Once Upon A Christmas Eve: A Novella (9 page)

I stifle a laugh. “Yeah, well, they’re not,” I reply, biting back the “and you are partly to blame for this” perched on the tip of my tongue. It
is
Christmas Eve, after all.

When I return to the kitchen, Jonathan is leaning casually against the counter, glass in hand, cheeks still red with cold, Mom and Amanda laughing at something he’s saying about one of his professors.

He smiles when he sees me, reaches around him, hands me a glass of sweet tea.

“Thank you,” I say, easing next to him, taking a sip.

“Now, Olivia is the complete opposite. She
loves
making lists.”

My mom nods, agreeing. “She does. They’re
everywhere
.”

“That’s good, though,” Amanda says. “That way the two of you balance each other out. Like yin and yang.”

“Oh. No,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “We don’t balance. . . . It’s not like that. Between us, I mean.”

“Just friends,” Jonathan confirms. “And the yin-yang thing would imply that I hold
some
kind of list-making capabilities, and I’m pretty sure that’s not the case.”

“You might if you tried,” I point out.

His grin deepens. “I’m always open to conversion. If, you know, you’re up for the task.”

A shiver of awareness skitters up my spine at the words, at the way he says this, a tingling my mother must feel from feet away, because she steals a look at us out of the corner of her eye. Sam is less discrete—watching us, intrigued, from across the room.

The last thing I need is a game of twenty questions at dinner, or my sister demanding details where there are none, so I distance myself from Jonathan, ask my mom if there’s anything else I can do.

“If you guys want to take the food and set it on the table, we’ll start eating in just a minute.”

Everyone grabs a bowl or platter—a main course, a side, a basket of wheat rolls. Dad shuts off his phone as we file into the dining room, stands, takes the casserole dish from Amanda. We each find a seat—Amanda beside my dad, Jonathan beside me. There are two places left—only one at the other head of the table.
Someone
has to sit beside her. My sister tosses me a withering look. I shrug, apologetic. And I can almost hear the groan of disappointment as she pulls out the chair beside my dad’s girlfriend, because we both know she would never make Mom sit beside her. 

“Do we have everything?” Mom asks, scanning the table.

“It looks wonderful, Kathleen,” Dad says.

“Thank you. I did make a roast for our non-vegetarian guests,” she announces.

“That’s everyone but
you
,” Sam reminds her.

Our laughter comes from the kindest, most appreciative possible place. Even Mom finds the humor in this. And for a second it’s as if nothing has changed. We are still a family—just a bit more expanded than we were this time last year. And mom is cancer-free. And this is the first of what will be many more Christmases together. I pass Jonathan a grateful glance—Jonathan, eyes alight with amusement. 

“We should say a blessing,” Mom says, a smile relaxing her face.

At the other end of the table Dad opens his mouth to protest, suddenly not interested in blessing things anymore—ready to remind us that this was always Mom’s thing. A special event thing.

“I’ll do it,” she says quickly, saving him.

She holds her hands out. Jonathan takes one, reaches for mine with the other. I take Dad’s, who holds Amanda. Sam connects Amanda and my mother. And here we are, a circle. Connected. Bound to each other, if only for this brief moment in time.

“Thank you for this beautiful Christmas Eve,” my mom begins, eyes closed, peaceful. “For old friends and new friends and family—loved ones to share it with. May we carry our love and gratitude into the new year.”

It can’t be my imagination that Jonathan squeezes my hand tighter at the words, that he mumbles an “Amen” to echo my mother’s.

“You don’t eat meat,” I remind Mom as dishes pass from person to person, as she cuts off a sliver of roast.

“I know. It’s been so long, though. Just a tiny,
tiny
taste,” she says.

“Roger, Jonathan is from Hamilton. He’s a sophomore at Northwestern,” Amanda says.

“Really? I’ve been trying to get Sam and Livy to consider Northwestern.”

