by D. Anne Love
After the long weekend Shyla hitched a ride back to Austin with a friend who had come home to Eden for the holiday, leaving Daddy, Zane, and me to cope with what came next.
A week later Mama saw another doctor in Dallas, who basically agreed with the one in California, and her treatments began. At first she was strong enough to move around the house and drive to the grocery store. Daddy told her she should save her strength, but Mama said it made her feel normal to shop for her family again. As the countdown to Christmas began, she and Daddy went to a couple of movies, and she drove herself to the library and the hair salon.
But the poison chemicals soon wore her down, and by the middle of the month she was too sick to do anything. On treatment days she came home looking pale and tired. A couple of days later the vomiting would start. And despite what she’d told Shyla, in the end Mama refused to hire a home health nurse. She couldn’t stand for strangers to see her in such a state. So me and Zane and Daddy worked out a schedule so that one of us was with Mama most of the time.
For Daddy it meant rescheduling hearings at the courthouse and referring some of his cases to other judges. It meant getting up extra early to get Mama bathed and medicated for the day. For Zane and me it meant coming straight home after school to clean up the sickroom, coax Mama into eating, do homework, make supper, and then clean the kitchen afterward. The three of us worked as a team to do what had to be done, but at the end of the day when Mama was finally asleep, we withdrew into our separate shells to nurse our private fears and figure out how to deal in our own way. The house was quiet as a tomb. Even Lucky seemed subdued. Once in a while Zane would laugh out loud and then stop himself, as if he’d forgotten he wasn’t supposed to be happy. It was an exhausting routine that left us all feeling short-tempered and definitely not in the Christmas spirit.
To be completely honest, as much as I loved my mother, I resented her too. Of course I understood it wasn’t her fault she’d gotten sick, but because of it I had no life. Every morning I got up filled with a sense of dread, slogged through my classes, and came home to the smells of medicine and vomit. There was never time for anything normal, like going to the mall or catching a movie. And Mama lay on her bed in the dark, indifferent to our attention.
One afternoon I came home to find Daddy on his knees wiping a gooey purple mess off the floor. Mama was curled into a ball on the bed, her face turned to the wall.
“What happened, Daddy?”
“Your mother’s having a little problem taking her medication today.”
“What’s wrong? Is she worse?”
Mama rolled over and sat up, her hands clenched. “Just stop it, both of you!”
“Stop what, Beth?” Daddy sponged up more goo and put down some paper towels over the damp spot on the carpet.
“You know!” Mama stared at us, wild-eyed. “Talking about me like I’m not even here.”
“We’re just worried about you, Mama.”
“A lot of good that does!”
“What do you want me to do?” I cried. “It’s not my fault you’re sick!”
“Phoebe.” Daddy handed me the sponge and pail. “Take these downstairs for me, will you?”
“That’s right, Phoebe,” Mama said. “Leave the room so you don’t have to look at your sick, crazy mother.”
Tears leaked out of my eyes. How could Mama be so mean to me when I was trying so hard to take care of her? “Nobody thinks you’re crazy, Mama. But you have to take your medicine.”
“I don’t have to do anything.”
Daddy nudged me toward the door. “Go on, honey. I’ll be down in a while.”
In the laundry room I washed out the pail and threw the sponge into the trash. Zane came in, saw my face, and said, “Mama’s on the warpath again.”
“She’s mad at the whole world.”
“Tell me about it. Yesterday she said her cancer was my fault because I’d stressed her out when I got in trouble last summer.”
We went into the kitchen. I washed my hands and started taking stuff out of the fridge, even though none of us ate much anymore.
“Don’t pay any attention to that,” I said. “If stress caused cancer, this whole family would be sick.”
Daddy came downstairs looking totally worn out. He ran his hand over his face and tried to smile at Zane and me. “Tough day.”
I took a knife from the drawer and started slicing pears for his favorite winter salad. Tough, I thought, didn’t even begin to describe it.
