wonder if he is one of those people who can sleep with his eyes open.
“How are you, Mr. Huber?” I ask.
He rouses a little and his head moves slightly. “Huh?”
“How are you?” I repeat.
He clears his throat and rocks a little in his seat. “Fine.”
A man of few words. I’ll let him go back to dozing.
“Grandma said we can open gifts!” Jordan exclaims, running back into the room. He makes a dash for the tree with Marilyn close at his heels.
I remember Christmas when I was little, how exciting it was. Of course, I usually spent a couple of days anticipating the marvelous toys I would receive, and then would be disappointed once the actual day was over. One year I wanted a simple bake oven, and instead I got a drawing kit. Those little ovens were too messy, Mom said. Turned out the gift she gave me was pretty messy, too, because my cousin Witt took my drawing kit and wrote all over the wall with it. I’m the one who got in trouble, even though he had written his own name, completely incriminating himself. I still haven’t figured that one out.
Then there was the Christmas when I asked for a makeup case. I was too young for makeup, Mom said, so I didn’t have any need for one. That was true enough, but a lot of girls at school were carrying around those cases, and I wanted a case, too. I wasn’t going to put makeup in it, probably just pens and pencils and such, but I still wanted one. Imagine my surprise on Christmas morning when I opened my gift to find one of those sissy-wets-a-lot dolls. You’re growing up too fast, Mom told me. Sissy-wets-a-lot is a more appropriate gift for a girl your age. You can’t go back to junior high after Christmas break and tell your friends you got a sissy-wets-a-lot.
Oh, and I can’t forget about that Christmas when Grandma and Grandpa came over. I was probably four or five. When I opened their gift, it was the most beautiful little snowsuit—pink with white fur around the hood. I remember holding it up against me and dancing around a bit, right before Mom snatched it from my hands. It wasn’t an appropriate gift, she decided, and told Grandma and Grandpa they had to take it back with them. I remember her arguing with Grandma for quite a while. What’s wrong with it, Grandma wanted to know. This isn’t Wisconsin, Mom yelled. It’s just not practical in Kentucky. In the end, it wound up snowing a lot that winter, and I had to use Lance’s snowsuit, which was too big and had holes in both knees. I could have caught pneumonia.
Jordan kicks me in the shin as he runs by, bringing me quickly back to the present. Marilyn is buried somewhere beneath the tree, passing gifts to Jordan so he can sprint to deliver them around the room.
“Do you want to hold her?” I hear. I look up to see Lance standing above me with Abigail in his arms.
“Okay,” I find myself saying, standing up to remove myself from Jordan’s path. Wouldn’t want little Abigail to be kicked in the head. After I lower myself next to Dad on the couch, Lance places the nearly weightless bundle in my arms.
Little Abigail, do you know what kind of world you’re coming into? It’s full of hurt and frustration and embarrassment. Of course, there are also some nice things, like you: still too tiny to be mean or rude or self-absorbed. Except you are probably completely self-absorbed, but rightfully so. You are still perfect in every way. Too bad you have to grow up someday and become an adult.
Abigail stretches her legs and kicks out of her blanket, and I take care to cover her back up. Her little hand reaches up as though she’s searching for something, and I offer her my finger again. She wraps all of her fingers around mine and pulls her
tiny arm back towards her chest.
“This one’s for you!” Jordan exclaims, dropping a present on the couch next to me. Mrs. Huber and Mom make their way into the room from the kitchen, talking not much louder than a whisper, with Mom waving her hands as she speaks. After a second, Mom finishes gesturing and Mrs. Huber begins surveying the room.
“Where’s the baby?” she asks, sounding frantic. “Where’s the baby?”
“I have her,” I reply, looking down.
Mrs. Huber hurries over to me and plucks the baby out of my arms. “Hello, pookums,” she coos. “Did you miss Grammy?” She carries the baby over to Mr. Huber, who doesn’t even seem to notice their presence.
“Can we open them now, Grandma, please?” Marilyn pleads while standing in front of the tree, which is completely bare underneath.