“Yeah, it’s a great school,” Jonathan says. “I love it there.”

“Are you in the dorms?” Dad asks.

“Apartments, actually. Four of us share a suite.”

“Didn’t know they did that these days.”

“My dad went to Northwestern,” I explain.

“Oh. Cool. Go Huskies,” Jonathan says.

Dad nods. “I think if the girls would spend a weekend with us, visit the campus, they would love it.”

“If that ever happens, I’d be happy to show you around,” Jonathan offers. Both he and Dad look at me, expectant. Sam frowns across the table.

I clear my throat, spear a bite of potatoes with my fork, continue eating. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“We’ll be in Hamilton on the fifteenth,” Mom reminds us. “I have an appointment that afternoon, but maybe we can all meet for dinner.”

Amanda looks at my Dad, and I know what she’s thinking—I can almost read her thoughts as if they’re my own, because they
are
my own. We agreed on Christmas dinner. A one-time event. This—these little get togethers—should not become tradition. The norm.

“Trent Andrews says ‘hey,’” I tell my sister, effectively changing the subject.

“He’s still at Lawrence, right?” she asks, playing along.

“Said he’s on the five-year plan.”

“I’d consider sending you over there to see how he’s doing,” Mom begins, “but I remember him being something of a player.”

Sam coughs quietly at the allusion. Amanda reaches for her glass of wine. And not that Mom did it on purpose, but we
are
having dinner with the biggest player we know.

“That’s Jonathan’s cousin,” I remind her.

“We’re not that close,” Jonathan assures us.

“I taught Trent in high school,” Mom explains. “Four years with a group of kids and you feel like you know them.”

“Do you miss teaching?” Jonathan asks.

“Some days, yes. I do. But it doesn’t come without challenges. Like anything in life, I guess. The greater the risk, the bigger the reward.”

“Jonathan is an English major,” I tell Mom.

Her face brightens, if only for a second. “Oh! We’re in fantastic company, then. Kindred spirits.”

“You’re still taking classes at the community college, right Sam?”

I fight the urge to cringe at the way my sister’s nickname rolls off Amanda’s tongue, part of me hoping Sam corrects her.

“Yeah. Mostly college transfer, but I did take some early childhood education courses, so I could at least get a job if I didn’t want to go four years.” The “couldn’t” go four years, though unsaid, hangs suspended between us. Because she knows as well as I—we’re not leaving Mom alone if she isn’t well.

“How about you, Olivia?” Amanda asks. “What do you plan to study?”

I am thankful she doesn’t call me Livy. “I, um . . . I don’t know, actually,” I say, spine stiffening, sitting taller in my chair, pushing what’s left of my roast in circles around my plate. “There are so many choices. I guess I won’t know until I take some classes.”

“First two years are general education, anyway,” Jonathan says. “That, and electives. No pressure. None of us really had a clue what we wanted to do as freshmen. My entire apartment changed majors. One guy has declared twice already, and this one could go either way.”

“What were you planning to major in?” Sam asks.

I pass Jonathan a smile, knowing what he is going to say before he says it. “Business. But then I took a freshman seminar with a professor named Demko,” he continues. “Guy is brilliant. Polish immigrant. Parents survived the Holocaust. It’s a miracle he’s even here. Anyway, he tells the most
amazing
stories. And I guess I became fascinated with the oral tradition and the idea that we share the stories that are most meaningful to us to help others. Kind of like what Lamott says about being part of the solution—trying to understand life then passing it on. Anyway, I guess I realized I loved reading and writing more than crunching numbers and filling out spreadsheets. Not that there’s anything wrong with those things,” he quickly clarifies in the event he has offended someone at the table. “In the end, it just wasn’t for me.”

I think of our lives as stories—beginnings, middles, ends—though it’s impossible at any given moment to know at which point of the path we are on in our journeys. I think of unfinished chapters. Plot lines still unfolding. Characters just recently introduced. Happy times and hard times. Of all the things we share with each other, then share with others—helping them to understand. I think about how our stories define us—make us who we are. 

