I decided to replicate the Christmas Eves from my childhood. We’d attend mass at the church across the street, where we’d donate toys that would later be delivered to families in need; sing carols up the block; eat a nice dinner (though not a Ukrainian one), and I’d give an enthusiastic reading of “ ’Twas the Night Before Christmas.” Though this and other holidays had become increasingly depressing, I still felt there was magic in it and hoped I could harness some.
When I arrived the afternoon of Christmas Eve, the house was chilly and there was little to indicate that it was Christmas. I shouted for my mother, but she didn’t respond, though I could hear the TV blaring in her room. I turned up the heat, then looked at the stack of unopened cards on the table. I shouldn’t have been surprised by the lack of holiday cheer, but I was. My mother hadn’t had a tree for more than a decade or done more than put Santa Claus candleholders on the mantel. I berated myself for not calling her aides and asking them to decorate. “Of course, you could have come a few days ago and bought a small tree,” I thought, “but you didn’t.” I didn’t want to spend more time with her than I had to. As I assessed the situation, I realized that the only planning I’d done was to buy teddy bears for us to leave at the church. I’d told myself that I wanted, and would, give my mother a nice Christmas, while worrying that she’d sleep through the whole thing and I’d be stuck sitting on the couch and reading the same old magazines that I’d read before, annoyed at both of us for thinking it could have been different.
“Anya!” my mother exclaimed when I finally peeked into her bedroom. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
Her hair was frizzy and unwashed, her skin waxy and loose. Slabs of atrophied muscle weighed down her once-small frame. The air was saturated with her smells, a half-eaten pizza was on the floor, and crunchy-looking tissues were scattered across her bed. But none of that mattered. Her words were clear, her eyes steady. She was sober. I was so surprised that I laughed and kissed her. “Merry Christmas, Mom!”
She grinned. “Merry Christmas, child.”
I suggested that we go downstairs. “Do you need help?”
“Nope! I’ll get there like I always do.” She shuffled out of her room and slowly squatted next to the banister, then looked up at me reassuringly. “It’s the safest way.” She scooted on her butt until she reached the bottom step.
We moved toward the couch, where she told me how happy she was that I was there. I was disarmed but elated. I showed her the toys I’d brought for the church service and asked what she wanted for dinner. “Let’s have something delicious. We deserve a good meal.”
She frowned and shook her head. “I don’t want you spending money. I’ll finish the pizza I got yesterday.”
“But it’s Christmas!” I cried. “We should eat something special.”
“Are you planning on cooking? I’m not.”
I patted her hand. “Don’t worry, I still don’t cook, and I promise I didn’t bring borscht. I’ll run out right now and pick up something prepared.”
“Nora went shopping a few days ago,” she protested. “She stocked the freezer with Lean Cuisines and burritos.”
I told her we weren’t eating burritos. I went to the neighborhood’s fanciest grocery store, where I bought close to a hundred dollars of premade London broil and roasted vegetables so she’d have plenty of leftovers.
She was still on the couch when I returned, staring out at the street, but her mind had wandered off. Her enthusiasm had been replaced by something heavy. I scrambled to reignite what little excitement had been there when I left. I gushed about the food I’d purchased, but she just nodded. Knowing how easily I could lose her, I grabbed the stack of unopened cards and set them in her lap. “Look at this huge pile! Why don’t you open a few? We can find out what everyone’s been up to this year.”
She picked up a red envelope, then put it down and looked at the floor. The rug, which had been there for most of my life, was worn thin and dotted with dust bunnies.
I went over to the stereo. “I’d love to hear some carols. Maybe I can find that tape you loved, the New Agey one with all the bells? What was it called?”
“Oh, I don’t remember,” she said.
“Well there’s gotta be something on the radio. I’d love to hear the Nutcracker. I’m so sick of the cheesy carols I’ve been hearing in stores, aren’t you?” I immediately regretted what I’d said. The only stores she’d have been in were the liquor shop and drugstore down the block, and she probably hadn’t even been to those since her aides ran her errands now.
I pressed the stereo’s On button and fiddled with the tuner, but nothing happened.
“Don’t bother,” she told me. “That hasn’t worked in years.”
I asked if she wanted to sing and launched into “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” I stopped when she groaned, then bombarded her with stories about my life, teaching, and Marko, knowing there wasn’t any point in asking for hers. My sentences landed on top of each other as my voice pitched higher and higher. I was doing exactly what she’d always done: pretending the situation was different than it was, fighting reality by offering a version of it that I preferred. But nothing I said pulled her into a conversation; she was refusing to play “Happy Christmas” with me, just as I’d often refused to play along with her.
“Remember how we used to watch I Love Lucy? And Cheers? Which one did you like more?”
“What?” she blinked.
I glanced at my phone. “Mass starts in an hour. Do you need help getting ready?”
She clutched her arms and shivered. “It’s so cold out.”
“I know, but we’re only going across the street, and you have lots of warm coats. Did Nora help you find something to wear? It looked like something was hanging off your closet door.”