After I’d turned down three invitations from Ashley to go Christmas shopping, I finally told her why I couldn’t go. And when Nick kept bugging me in science lab, saying that he knew something was wrong, I told him, too.
“Man,” he said. “That’s the pits. How much longer is she gonna be barfing and stuff?”
“Till her treatments are over at the end of February, I guess.”
“But then she’ll be normal, right?”
“If the treatments work.”
“They’ll work,” he said. “They just have to.”
Which made me even crazier about him. He often said the exact same thing I was thinking. Like we were two parts of the same person.
On the last day of school before Christmas vacation, afternoon classes were canceled so we could go caroling downtown. It was a freshman-class tradition at Eden High, going back forever, and Daddy insisted that I not miss it. Even though I didn’t feel much like singing, it was a relief to be doing something normal.
We met in the choir room after lunch, and Mrs. Lavelle, the choir director, divided us into groups and handed out our song sheets. We climbed onto the bus, and Mrs. Cantrell came out to remind us we were representing our school and we should mind our manners downtown. She got off, and the bus pulled out.
I was in a group with Courtney and five other girls I didn’t know. Nick was in a group with three girls and a couple of boys from his history class. When he tried to get Courtney to switch with him so he could be with me, Mrs. Lavelle caught him by the collar and led him back to his seat, all the time telling him how if people started switching groups, the entire system would break down, ending democracy as we knew it.
On the way downtown we practiced singing “The First Noel,” “Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town,” and “Winter Wonderland.” The plan called for each group to sing at four businesses, and then we’d all meet to sing at the senior center across from the library, after which the seniors would serve refreshments. Then the bus would take us back to school, where Zane would be waiting to take me home.
The bus chugged down Commerce Avenue and stopped in the parking lot of the Budget Buy Discount Center. After Mrs. Lavelle had given us another round of instructions and warnings, we fanned out across town. With Courtney in the lead, my group headed for our first stop, a jewelry store in the middle of the block. The owner, Mr. Whitstone, stood in the doorway as we worked our way through our repertoire. When we finished, he clapped and said, “Thanks, kids. Have a merry Christmas!”
We sang at the barbershop and then crossed the street to serenade the staff and patrons of Bramasole, the nicest Italian restaurant in town. We’d had Mama’s birthday dinner there the year before, and I’d been totally blown away by the gold light fixtures, plush carpet, and snowy tablecloths. Bramasole looked like something out of an Audrey Hepburn movie. The food wasn’t bad either.
We crowded into the lobby, which was full of people waiting to have lunch. Every table was taken. Waiters ran around filling water glasses and bread baskets. The smells of rosemary and tomato sauce wafted through the air.
Courtney blew on her pitch pipe, and we launched into our first song. People quieted their conversations to listen. Waiters stopped in their tracks while we sang about snow and sleigh bells, and everyone clapped when we finished.
We were just about to start our second number when Courtney tapped my shoulder and said, “Hey, Phoebe, isn’t that your dad over there?”
I followed her gaze to a small table in the c
orner, partially hidden behind a huge silk flower arrangement, where my father sat, having lunch with Beverly. I couldn’t tell whether he’d seen me and was trying to make himself invisible, or whether he was so wrapped up in Beverly he hadn’t even noticed I was there, singing my heart out.
“You want to go over and say hi?” Courtney asked.
“No.” My throat closed up. How could he, when my mother was deathly ill? In that moment I didn’t know my father at all.
Somehow I got through the rest of the songs and the concert at the senior center. By the time Zane met me back at the school parking lot, I was so mad I could barely tell him what had happened.
“What are we going to do?” I asked. “Courtney saw them together! Now everyone at school will know.”
“Courtney doesn’t know Beverly,” Zane reasoned. “If it comes up, just say Dad was having lunch with some lawyer from the courthouse.”
“But he’s going behind Mama’s back.”
“There’s nothing we can do except try to keep Mama from finding out.”