“Yes, yes, you can open them.” Mom dismisses her with a wave of her hand right before she settles down in one of the arm chairs and yawns. I glance down at the gifts beside me, three of them, to be exact: one from Mom, another from Dad, and the third from…
Brittany. Who else?
“Who’s this from?” Mr. Huber asks, holding up the gift I brought. It has my name on it, but apparently he doesn’t care for reading.
“Looks like it’s from Maddie,” Mrs. Huber answers, taking it from him and shaking it gently. “It’s not very big, whatever it is.”
Mr. Huber takes the package back and slowly opens it, pulling the lid off the box and removing the gift certificate. He reads the card for what seems like ten minutes, and then calmly leans back on the love seat, holding it in his lap.
“Well, what is it?” Mrs. Huber wants to know.
“I have no idea,” he states, not seeming to care.
She takes it from him and begins to read it over. “It’s a gift certificate to play golf.”
“To play golf? But what about my back?”
“Oh, wouldn’t that be silly. You can’t play any golf. It would kill you.” She hands the certificate back to him and he continues to hold it in his lap, staring off at nothing.
Honestly, I don’t think playing golf would kill him. He looks to be in pretty good physical shape. I know he uses the weed eater on the lawn—I heard Mrs. Huber talking about it once. If he can use the weed eater, he can play golf. End of story.
Maybe she’s worried that he will fall asleep on the golf course. He will be somewhere in the middle of the fairway, just standing there completely minding his own business, when someone behind him drives a ball straight toward the green. He won’t see it coming, of course, because he will be sleeping with his eyes open. He’ll just remain suspended there in his own little world when someone yells “fore” and the ball comes whizzing at his head, sinking into the back of his skull and killing him instantly.
Yes, that has to be it.
I hesitantly pick up Brittany’s gift, fingering the paper. I’m not entirely sure that I want to open it. Brittany doesn’t exactly hide her feelings for me, so I’m sure buying a Christmas gift for yours truly probably thrilled her to no end. I can almost see her rummaging through the bargain bins at the department store, trying to locate anything without a rip, tear, or stain. She finally finds something, but the tag says it’s two dollars, and that seems like an awful lot to spend on someone you don’t really care for, doesn’t it? Maybe I’ll get lucky and she will have sent Lance to get my present while she was pregnant.
I tear the paper from the corner and across the front of the box, and I pause in mid-rip with the gift on my lap. I can’t bring myself to actually remove the entire thing from the paper, because then it will officially be mine. Other people might see it, and then I will have to acknowledge that, yes, this is my gift from Brittany. I will have to take it home and pretend that I like it, which I don’t. I despise it. This is the rudest, most inconsiderate gift I have ever been given. She should have given me the golf certificate—at least that would have been trade-able. This is hostile and mean and tactless and very hurtful.
It’s a video series…The Single Girl’s Guide to Keeping a Man.
Disc 1: Making yourself more presentable. Disc 2: Appealing to the opposite sex. Disc 3…
I should wing it across the room and into the tree. This is a Christmas apostasy. If the wise men had brought such a disgrace to the baby Jesus, Mary would have told them to mount their camels and depart.
“You got your gift?” Brittany asks from her corner of the room. I look up to see her smiling brightly at me.
Yeah, I got your gift, you psychopath.
“You didn’t even open the whole thing!” she chimes. “There’s more to it.”
More to it? Reluctantly, I pull the paper back further to reveal the back of a book. Turning it over, I see a very frumpy woman with her arms across her chest. Dressing to Impress, a Makeover Guide.
That’s it. I’m going to leap across the room and attack her like a jungle tiger on one of those hopeless little antelopes you see on National Geographic.
“What do you think?” she asks, silly grin still plastered between her cheeks.
“Great,” I mutter, really wishing I could go over there and wipe that silly smirk off her face. Even if I had a problem with my appearance, which I don’t, what kind of inconsiderate person would give a gift announcing it to the entire room?
“What is it?” Mrs. Huber asks, lifting her chin to try to see the items I’m hiding.