“I’m really tired,” she said. “You’re not tired from your drive?”
“Not at all. If you want, I can grab your clothes and makeup and help you get ready down here.”
She repeated that she was tired, said she didn’t have anything to wear and that it had rained the day before and the sidewalk was probably slippery. “That can be really dangerous for me. My balance has gotten so bad.”
“I’ll make sure you don’t fall.”
Her face was tense. She was quiet for a bit, then said that she didn’t want to go.
“What happened?” I asked. “Don’t you want to sing carols and give away these teddy bears? Maybe we’ll see some neighbors.” When she grimaced, I saw I’d said the wrong thing again. There were plenty of reasons that she might not want to see people.
I changed tack. “I’d really like to go,” I said. “This service is really special to me.”
“Then go.” She patted my knee. “I’ll just stay home.”
“What if we took a cab to that Unitarian church you like? Their services are always lovely.”
She was looking out the window again. There was no one on the street, nothing to see.
“Okay, let’s skip church and get right to eating. I’ll clear off the table and light some candles.” I looked at the table and saw that clearing it would take a while. I thought again about how unprepared I was for what was supposed to be a special evening. Maybe I was the reason she was disappointed. She was actually sober, and I’d already emptied my bag of tricks.
“I told you,” she said, and sighed, “the sidewalks are going to be slippery. I can’t make it up the hill.” She looked at her hands and rubbed her palm with her thumb.
“Well, let’s think of something else. Maybe I could rent a movie, or—”
Suddenly, a conspiratorial smile spread across her face. A switch had been flipped. “You know what would be fun? A drink. We’ll go somewhere fancy, like the Ritz!”
I glared at her. “You know I don’t drink with you.”
“But we never get t
o spend time together! I want to celebrate.”
I pointed out that we were already spending time together. “We’re having fun,” I said, even though we weren’t. “I know I can’t stop you from drinking when I’m not here, but I don’t want you to drink in front of me.” I took her hand in mine. Her skin was cold and soft. “I’m so proud of you for being sober now. I’m sure it’s not easy.” I tried to sound encouraging. “You can handle not drinking for another night.”
She crossed her arms.
“I’m trying to do something nice for you, Anya.”
“Are you?”
We sat in silence until she announced that she wanted to watch TV. With a sigh, I helped her upstairs and flipped between the few channels she got until she decided on a crime drama. I stayed with her until she said she was hungry.
In the kitchen, I fumed as I dropped the food onto plates and stuck them in the microwave. It was only six, but the night was already a loud failure, and it was my fault. The only thing I’d done to give her a nice Christmas was hope that one materialized out of minimal effort. But if she wanted to spend the night watching TV in bed, we could do that.
When I presented the food, she poked at the carrots and parsnips. “What are these?”
“Root vegetables. They’re very trendy.”
We balanced our plates on our thighs and picked up the brussels sprouts that flew onto the sheets when we cut them too aggressively.
“Isn’t this good? To think you wanted leftover pizza!” I said.
“Do you know what would make it even better?”
“What?”
“Wine.”
“Not happening,” I mumbled, my mouth full.
She placed her plate on the dresser and wiped her hands on her shirt. “I need a drink, Anya.” I looked at her and saw that another Anita had crept into her body. Her face was fixed in fierce resolve.
“I’m not buying you booze.”
“Fine,” she said breezily. “I’ll get it myself.”
I knew that she couldn’t go to the liquor store alone; well, maybe she could, but it would be a pitiful and possibly dangerous journey. “Please,” I said gently. “You’re doing really well.”
“Anya!” she yelled. “I want a drink!” Her thirst had been ignited. She’d made her decision, or her addiction had made it for her; it was a bully stronger than both of us. If she didn’t get alcohol soon, she’d become increasingly difficult and angry, and we’d both be miserable.
She watched me as she tried to stand up. “I could fall, you know. It’s so dark, the streetlamps barely do anything.”
I thought about leaving in protest. If I did, I could go hang out with my sister and have a drink myself, which I really, really wanted to do. But she was my responsibility for the night. I’d been asking Alex for the opportunity to help for years, and I didn’t want to fumble the one she’d finally given me.
“No,” I finally said. “I’ll go.”
She immediately went sweet. “Thanks, darling. You know what I like, right?”
“I sure do,” I said.
I walked to the liquor store through the frigid dark, under the church’s tall, silent spire, hating her for putting me in the position she had and myself for caving to her.
I wished the smiling clerk a Merry Christmas when I walked in, and we chatted about the indignity of working on Christmas Eve, which I’d had to do many times when I was a cocktail waitress in Los Angeles.
When I dropped the wine, two double bottles of Chardonnay, on the counter, he raised his eyebrows. “Big plans tonight?”
I forced a smile. “It’s for my mom.”
He studied the bottles for a moment, then nodded with recognition. “Oh, I know your mother. Everyone here does, and the gals who work for her.”
I stared at the ground, wishing I’d said the wine was for me so I could have remained anonymous. I didn’t want to be the person with the notorious, drunk mother, the one buying that mother alcohol on Christmas Eve.
