Once Upon A Christmas Eve: A Novella (10 page)

Mom and Sam are already on their way upstairs as I return to the dining room, as I drop to hands and knees, trying not to breathe as I collect what remains of Mom’s half-digested dinner. Nose burning, gathering and tossing dirty paper towels into the plastic bag, forcing my own dinner back down, because cleaning up someone else’s vomit never gets easier. Possible to do, but never easy.

And then someone is kneeling beside me, spraying the floor, and the smell that burns my nose is chemical, now. And my eyes sting, watering. And Amanda—with her ivory pantsuit and perfect bun—squeezes that trigger again and again as I massage the stains away. Until the carpet is near-new. Until we have gone through half a roll of paper towels. Until my hands are raw and pink and smell like ammonia.

I bag the rest of the trash, climb to my feet, tie the handles into a knot, carry it to the trashcan.

The backyard is dark, empty and black, as I stand at the kitchen sink washing my hands until they sting, until steam rises between me and the window. Until I go to wipe them off with a dishrag and realize for the first time that I’m shaking—that my whole body trembles, knees spongy and weak—completely useless—that I can’t go back into that room, yet. Can’t face my dad or Jonathan or Amanda. I just need. . . .

Air.

I need fresh air.

Just a minute.

Alone.

To figure this out.

Before I. . . .

The storm door bangs shut behind me as I step onto the front porch, sucking in as much night air as my lungs can possibly stand. Breathing, gulping breath after ragged breath, pressing my wrist against my nose, forcing away tears threatening to seep from my eyes. Another breath, and another, until there is a hand on the small of my back and Jonathan is behind me. Until he pulls me into him and I let him—falling into him, even. Letting him wrap his arms around me. Hold me tightly.

Because it’s hard watching someone you love die, even if we’re all terminal in this world.

“She’s not going to get better,” I whisper into his chest.

“Olivia,” he begins.

“No. You don’t understand.” I pull away from him. “Even if her report is good in January, it’ll come back. It
always
comes back. You think you’ve killed it for a while, but it’s really just hiding. Getting stronger. Spreading quietly. Someplace new and inoperable. And by then it’s too late. And you can say what everyone else says. Pray. Have faith. Hope. Fight. But it’s not enough, and you and I both know it. I
want
to believe in magic and miracles, but I
can’t
. I can’t have hope because hope is pain. If I let myself go there, I am only setting myself up for disappointment. I will feel the failure when everything I want to happen doesn’t. And I
refuse
to let that happen.”

“There is no failure in having faith and hope and believing in miracles, Olivia, because miracles happen every day,” he says. “Why did we have Christmas at my aunt and uncle’s this year? We’ve
never
done that before. Why would I wait to buy my last present? Why would I come to the store where you were working? How were you even open, since it was closing time and Christmas Eve?
That’s
beating the odds. And it happens all the time. This—you and I—where we are right now—is its own tiny miracle. And that’s worth believing in.”

“I’m scared,” I admit. “I’m so scared I’m going to wake up one morning and she’s not going to be here. I’m scared that this is the last Christmas we will ever have together. I’m scared that she will never see me graduate college. That she won’t be there the day I get married. I’m scared that she will never know her grandkids.” My lungs strain, demanding more air as surroundings continue to blur, the entire world melting around me. “I have no plans for my life, Jonathan. I have no plans for my future because I don’t
want
to imagine a future because that means imagining a life without my mom in it. I’m scared my sister’s next. And then it’ll come for
me
, and I’m not as strong as they are.”

“You are,” he assures me. “You might not see it, but I do. When you stood up to Derrick. Back in that dining room. And I know that what happened tonight is nothing compared to what you’ve been through this last year. And stepping up like you have—everything you and your sister have done for your mom? You
are
strong, Olivia. You’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever known, and I won’t
ever
let you think that you’re not.”

I wipe my nose against my sleeve, nod my head, hug my chest, feeling the cold seeping through my veins, wishing I’d thought enough to grab my coat on the way out the door. “I am so sorry for this whole night,” I say. “I know this isn’t what you expected.”

“I had no expectations except that I met a girl I wanted to spend more time with. And you have to understand—what happened in that store tonight? It’s not like me at all. I’m not the kind of guy who goes around asking girls he hardly knows to Christmas dinner. But I knew if I didn’t ask I would regret it forever. And I was right. Because these last few hours—getting to know you—have been some of the best of my life so far. So don’t you dare apologize.”

“I just . . . I feel so
helpless
sometimes,” I admit.

He exhales a quiet sigh. “Look, as much as I would love to spin beautiful truths and promise Christmas miracles for your mom, I can’t. I don’t pretend to know what the future holds for you and your family,” he says. “I don’t know what to say that could make this better, because there are no words. But you’re wrong if you think you have to go through this alone. You don’t. And that’s a promise I
can
make—if you’ll let me.”

I swipe my thumbs beneath my eyes, smearing mascara.

“So maybe . . . we focus on tonight—spending time with your family,” he suggests.

“Be present,” I add, to use Mom’s favorite new mantra.

Just in case.

I take a deep breath, lungs shuddering. Jonathan opens the door and I step inside the foyer, where Dad is slipping his coat on.

“You okay, Livy?” he asks. I have never worn grief well. Red eyes and nose, flushed cheeks. It’s all there, I’m sure. But I nod, anyway.

“Your mom invited us to stay in the guest bedroom. We booked a hotel, but if she’s not feeling well. . . .” He hesitates. “We’re going to stay the night with you girls, if that’s okay.”

As much as the thought sickens me—my Dad and his girlfriend sleeping together in our spare bedroom—I’m in no frame of mind to stage a protest. “It’s fine.”

