Christmas was always my dad’s favorite holiday. He nominated himself Lead Decorator. Ornaments filled every space on our tree because he loved all of them. It hurt him to leave any off. He dragged us all out to a Christmas tree farm ever since I can remember, and each year he made one of us choose the winning tree. He cursed his way through getting it home and into the house, but his eyes lit up just like the tree when it was finished. From all the pictures I’ve seen of Grandma and Grandpa’s Christmases, I think Dad inherited his enthusiasm. And when Grandma started spending the holiday with us, the joy only multiplied.
My mom was in charge of the cookies. Every year, I helped her make a batch of sugar cookies in different Christmas cutout shapes. Connor swooped in at the end to help decorate them in green, red, and white frosting, but he wouldn’t allow sprinkles. I tried to sneak them in one year, and he told me I ruined Christmas.
On top of all of this, Christmas Day is also my birthday. I am a Christmas baby. My parents knew how much I hated it, so they always filled the house with equal parts Christmas decorations and birthday decorations; my dad even counted. They split the day in half, too. The first half of the day was Christmas and the second half, including dinner, was always the birthday celebration.
But this year, I don’t think either of us cares about cookies or decorations or a tree. We go through the motions out of a sense of obligation. With the help of Rose’s son, we find a live Christmas tree and get it set up at home. I dig out Grandma’s Christmas boxes from the garage, and we decorate the tree. Lights are quickly wrapped around the tree, and ornaments are placed wherever there is space. Instead of “Frosty the Snowman” playing in the background, we have the evening news on TV, and we stop when I ask, “Is this good enough?” and Grandma says, “Sure.”
We already have plenty of presents to put under our tree. Since December 1, packages have arrived daily from Mom’s relatives and Grandma’s friends and her family in Greece. It’s as if everyone thinks they can make this time easier by giving us a box of chocolates or a gift card or a pair of fuzzy socks. But we still spend a day shopping at the mall. We plaster on our best smiles and choose a few gifts for each other. I think Grandma has forgotten it’s also my birthday, and for once I’m not sad to let it get lost in the red and green of Christmastime.
At the end of the day, we stop at the drugstore and buy some wrapping paper with Christmas aliens on it, simply because it was the first roll we saw. When we are finally home, we wrap the presents together and put them under the tree. That night and for the next few nights, we forget to even plug in the tree lights.
On December 23, after work, I drive to the store and buy all the ingredients for the sugar cookies. I don’t have Mom’s exact recipe and the new cookie cutters I buy are odd. Santa has a bigger head than belly, and the tree branches are too skinny and the dough keeps getting stuck in it. I suffer through my frustration and decorate them as usual. When they’re finished, I place some out on one of Grandma’s holiday china platters.
With the cookies on the table, decorations everywhere, and the tree lights glowing, it looks like a house bursting with Christmas joy. But when we say goodnight on Christmas Eve, after Mass and a very quiet dinner, I can sense that neither of us is going to want to get out of bed tomorrow.
But we do. I awaken around six because there is a clanging going on in the kitchen. I stumble in and pots and pans are stacked on the counter.
“Grandma, what are you doing?” I ask.
Her hair is disheveled, and she’s still in her pink floral robe. She never comes out of her bedroom undressed. “I can’t find my hairbrush. I need to do my hair before we go, and I can’t find my hairbrush.”
My heart sinks. I inhale slowly and let it out. “Okay, can I help you look?” I walk over to her and open a nearby cupboard. I remove some Tupperware. “I’ll check all these cabinets, and you look in the drawers.”
The wildness in her eyes softens. For a few moments, I pretend to search for her hairbrush in the cupboards while she opens every drawer.
“It’s just not here.” The desperation in her voice and the worry etched on her pale face age her by about twenty years.
“Why don’t we try some of the other rooms?” I suggest.
“I’ve looked everywhere,” she insists.