“O’Henry. ‘The Gift of the Magi,’” I tell Jonathan, voice low, as the conversation shifts to the weather, because, according to Amanda, they’re predicting an unusual amount of cold and snow for us this year.

“What?” he asks.

“My favorite Christmas story,” I explain. “‘The Gift of the Magi.’ A young couple sacrifices their two greatest possessions because they love each other more than earthly things. What’s yours?”

He thinks for a moment. “
The Polar Express
,” he says, naming the children’s book.

“Can you still hear the bell?” I ask.

“I believe in
all
things magical,” he reminds me.

“Yeah. Dumb question, I guess,” I say, sufficiently chastised.

“My new goal in life is to make
you
believe,” he says, voice soft, just above a whisper.

“I
want
to,” I admit.

And it’s true. More than
anything
I want to believe. I want to be one of those people who has faith and confidence and assurance that everything will work out—that everything will be okay. That there is a higher purpose. That, if I can just listen to my gut feeling—my instincts—it will always point me in the right direction.

I look at Mom, sitting quietly, poking at a potato, plate still full of food, barely touched. “Mom? Are you okay?” I ask.

She nods. But her eyes refuse mine. She’s not okay. I can tell. I know this look, have seen it a hundred times before. There is no color in her cheeks. A frown replaces the smile from earlier. And that head scarf no longer suggests gypsy wanderer but cancer patient. I think that she’s tired, maybe. Overwhelmed. And I hate myself for not coming home on time, for not being here to help her put this meal together.

She feels her forehead, sets her elbow on the table, closes her eyes.

“Maybe you should go lay down for a while,” I suggest.

“Lie down,” she corrects, lips twisting into what could amount to a grin. She nods, agreeing, grips the table to help her stand, but the movements prove too much, and I watch in horror as she turns from pale to pale green. As she coughs, first, then chokes—covers her mouth with the sleeve of her red sweater. As she crumples to the ground, retching, heaving, vomiting Christmas dinner on her arm and floor.

In a second I am on my feet, flashbacks poisoning my mind—telling the story of the past year. Appointments and medications and lists and hurrying fresh trashcans to the bedside, rubbing her back as she is sick over toilets, washing soiled clothes just after chemotherapy treatments—the entire world smelling oddly radioactive. 

I stumble over the leg of my chair trying to reach her, heart hammering its way out of my chest, blood rushing to my ears. And Sam is already there, kneeling beside her. “Should we call a doctor?” she asks.

Mom waves her hand. “Absolutely not. No, I’m fine. It was probably the meat.” As hard as she tries to laugh this off, a tear drips down her face, and suddenly I am both sad and humiliated for her at the same time, tears springing to my own eyes.

Our three dinner guests, paralyzed by this unexpected turn of events, seem unsure whether to assist or ignore—can’t decide if we need help or the privacy to deal with this on our own.

Because beating cancer is like a road to hell and back—a battle, everyone calls it, but more like a war. A war where you can assemble the strongest possible army and follow the best and most appropriate strategy—you can do everything right and still lose. And sometimes it’s just the little things lost. The small setbacks. Every day, you lose something.

“We’ll take care of it, Mama,” I promise, lifting my tone, hoping to convey that everything’s fine—there is nothing for her to worry about. “Go rest.”

Sam helps Mom to her feet. And suddenly she is twenty pounds lighter and twenty years older. Too skinny for her frame. Lips chapped and white. Sweater ruined. The night she planned falling to pieces around us. Because cancer does not take holidays off.

I hurry to the kitchen, yank open the cabinet doors beneath the sink, where she keeps a stash of plastic grocery bags, some cleaning supplies, and the spare rolls of paper towels. The floor gives a little at my weight—a soft spot we try to avoid.