“It’s a book about dating,” Brittany states nonchalantly, as though she has just given me a sweater or a pair of gloves. Dad’s hand grabs firmly onto my knee, as though he senses the fact that I am seconds away from pouncing. He’s holding me back so I don’t go screaming across the room like a wild banshee, lashing my claws into her face.
“Oh, goodness,” Mrs. Huber states, giving me a concerned look. “I didn’t know we had that problem.”
“We don’t!” I say with clenched teeth, shoving the book into the couch cushions.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Maddie,” Brittany says, pretending to be caring, which I certainly know by this time that she is not.
Dad decides to put his arm around my shoulders, and I give him a little smile to reassure him that I’m fine. I am a sophisticated, mature young woman, and I’m not going to fling myself across the room like a wild animal from the Amazon. I’ll just do what every other sophisticated young woman would do in this situation—sit here despising her from afar.
I still have Mom and Dad’s gifts, and they have to be better. I tear the paper from the one bearing Dad’s name to reveal a clothing box. Inside is a pea green raincoat with a plaid lining. It’s very pretty, and it looks like it will fit. Besides, it’s not inconsiderate and definitely not humiliating. It is really sad that this is going to become a determining factor in whether or not I like a gift I receive. Is it useful? Is it humiliating? Is it cruel?
I set the raincoat down beside me and open the next gift, which I quickly realize is another book. Surely it can’t be as bad as Brittany’s, unless it’s something like Dealing with Being a Nobody or Coping with a Family Who Hates You.
I realize as I finish unwrapping that none of my guesses are even close to correct. This book has a cover filled with various fruits and vegetables, and a blaring title in red letters: Food and Nutrition: A Guide to Overcoming Addiction.
Of course we had to go there again. I thought we were past this nonsense.
“What is that?” Mrs. Huber wants to know.
Why are you so nosy, lady? Open your own gifts!
“It’s a food and nutrition guide,” Mom states proudly. “It shows her how to eat properly.”
“Hmm, that’s funny!” Mrs. Huber assesses. “You don’t look overweight to me. Why do you need a nutrition book?”
“Oh, I have an eating disorder, didn’t you know?” I reply, looking over at Mom.
She puts one hand on her hip and gives me a warning look. “It’s no good to be thin if you’re not healthy,” Mom says, looking to Mrs. Huber for appr
oval.
“I’ll bet that’s why you’re still single,” Mrs. Huber announces. “Things like that upset the delicate balance, you know.”
“You’re probably right,” I tell her, eyes wide. “Gosh, why haven’t I thought of that before? I should kick the habit today—start by eating a lot of cake and pie, really pile the weight on.”
“That sounds like binging, Maddie,” Mom warns.
“Gosh, it does, doesn’t it? You would think that I, of all people, would know that.”
“You have an eating disorder?” Marilyn suddenly interjects, looking at me with concern.
“No, honey, I don’t. I definitely don’t.”
“Good,” she states. “That’s not healthy.”
“Tell me about it,” I reply, shaking my head and rolling my eyes at my young niece.
“I hadn’t noticed before, but now that you mention it, you do look rather sickly,” Mrs. Huber decides. “You should try going to one of those dietary specialists, have them show you how to eat properly.”
By this time I am seeing red and can barely control my temper. “I already eat properly, Mrs. Huber, and I feel good about myself, and that fact apparently bothers some of the people in this room who can’t say the same.”
“I beg your pardon!” Mrs. Huber exclaims, eyes wide and unblinking.
“She’s right about that,” Mr. Huber says quietly, coming out of his coma-like state for a brief moment.
“I just had a baby!” Brittany huffs, crossing her arms over her stomach.
“You have no right to say such a thing, Maddie,” Mom complains, narrowing her eyes as she looks at me.
“You started it,” Dad suddenly speaks up beside me. “Maybe you should try being nice once in a while, and this type of thing wouldn’t happen. You look fine to me, Maddie. I don’t know what their problem is.”
“Thank you, Dad,” I say quietly. He smiles at me sadly as though we have a secret alliance in the family battleground.
Simply Mad (Girls of Wonder Lane Book 1) Page 28