“You know little Nicky, the red-haired kid who works during the day?”
I said that I didn’t.
He told me that my mom’s aides usually bought her wine, but when she came in herself, Nicky always escorted her home. Not because she was drunk, though she often was, but because she could barely walk. I imagined my mother, with her sour breath and ratty hair, flirting with Nicky as he held her by her elbow and then waited to make sure she got inside.
“Thanks,” I mumbled. “And thank Nicky for me.”
The clerk pursed his lips. “My father’s an alcoholic. It’s hard. You don’t want to watch, but you can’t look away. When you do, you feel terrible.”
“It’s all terrible,” I said. “Looking away, not looking away. What are we supposed to do?”
“Beats me.” He laughed. “But if you find out, let me know.” After handing me the heavy bag, he gave me his card and told me to call him if I ever needed help.
I put one bottle in the fridge, the other on the kitchen counter. For years, I’d refused to drink with my mother. It was a tiny act that made me feel that I was doing something, but it hadn’t made a difference. “Screw it,” I thought. “I deserve a drink.”
My mom beamed like a kid who’d gotten the gift she’d wanted most when I appeared in her room with the wine and poured us each a glass.
She held up hers and cried, “Merry Christmas!”
I tried to make conversation during the commercials or when something interesting happened on the show, but her responses were mumbled and vague. Soon she stopped answering at all. She had what she needed: her bed, the television, wine, and cigarettes. She was finally having the Christmas she wanted. I was no longer needed. If anything, I was in the way.
After two hours, I called Alex to tell her I was on my way. She answered cheerfully, but when I told her about my evening, annoyance leaped into her voice.
“You bought her booze? You know this means she’s going to miss Christmas, right?”
I hadn’t considered that our mother drinking tonight meant that she wouldn’t make it the following day. “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I couldn’t keep fighting her. But just because she’s drinking now doesn’t mean she won’t be able to come tomorrow.”
When I went to say goodbye, my mother’s smile was wide and wobbly. She was staring at the TV, but she couldn’t tell me what she was watching.
I told her I was going to Alex’s. “I want to be there when the boys open their presents in the morning.”
“That’s nice,” she said. “That will be fun.”
“Everyone’s coming for a late lunch, so I’m going to pick you up at one. We’ve got a lot of great gifts for you. We all really want you there, especially the kids.” I eyed the wine and guessed she’d had three glasses. There was hope. I reached for the bottle. “Let me put this in the fridge for you.”
She batted my hand away.
“Mom, if you miss tomorrow, Alex, all of us, are going to be really disappointed.”
“I’ll be there,” she slurred. “You’re picking me up at one.”
I started calling her at nine the next morning, but she never answered. Sometimes the machine would pick up, other times the phone just rang and rang. Marko arrived, and after my nephews jumped all over him, we discussed whether or not we should drive to my mom’s and try to wake her, but we decided against it. If she was passed out, there was no way of getting her up. If she was awake, she’d be plastered, which meant she’d either put up a fight or be terrible to be around.
Her absence hung over the day. I trailed my sister through her house, apologizing over and over. She’d respond with a firm “It’s fine,” but I knew it wasn’t.
When my nephews doled out presents before dinner, they stacked our mother’s in an empty chair. When my uncle said grace, he acknowledged,
as he always did, the family that couldn’t be there because they were dead. He accidentally included our mother in the list.
My mom picked up when I called the next day. She was happy and drunk, but not so drunk that I couldn’t understand her.
“You missed Christmas. What happened?” I demanded.
“Oh Anya, I was just so tired.”
I reminded her that she’d promised she was going to come. She did what she always did when confronted: She didn’t respond.
I told her that Marko and I were going to stop by on our way back to New York, to drop off presents and say goodbye.
My mother was drinking and watching TV when we got there. “You remember Marko, don’t you?” I asked as I arranged the gifts in front of her.
“Polo!” she giggled, then composed herself. “Of course I remember him.” She winked. “I always remember handsome men.”
If it had just been me, she would have glanced at the gifts and returned to watching TV, but since Marko was there, she was animated and chatty. She still believed that a smile and a joke had the power to mask the stink of alcohol that surrounded her.
I was eager for her to open her presents, for her to see that we all cared about her. She unwrapped each mechanically and pushed the boxes off the bed. She didn’t bother to act excited about any of them, not even the pair of fancy black pajamas from my sister and me. She criticized a calendar someone had gotten her and sneered at a chunky handmade necklace. I tried to see our gifts through her eyes and understood that they were unnecessary, junk. She needed and wanted very few things.
“We have to drive back to Brooklyn soon,” I said, smoothing the comforter. “Do you need anything before we go? Are you hungry? I would have brought leftovers, but there weren’t any.”
“I’m having trouble sleeping.” She rooted around her small night table and grabbed an empty pill bottle and waved it at me. “I’m out of my medication. Can you go to the drugstore and get me a refill?”
“Of course,” I said, and was back in five minutes. She threw two pills down with a gulp of wine.
My Dead Parents Page 11