Once Upon A Christmas Eve: A Novella (3 page)

“This is Mansfield.
No one
lives far from here.”

He laughs as the wind picks up, rustling the leaves collected at gutters, the road uneven beneath our feet. “What’s it like? The whole ‘small town’ thing.”

“It’s nice, sometimes. There’s a lot of familiarity. Routine. Everyone knows everyone. The blessing is kind of the curse, though. There are
no
secrets in this town.”

This is especially true of my family’s situation. When Dad ditched Mom for a woman he met in Hamilton, it’s like the ground was ripped out from beneath us. It left us reeling, stumbling, grasping for footing because everything—the only thing we’d ever known—was gone. Waking up was hard. Leaving the house was hard. For months, everything was hard.

Every apologetic look, every sad smile, every whisper seemed to be about us. Then Ralph Thornton, one of the former mayors, passed away. I have never been more thankful for a funeral—it was all anyone could talk about, and, as horrible as this seems, a relief not to be the center of attention, anymore. Then cancer came to call. And if my dad leaving was like losing our floor, Mom razed the house to shambles.

“What’s it like living in the city?” I ask.

“Has its pros. Anonymity, for one. But I think there’s something to be said for the ‘tribe’ mentality. The slower pace. Walking into a restaurant and the waitress not only knowing your name but what you’re going to order. The peace and quiet.”

“Have you been here before?” I ask, thoughts immediately flying to Carol over at The Grille—with its blue and white checked tablecloths and paneled walls—who always puts in a plate of cheese fries whenever my best friend and I drop in for a weekend lunch.

“A few times, but always during the summer. Usually around Fourth of July. And only for a day or so. This is my first Christmas here, at any rate. My grandparents are getting older, so my aunts are starting to alternate years, taking the hosting responsibilities off of them.”

We arrive at a portion of the neighborhood that’s unusually crowded, road lined on either side with luxury cars. Just in front of us an old, white Victorian stands proudly. Every window glowing yellow, spotlights from the yard showcasing what seems like miles of greenery wrapped from one porch railing to another. Burgundy bows punctuating every center post. The front door is wide open, the storm door clouding a bit at the bottom.

“Is this you?” I ask.

He groans, gazes at the house looming before us. “Let me take this opportunity to thank you.” Any confidence exuded at the store—minus the “asking me to dinner” part of the evening—is gone, replaced by a new, more subdued, almost melancholy Jonathan.

“You don’t wear pessimism well,” I point out, stepping out of the street and onto the stone walkway.

“Tell me about it.”

We climb the steps to the wrap-around porch together, and Jonathan opens the door for me. I am first to step inside the warm house.

“Are we expecting anyone else?” A woman hurries into the foyer, apron tied in a knot at her waist. Blonde hair graying at the ears and hairline, like she’s due for a coloring.

“Aunt Stacey, this is . . .”

“Olivia! It is
so
good to see you!” She interrupts Jonathan, pulls me in for a tight hug.

This is also a distinctly small-town Southern woman thing—hugging—something that arrives mid-life, deepening as the years pass—this want, this
need
to love as much as possible—everyone morphing into “Sugar” and “Honey.”

“Hi, Mrs. Andrews. It’s good to see you, too. Jonathan invited me to tag along. I hope that’s okay.”

“Absolutely! We are
thrilled
to have you. Here, let me take your coat.” She helps me out of my black peacoat and takes Jonathan’s leather jacket, hangs them both in the closet just off the side of the foyer—a closet already crammed full of coats from those who arrived before us.

“And we have presents,” Jonathan adds, handing her the wrapped packages.

“Thank you
so
much. I’ll put them under the tree. Drinks are in the kitchen. Bathroom is on the right at the end of the foyer. If you need anything, just holler, okay?”

Jonathan watches me carefully as she departs, confused or enlightened—it’s hard to tell.

My shoulders lift, shrugging. “Small town,” I remind him.

“It just dawned on me that you probably know my aunt better than I do,” he says.