“I know you have, but sometimes it’s good to double-check. C’mon, let’s double-check.” I rest my hand lightly on her back and lead her by the elbow out of the kitchen and back to her room. “Let’s start in your room. Next, we’ll move on to my room and the living room.”
She agrees, and I help her search a few of the dresser drawers before I step into the bathroom. Right there on the counter next to a tan hand towel with a single seashell stitched into it lies her brown paddle brush.
Grandma sits on the bed, staring at her hands. I sit by her side.
“I found your hairbrush, Grandma.” She looks at it as though she isn’t sure what I’m holding. “It was buried under your hand towel, so that’s probably why you didn’t see it.” A tear tumbles down her cheek. I put my arm around her and give her a little squeeze, blinking back my own tears.
“It’s okay. We found it. Now let’s get your hair done,” I say in as a cheery a voice as I can muster. I help her up and lead her into the bathroom.
“Your hair always looks so pretty. Can I stay and see how you do it?” I don’t want to leave her alone with the curling iron, but I know the hovering will agitate her more.
She wipes away the tears, and a half smile forms as she slowly raises the brush and gently moves it through her chin-length hair.
“Your hair has always reminded me of Elizabeth Taylor.” This is Grandma’s favorite actress. And it’s true, her brown waves remind me of the way Elizabeth Taylor looked in the movie I watched with Grandma once when she visited us. “What was that movie called that we watched together?” I squirm as soon as I say it. This might be another thing she can’t remember.
“Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,” she says confidently, and her eyes brighten. “That’s sweet of you to say, dear. You know, Elizabeth Taylor...” She slowly eases herself out of the confusion by talking about her favorite actress and all the others she loves. I actually enjoy hearing her tell me about all her favorite old Hollywood stars, but I feel even better being there when she uses the curling iron and helping her find the right makeup after she’s done.
While she’s getting dressed, I sneak out into the kitchen and clean up. I also set out her pills. She appears a few minutes later in her walking clothes and informs me she doesn’t feel like taking her pills right now and that it’s time for us to go on her usual Wednesday walk. My heart drops once more; today is Thursday, and we just took her Wednesday walk yesterday. But I figure another walk can’t hurt, so I tell her to give me a minute to change.
After her walk, she takes a quick rinse off shower and tells me it’s time to go to her hair appointment. I try to convince her she might have written the day down incorrectly, but she insists she’s correct. I’m not sure if it’s the right thing to do, but I want to avoid a meltdown so I drive her to the salon. When we arrive, it’s closed, and this upsets her more. I concoct a story about the hairdresser probably forgetting what day it is, but it doesn’t calm her and the tears tumble once more.
After waiting for fifteen minutes, I drive us home. I try explaining to her that it’s Christmas, but she tells me, “Don’t be silly. Christmas was last week.” She then appears to notice the tree for the first time today and asks why we haven’t taken it down yet. Once again, I try to tell her that Christmas is today and remind her how we were at Christmas Eve Mass just yesterday. But she yells at me that she knows when Christmas is. It was last week, and why is everyone always telling her that she’s wrong? I consider calling her friends, but I don’t want to ruin their days. They’re probably playing with grandchildren and new toys or working on their special dinners.
So I bring over a calendar and study it. “You know what, Grandma? You�
�re right. Christmas was last week.” Her muscles unclench and her agitation subsides. “It probably is time to take down the decorations. Do you want to get the stuff on the tables, and I’ll get the Christmas tree?” She nods and her breathing slows to a normal rate.
While she gathers figurines and candles from around the room, I haul all the unopened presents into my room to get them out of her sight. Together we box up all the decorations, and I somehow manage to drag the tree outside to the curb. I return the boxes to the garage, and Grandma vacuums the living room.
By late afternoon, there is no sign left of Christmas in this house. I’ve even thrown away all the cookies I made and iced, except a few I keep in a baggie and put in my room. Grandma says she isn’t hungry, but I cook a frozen pizza for dinner. She picks at it and says she’s tired. I help her set out pajamas and wait for her as she goes through her nightly routine. By 8:00 p.m., she’s asleep. I clean the kitchen and even put her pills away, hoping we can start fresh tomorrow.