“Shyla will be home soon. Maybe she can straighten him out.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. Dad is in a world of his own these days.”
Even though Daddy was dead wrong to be seeing Beverly, a part of me could understand his need to get away from everything that was weighing him down.
Zane switched on the car radio. “Other than the shock of seeing Rhett and Scarlett at Bramasole, how was the caroling?”
“It was okay. The seniors at the center really appreciated it. They said we sounded great.”
“The seniors must not get out much.”
“I think I’ve just been insulted.”
Zane grinned. “Listen, I need to get Ginger something for Christmas. Let’s go shopping tomorrow and forget all this other stuff for a while. It’s driving me nuts.”
We went by Gus’s to pick up burgers for supper. When we got home, Mama was sleeping and Daddy was sitting in front of the TV reading the paper, acting all innocent. It was all I could do not to ask him how he’d enjoyed his lunch at Bramasole. After supper we scattered as we always did. In the long, weary weeks since Mama’s arrival the silence and isolation had become such a part of our lives it was hard to remember that things had been different once. I brought Lucky into my room, and he curled up beside me while I made out my Christmas list. I didn’t feel much like celebrating, but the next day Zane and I headed for the mall.
“I’m stumped,” Zane said as we circled the mall, looking for a parking place. “I have no clue what to get Ginger for Christmas.”
“How about perfume?” I asked. “Or a bracelet. Porter’s is having a sale.”
Secretly I was dreaming of getting a bracelet from Nick. Something I could keep forever. I’d been waiting for an opportunity to drop a hint, but so far he hadn’t brought it up.
“Too personal.” Zane jammed on the brakes as a huge SUV lumbered toward us, heading the wrong way. We idled there, waiting for the driver to realize his mistake and back up.
“Ginger’s hard to figure out these days,” Zane continued. “She wants to go out with me, but sometimes she says I’m smothering her and she needs her space. She’d totally freak if I gave her jewelry. She’d think it meant I wanted to marry her or something.”
We spotted a pickup backing out of a space. Zane eased forward and put his blinker on.
“How about a new set of socket wrenches?” I asked. “Or a gallon of transmission fluid? Or a tire pressure thingy?”
“Very funny.”
We got out and he locked the car.
“I don’t know what to get Mama, either,” Zane said.
I knew what he meant, but neither of us could say it out loud. The thought that this might be our mother’s last Christmas lay unspoken between us. I couldn’t forget that Mama had refused the present I’d bought last summer for her birthday. Maybe she’d reject a Christmas present too. But we agreed that it was important to carry on as normal a Christmas as possible, and normal in the Land of Trask meant a huge tree and a ton of presents done up in shiny bows.
We entered the mall and agreed to meet two hours later at the Christmas tree near the food court. I went to Porter’s Department Store to take care of the easy people on my list. I bought gloves for Daddy and a tiny silver coffeepot for the charm bracelet Shyla had started back in high school. I figured once she became a famous lawyer, she’d like something to remind her of her barista days. For Zane I got a shirt from his favorite designer. Then I wandered around looking for the perfect present for Mama, hoping inspiration would strike. I checked out a couple of displays of silk scarves, pyramids of designer chocolates done up with gold bows, and rows of necklaces and pins nestled into velvet boxes.
Nothing seemed right until I got to the stationery department and saw a beautiful journal bound in red leather. All those blank pages just waiting to be filled made it seem like a hopeful present that someone in Mama’s situation might appreciate. Although I usually wrapped everything myself, I paid extra to have the journal wrapped by the professionals in the customer service department.
I left Porter’s and went to the bookstore across from Happy Feet. One of Nick’s favorite pro football coaches had just published a new book called Winning at Sports, Winning at Life. I figured with everything Nick was going through at home, he could benefit from some solid advice from someone he admired. I bought the book and a leather bookmark with his initial on it. On my way to meet Zane I stopped at a kiosk selling gourmet dog treats and bought a giant peanut-butter-flavored bone for Lucky.