“You really think I’d go to some random guy’s house for Christmas Eve dinner?”

“Weirder things have happened.”

“In movies, maybe. Horror movies,” I add.

He laughs. “I’m beginning to think I’ve underestimated you.”

“Kitchen is this way,” I say, passing him a knowing smile. He follows me into the room, which has been renovated since the last time I was here. The lighting is new. The floors a dark hardwood. Cabinets covered in a fresh coat of light gray paint. The counters might also be new, but right now they’re covered in pots and bowls and plates of food—a spread stringing from one end of the room to the other. I inhale deeply—honey baked ham, sweet potato casserole, an assortment of pies cooling on racks on an island in the middle of it all.

“Is the rumor true? Did Johnny Baby bring a
girl
to Christmas dinner?” Her voice carries from the other doorway. Blonde hair, blue eyes, mid-thirties, wearing jeans and a tight white sweater, scarf tossed casually around her neck.
Not
from Mansfield.

“Good news travels fast,” I say.

Jonathan groans, leans closer to me. “She has called me that since I was two years old. It should’ve died by the time I hit grade school,” he mutters.

I nod, pretending to listen. To sympathize. Pretending like I’m not inhaling the smell of his cologne, body spray, whatever it is. Pretending it has no effect on me at all, like I’m not committing it to memory, like my knees didn’t just weaken.

“Olivia, my cousin, Leslie. Leslie, Olivia,” he continues, introducing us.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, forcing a smile.

“You, too. I
love
your boots.” I glance down at my black riding boots with their silver buckles and thick heels—a Christmas present from last year. I take the compliment from this girl dripping in jewelry, this girl who is clearly in love with her initials—every piece monogrammed, swirling and beautiful, if not illegible. And at this I remember what Jonathan said about the importance of career initials behind the names of his family members. I wonder if any of those initials belong to her, or if she’s counterbalancing in more decorative ways.

“Thank you.”

“We should get something to drink. What can I get you?” Jonathan asks, a reasonable excuse to take us away from his cousin and any other pet names she might be hiding from me. A bundle of pitchers crowds the counter next to the refrigerator: sweet tea, unsweetened tea, water.

“Sweet tea,” I reply.

As Jonathan pours, his aunt Stacey bustles in, sans presents, stops at the oven to check the timer. “The rolls are almost ready. Once those are out we can eat. Olivia? How’s your mom, sweetie?” She opens the drawer beside the oven, removes a matching pair of mitts and a new cooling pad, dropping it on one of the last available counter spaces.

Jonathan hands me a red plastic cup full of ice and tea. “She’s doing okay. We have one more appointment in Hamilton mid-January. If we get good news, she won’t have to go back for six months.” I take a quick sip. The tea is sweeter than how we make it at home. Unexpected. Not bad—just different.

“That is
wonderful
to hear. We’re still praying for her. She’s on the church list, you know.” I thank her. I spend a lot of my time thanking people, actually. Because being grateful? It’s one of the few things I
can
do—the one thing I have complete control over. Because I’ve learned when someone you love is diagnosed with cancer, people
will
help—they’ll help in whatever ways you let them. For us, that meant magnets and decals, bake sales and barbecue fundraisers. Church prayer lists. Everyone with his or her own gift, each wanting to do their part, even if it’s only using their connection to God, intervening on our behalf.

My eyes scan the refrigerator—invitations, photographs, phone numbers posted—finally stumbling across what I’m looking for. I carefully remove the pink and white magnet.

Hope for Kathleen
.

“That’s my mom,” I say, showing Jonathan, who’s been watching and listening to this entire exchange with what might be a surreal amount of curiosity.

His fingers brush mine as he takes it from me, examines it. “I saw this in the store.”

“Someone had them made last year. I think there’s one on every fridge in town.”

And for a moment I wonder what it’s like to have someone remember you right before they go to grab a beer, or the mustard, or a leftover slice of pizza. If the thought eventually becomes part of the landscape, familiar, something that isn’t even worth noticing anymore.