I throw on a sweatshirt and take my phone and the few cookies I saved out to the front porch. It’s not even cold out. Such an odd Christmas. Our tree has been kicked to the curb, and it’s warm enough for shorts.
My phone dings.
Ryan: Merry Christmas! How’s it going over there?
Me: fine
Ryan: can I stop by with something?
I glance at my shabby jean shorts and the hole in my Cincinnati Bengals sweatshirt and reach up to feel the unruliness of my hair.
Me: sure
I’m too tired to care.
Ryan: be there soon
Sure enough, about fifteen minutes later, his Jeep pulls into my driveway. For once, Ryan is not in basketball gear. He’s wearing a pair of khaki pants and a light blue button-down shirt. He hides one hand behind his back.
“Well, don’t you look all fancy,” I tease him.
“Family dinner.” He shrugs. He walks up the pathway and sits next to me on the porch, still holding his hand behind him.
“So how was Christmas?” I ask
“Good. Typical. New socks from my grandma, my mom overcooked the prime rib, and Uncle Todd got drunk.”
I laugh. “At least it wasn’t dull. Well, except for the socks.”
He smiles. “How... was your day?” I read the pause in his voice.
I point at the curb. “Well, that’s our Christmas tree.”
He looks down the driveway then back at me with furrowed brows.
“Grandma didn’t have a good day. It started with her tearing apart the kitchen looking for her hairbrush and ended with us taking down all the decorations.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
“It’s okay, actually. I was too busy to be sad.” My gaze shifts down, and I brush away a few stray pine needles.
“Well, I had a feeling from the way you talked about it at work the other day that you wouldn’t be celebrating the other holiday, so I wanted to bring you this.” His arm swings out from behind him, and he’s holding a chocolate cupcake with green frosting topped with chocolate jimmies and a single candle. “Happy birthday, Loukas.” His usual steady hand trembles a little as he hands it to me.
My lips curl into a half smile. “Thanks.” I take the cupcake and swipe a finger through the side of the green frosting. My eyebrows rise. “Mmmm... mint.”
“Well, I know you miss the mint chip ice cream from home, but I couldn’t really bring you a dish of ice cream without it melting, so I thought a mint cupcake would be an okay substitute.”
I lower the cupcake and gaze at his bright blue eyes. My half smile widens into a fully genuine one. “Thanks,” I say again. I want to say more, but that’s all I can get out.
“Here.” He fishes a matchbook out of his pocket. “I’ll be careful.” He raises a hand to promise. I set the cupcake down between us, and he lights the candle. “Make a wish,” he instructs.
Make a wish. A crowd of ideas appears in my mind, each clamoring to be chosen. I could wish my family back or that they are all in heaven or that I’ll be able to fulfill their dreams. I could wish Grandma will be okay. I could wish I get into Ohio State. I could wish for an A on all my finals. I could even wish that Ryan would kiss me.
But when I draw a deep inhale and begin to let it out, the words that push all the others away are I wish to be free. And the flame is extinguished.
I don’t even know what it means, but on my 18th birthday, when technically I’m already free, that is what I wish for. I wish to be free.
Chapter 14
We make it through the holiday season, but Grandma and her friends agree we need to get help immediately. There are no more major meltdowns, but she’s getting more and more forgetful. She set the hot curling iron down on the hand towel and nearly caused a fire, and several times she couldn’t remember where her glasses were. Once they were in the freezer, and another time they were in her medicine cabinet. Grandma reluctantly agreed she needed more help one afternoon when her friends were over for bridge. Her pride took a hit, and she’s seemed a little smaller to me ever since.
She finally relented and used her money from Dad to go outside her insurance to find another in-home care company. Right away, a really young-looking nurse named Cherise started coming on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturday mornings. She seems nice enough, and Grandma likes her. I’m grateful because it allows me time to study for my finals, and I ace all of them. These are the last grades that Ohio State will see, so I’m ecstatic to have kept my straight As.