When I got back to the Christmas tree, Zane was already there holding two shopping bags and a cup of coffee. We didn’t talk about our purchases as we headed for the car. It was a Trask family tradition to keep everything a secret until Christmas morning, when we’d gather after breakfast to exchange presents. Part of the fun was not knowing what anybody else was getting until the packages were opened.
When we got home, we squirreled away our purchases and raided the fridge.
“Phoebe?” Mama’s voice, plaintive and thin as a wisp of smoke, drifted down the stairs.
Zane stuffed the last of his sandwich into his mouth and wiped his hands on his napkin. “I’ll go if you want.”
“No, that’s okay.” I drained my glass, set it on the counter, and went upstairs.
Mama was sitting at her dressing table, trying to tie a blue scarf over her hair. All the medicines she was taking had made her hair wispy looking, and she was self-conscious about it. She’d bought several scarves, and lately she’d taken to wearing them even when we were home by ourselves. Shyla said the fact that Mama cared about her appearance was a good sign. I was glad for anything hopeful to hold on to.
“Can you help me with this?” Mama asked.
I wound the scarf around her head and knotted it in the back.
“Thank you.” She picked out a lipstick from her Bee Beautiful collection, spritzed herself with perfume, and checked her reflection in the mirror. “Did you and Zane have any luck at the mall?”
“I’m not telling. You’ll have to wait until Christmas.”
She smiled. “Daddy is bringing our tree home tonight. And Shyla called. She’ll be here the day after tomorrow in time for church.”
“Great. I can’t wait to see her.” We Trasks were not especially religious, but we always went to the midnight service on Christmas Eve at Trinity Chapel, a little church about an hour’s drive outside town. It was prettier than the huge, modern churches in Eden, which were made of brick and glass and looked more like discount tire stores or pizza restaurants than places to talk with the Almighty. At Trinity the walls were made of white marble with gold veins running through it, and there were twelve stained-glass windows depicting famous scenes from the Bible. During Christmas the altar was decorated with a life-size manger scene and tons of blazing candles that cast a soft, golden glow over the whole room. It made you feel like a better person just for being there.
Mama said, “Let’s get the decorations ready.”
We went downstairs. Zane helped me bring in the boxes of ornaments and garland from the garage. Mama lowered herself into her favorite chair.
Zane glanced at the watch Beverly had brought him from England. “Mom. Okay if I hang out at Will’s for a while?”
“As long as you’re back in time to help decorate the tree.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for all the tea in China.” He kissed her cheek and left.
I opened the boxes and took out the ornaments, a mishmash of expensive crystal snow-flakes, souvenirs from our trips, and stuff we’d made. There was a wooden apple with “I love NY” written on it, a plaster-of-paris nativity scene Zane had made in Cub Scouts, a set of miniature needlepoint stockings with our initials stitched on them.
Mama’s face glowed as she relived the story of each ornament. We laughed at the paper plate with Shyla’s first-grade picture glued in the middle, the edges soft and soiled from years of handling. “She was so proud of that,” Mama said.
I unwrapped a miniature snow globe and the spun-glass star Zane and I had broken when I was six. The sight of it still made me sad because it was one of the few things left from my mother’s childhood, and I was responsible for ruining it. When I knocked it off the tree playing chase with Zane, I was so upset I cried for an hour. Mama said it didn’t matter, and we glued it back together, but you could still see a crack where the glue had dried.
I picked up a whelk Shyla and I had turned into an ornament one summer by covering it with glitter and ribbons. Mama had written the date inside. “Those were good times,” she said. “I missed going to the beach this year.”
“Me too. It didn’t seem like summer without it.” The memories and the soft Christmas music playing on the radio brought a lump to my throat.
Mama looked up. “What’s the matter?”
“Everything was always the same, and suddenly it’s all changed and I can’t count on anything! How did our family get so messed up? Why did you have to leave and ruin everything?”