“I’m going to go pick up our things. It’ll take about an hour or so. Can the two of you stay close to the house until I get back?”

“Yes, sir,” Jonathan answers for us.

Amanda is clearing the table when I return to the dining room. “Hey. I was just going to wrap up some of these dishes,” she says, speaking quickly, seeming grateful to have something to do. “There’s enough for leftovers. Your mom prepared so much.”

“She’s good at that,” I reply.

Preparing, I mean to say. And part of me wonders if she didn’t plan this all along.

Because cancer has this funny way of numbering each and every day. And part of me thinks Mom wasn’t so crazy inviting Dad and his girlfriend to spend the holiday with us. As if this was her way of acknowledging a transition. Forgiving Dad. Forgiving Amanda. Showing Sam and me what it’s like to let bitterness and resentment go. Showing us what it means to be a family.

Maybe even without her, one day.

Preparing.

Just in case.

I swallow back the lump jamming my throat. “I’ll get the tin foil.”

We spend the next half hour cleaning the kitchen. Amanda washes dishes. Jonathan dries. I put everything back where it belongs. Just as we’re finishing up, wiping down counters and sweeping the floor, Sam enters, announces Mom is finally sleeping.

“Is she okay?” I ask.

Sam nods. “She didn’t get sick again. And she was starting to look better. So maybe it
was
the meat. I don’t know.”

We stand frozen in the kitchen, staring at each other while Mom sleeps, while Dad is away. It’s too early for bed, and I don’t want Jonathan to leave, even though whatever is happening at his aunt’s has to be better than this.

It doesn’t even feel like Christmas anymore.

“Do you like hot chocolate?” Amanda asks, the first to break the stony silence. “Your dad won’t be back for a while and I’m not sure what you usually do on Christmas Eve, but if you have some cocoa powder and sugar and milk, I know my grandma’s recipe.”

I steal a glance at Sam. “There’s cheesecake in the fridge,” I add.

“Okay,” Sam agrees. “We’ll do dessert.”

Amanda tries to smile. “Okay. Great! You guys go relax. It won’t take long.” I show her to the baking cabinet, pull the pie box out of the fridge, leave it on the counter for her, then head to the living room.

The soft glow of Christmas permeates the space, twinkling lights reflecting off windows and walls and mirrors, glitter from ribbons and bows sparkling. Sam searches for a holiday station on her phone, and soon the gentle strains of Kenny G carry across the room. I slide my boots off and curl up on the couch next to Jonathan, tucking my legs beneath me.

“Favorite holiday dessert?” I ask him.

“Sugar cookies. You?”

“Oreo truffles, I think. It’s the only time of year Mom makes them.”

“What are those?”

“You’ve never had Oreo truffles before?” I ask, disbelieving.

“I don’t think so.”

“God, they’re delicious,” Sam says. “It’s pretty much Oreos and cream cheese covered in white chocolate.”

“Like crack,” I confirm. “Remind me to let you try one before you leave.”

I hate the word—hate that I said it as soon as it passes my lips.
Leave
. A reminder that he will be gone soon.

Gone from my house.

Gone from my life?

It’s not something I want to think about—anything I want to happen. He’s not something I ever expected, and now I have to say goodbye?

“Buddy the Elf or Elf on a Shelf?” he asks, interrupting these thoughts.

“No contest,” I reply. “Buddy.”

Jonathan laughs, agrees.

“Okay. I’ve been watching the two of you the whole night,” Sam confesses. “And I feel like I missed something big. What’s the story?”

“What do you mean, ‘story’?” I ask. “There is no story.”

“I mean, how do you know each other? How did you meet? There’s a story here, somewhere, and I’m not getting it,” she says.

“Jonathan came into the store as I was getting ready to close for the night. He’d procrastinated. Had one more gift to buy.”

“I don’t see it as procrastination, really. I like to think of it as fate. The universe at work,” he says.

“He’s pretty big on going with his gut feeling,” I explain.

“And when I saw Olivia, my gut demanded that I ask her to Christmas dinner. So we came to an agreement—an arrangement, if you will. She would go to my family dinner, and I would go to hers.”

“So you guys
just
met?” she asks, incredulous.

“Of course not. We’ve known each other like, four hours,” I say.

“Best first date
I’ve
ever had,” Jonathan says, glancing at me. “I can’t speak for her.”

“Wow,” Sam says. “Just . . .
wow
.”

Amanda enters with the first plate of cheesecake and a mug of hot chocolate, hands it to me. Jonathan gets his next, then Sam. I wait, blowing steam from the surface until the liquid cools. The room is quiet, save for the music—still and calm. Peaceful. And I try to commit this to memory—because these are the moments that matter.

They are all we have.

Beneath the tree sits a pile of presents. From Mom, mostly, but also a new stack off to the side—gifts from Dad. And I wonder what could be in them—if Amanda had any part in selecting or wrapping or if she let my father handle it all because he knows us best.

Knew
us best.

As I take a sip of hot chocolate, I hope to God he remembered Mom. Mom, who invited him back into her home even after everything he put her through.

I wonder if Mom remembered our pajamas this year, remember how Sam and I always rolled our eyes at her. Realize I would give anything to have her downstairs with us now, passing out gifts. Realize I love how, in our mother’s eyes, my sister and I will never be too old for flannel pants and fuzzy socks.

“No Christmas Eve presents,” I tell Sam. “We’ll wait until tomorrow—until Mom feels better.”

Sam agrees, compliments Amanda on the hot chocolate, and together we watch the last half of
A Christmas Story
on television, Dad returning with overnight bags just before the movie ends.

“I guess we should go get my car,” I tell Jonathan. He stands—reluctantly, I want to think, but I can’t be certain—takes my plate and empty mug and carries it to the kitchen for me. I grab our coats from the chair.