More help for Grandma is not the only change in the new year. No more cross-country practice and having my college applications finished has granted me a lot of spare time. I still run on my own after school, but it’s much less of a time commitment than practice. And now I don’t even need to work anymore. My uncle called last night to share the news that there is a small sum of money besides the college funds that was released when I turned eighteen. All the legal stuff confuses me, so I don’t really understand why or what the money is from. All I know is that Uncle Jim will be depositing $10,000 into my savings account, so I have all the money I need for Greece now.
When I thought about quitting on my way to work today, a hollow ache grew in my chest. It didn’t come from the thought of not seeing Ryan either. Ryan is hardly here anyway because of basketball. I would miss all the animals. Just last week, an old Labrador was found on the streets during a terrible day of rain. We call him Dexter, and he had the saddest brown eyes that first day at the shelter. But today, I am able to walk him, and I help the trainer work with him. For brief moments, his eyes brighten, and he cowers a little less. He’s older, so I know we will have a difficult time finding a home for him. I want to be here to help him feel loved. It’s not only the dogs either. There is a turtle named George and a rabbit named Fancy, and I swear they recognize me.
I would also miss all the joy that comes from uniting these animals with new owners. Today we adopt out a tiny white-and-brown Pomeranian who had been in the foster program. He and his two brothers were unwanted and dropped after hours one night at the shelter. A young, single woman raced here to claim him, and while we wait for her to fill out the paperwork, we take turns holding the little puppy at reception. This girl Jenna puts him on the desk, and he steps onto her computer keyboard and pees on it. He looks at us with big eyes and wags his tiny tail. My dad would’ve loved this little dog. When the woman carries him off, there is a cloud of cartoon hearts over both of them.
I love this job. Next week, I’ll shadow the on-site vet for a day in order to understand what she does, and I’ve already learned about turtle socialization and how to train dogs. I don’t even hate cats as much as I used to. I love this job, and I’m definitely going to keep it.
By the end of January, I still haven’t been to one of Ryan’s games. It’s not that I don’t want to go, but Mari always has an issue with her mom or has homework because she’s a procrastinator, and I don’t want to go by myself. But Ryan keeps asking.
I’ve finally run out of excuses, though, plus I miss him. So this Friday, Mari is finally free, and we make a plan to go to the game.
When I get home from school on Friday, I intend on spending the entire time getting ready, but I sense trouble when I don’t see Cherise’s car out front. They’re usually not running errands this late in the day. I open the front door cautiously. Grandma sits on the couch staring at the wall and working her hands into a knot. She’s fully dressed in a beautiful red paisley blouse and black pants, but I get the feeling she’s been on the couch for a while.
“Grandma?” There’s no response. She doesn’t even look in my direction.
“Cherise?” I call out. There’s no answer, and there are no sounds of work coming from anywhere in the house.
I walk over and sit next to Grandma. “Where is Cherise?”
She flinches when I put my hand on her leg and scoots away from me.
Her reaction kicks me in the gut. “What’s wrong, Grandma?” I ask softly.
“Who are you? And where is Peter? He said he would be here.” Grandma’s eyes are crazed. I don’t think Cherise has been here all day.
“Grandma, it’s me, Emma.” I say, keeping my distance.
She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re not Emma. My granddaughter is in Ohio. Where is Peter? Peter said he would be here.”
“Grandma, Peter isn’t here anymore, remember?”
“What do you mean he’s not here? He was supposed to come for a visit. He said he would be in California for a business trip.” The hysteria in her voice builds with every word.
My mind shuffles through memories, and I vaguely recall Dad saying something about visiting Grandma this year when he would be here for a conference. I inch closer and reach out to touch her arm. She angles away from me. “You get away from me. I don’t know who you are.” Her nose crinkles, and her amber eyes that everyone always says match mine register no recognition of our connection. “You get away from me! You get out of my house! I don’t know who you are!”
The Brilliance of Fireflies Page 12