The proceeds of the magnets and dinners and cake walks went to help pay for medical expenses. Thankfully, insurance covered the majority of the treatments. It’s expensive, trying to save someone’s life.

Now that she’s finished with chemo and radiation and surgery, now that her hair is trying to grow back in—a tiny patchwork of baby fuzz speckling her white scalp, now that she’s not tired all day, or puking in the trashcan by her bed all night, she’s thinking about returning to work. Searching for “normal.” Whatever that means.

“How is she?” Jonathan asks.

“Cancer-free, we’re hoping. We find out for sure in January.” I take the magnet from him, replace it on the refrigerator beside a pair of coupons for a “buy one get one free” bag of apples. “That’s why I make lists,” I confess, voice lowering, though no one seems to be paying attention to the two of us. “Because when my mom was diagnosed, there was
so much
to remember. Things the doctor said, what we were supposed to do, what we couldn’t do. There were medications and diet changes, and there was no way I could keep up with it all, and Mom was too sick to do anything. If it needed to be done, it had to go on a list. Overlooking or mishandling something. . . .” I leave this thought unfinished, not wanting to think about what could’ve happened. “My sister and I had to do everything right. So we had lists—checklist after checklist. We lived by them. Seriously.”

The weight of his stare crowds the space between us, almost suffocating as he takes this all in, tries to make sense of something that can’t possibly be understood. My eyes refuse to meet his because I fear what I might see there, what I see in everyone when they learn our secrets. Sadness. Sympathy. Pity. And I try not to imagine what this evening could have been like had he not learned this about me. If I wasn’t “Olivia, the girl whose mom has cancer” everywhere I go.

Maybe we could’ve had a real chance.

“I feel wretched for making fun of you now.”

“Well, you know, they’re pretty useful, even when your mom doesn’t have cancer,” I point out.

“Rolls are done,” Mrs. Andrews sings. I am thankful for this interruption, the blast of heat that fills the room as she opens the oven, forcing us to step back. “Leslie,” she continues, “why don’t you get everyone together. We’ll go assembly-line style through the kitchen, then people can eat wherever.”

“Best news I’ve heard all day,” Jonathan says to me. “We’ll stay away from the big table. Find our own space. Just the two of us.”

I consider the idea of a “big table.” Like, the main table as opposed to smaller, less important ones. There has ever only been one table at our family gatherings, even when my grandparents are in attendance. Dad is an only child and Mom’s sister is single, lives across the country. They spend most of their time on the telephone, or video chatting on the computer. It’s hard to imagine what it would be like to be part of a big family—lots of aunts and uncles and cousins. As much as Jonathan was dreading this night, the house seems so full and alive. My Christmas Eve dinner will be dull in comparison.

“What can I help you with Stacey?” an older woman asks, entering the room behind us.

Mrs. Andrews moves the rolls from pan to bread basket. “Can you make sure each dish has a spoon or fork? I figured buffet was best. Let everyone get what they want.”

“Hi. Are we related?” the older woman asks, turning to me as she passes, noticing me for the first time. I guess in a family this big, it’s easy to forget who belongs to who.

Whom
. My mother’s voice corrects me in my head.

I swallow back a smile at this woman stopped in front of me, so small and frail I feel guilty for towering over her like I do. For wearing these boots. “No, ma’am. I’m Olivia Hall, Jonathan’s friend.”

She looks at Jonathan, as if to confirm, then back at me. “Jonathan’s friend?” she repeats. “You are gorgeous.”

My cheeks burn at the compliment, at her frankness.

“I know. How did I manage that, right?” he says, cutting to a joke before there is one.

The woman reaches for his cheek, pats it gently with her tiny, wrinkled hand. “I know how you managed. Those eyes. That smile. Your even temper. What did I tell you after that girl broke your heart? One day, you will find someone who appreciates your sweet nature.” Then, turning to me: “I’m Grandma, by the way.”