Forever Christmas

by Christine Lynxwiler

  “What did I tell you?” I murmur, then blink. Did a smile just cross my mother’s face? Probably just a shadow. I push to my feet. “Who wants to open presents tonight?”

  Mother raises an eyebrow and purses her lips. “Are you sure that would be okay? Your grandmother always insisted we wait until Christmas morning.”

  She’s right. I was so desperate to fill in this evening that I hadn’t given that much thought.

  “I think we should do it,” Dad says. “It’s time the three of us start some traditions of our own.”

  I know he’s right, but now that I’ve thought about it, it’s hard to let the old ones go. “Mother?”

  She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Fine then. I’ll get Kristianna’s packages.” Dad goes down the hall and comes back with two professionally wrapped gifts. He hands them to me and pulls Mother down beside him on the couch.

  “Thanks.” I tear into the paper, unsure what to expect. Usually my parents don’t seem to put any thought into my gift, but it never mattered because Gran always got me just the right thing. I pull out an attaché case and run my hand over the supple black leather. “It’s beautiful.” But what am I supposed to put in it? My painting supplies?

  Mother leans forward and unbuckles a small pouch on the side. “There’s even a place for your Blackberry.”

  If I had one. Which I don’t, because I don’t need one at all. My simple cell phone works fine for me. I nod, though, and open the smaller present. Of course. A Blackberry. “Wow. You shouldn’t have.” I look up to find my dad watching me intently. “Thanks,” I say, a lump rising in my throat. Not because the gifts aren’t things I wanted. But because they are gifts for an imaginary daughter. The one my parents wish they’d had.

  “When you go back to law school, you’ll use both of those,” Mother says firmly.

  For a minute, the room is quiet, except for the Christmas music playing in the background, and the crackling fire. I push to my feet and retrieve a large gift from under the tree and hand it to them. “Merry Christmas.” From the daughter you ended up with.

  “I wonder what this is,” Dad says, his faked joviality almost worse than Mother’s attitude.

  He neatly pulls the paper apart at the tape seam and unfolds it carefully from around the painting of their house. When they turn it around, Mother’s face relaxes for a minute and she smiles. She likes it. And Dad does, too. Relief floods through me, mixed with guilt that I didn’t feel this way about the presents they gave me. “It’s very nice, Kristianna. Thank you,” Mother says and runs her finger around the frame.

  “This will be perfect over the fireplace.” Dad smiles at me. “You inherited my mother’s talent.”

  Mother mumbles something and shoves the wrapping paper from her lap as she stands. “Excuse me.” She hurries down the hall and I hear the guest bedroom door click shut.

  Chapter Twelve

  I’m startled. Usually Emily Harrington is the picture of composure. I’ve seen her face down hardened criminals without flinching. “Should I go check on her?” I ask, praying he’ll say no.

  He shakes his head. “She’ll be fine. Give her some time.”

  “Oh, here’s one more gift for you.” I find the tiny box for Dad and hand it to him.

  He sets the painting against the couch and opens the gift, then gasps as he sees the harmonica lying there. “This is just like the one I had when I was young.” He puts it to his lips and blows slightly.

  “It is the one you had when you were young.” Tears prick my eyes. “Gran and I found it in one of the boxes in the storage room, and she told me to give it to you this Christmas.” I was eight when Gramps died and Gran converted the offices above the store into this apartment. She’d left many boxes untouched until we went through them together in the months before she died.

  “There’s a note.” My dad’s voice is thick and I look away to give him privacy. He pulls a small paper from the box and reads aloud. “To my beloved son, Jared.” His voice breaks and he hands me the note. The words swim before my eyes. I remember the boy who took pleasure in simple things. May you rediscover him.

  Dad still has his head bowed when he speaks. “She said something similar to me before she died.” He meets my gaze and his eyes are moist. “I’m trying.”

  I nod and hand him the note back. That explains the blue jeans and his determination to give caroling a chance. Good for him.

  He walks over to the fire and plays a soft tune on the harmonica.

  “Sounds like you still remember how,” I say as I join him.

  “Some things you never forget.”

  I reach up and hug him and his free arm comes around me pulling me close. His Old Spice aftershave takes me back to my own childhood and I smile. “Merry Christmas, Dad.”

  “Merry Christmas, Kristianna.”

  “I’m going to turn in. Gran left a gift for Mother too.” I motion toward a small package under the tree. “Will you give it to her and tell her I said goodnight?”

  “Sure.”

  I walk down the hall and pause for a few seconds before the guestroom door. I don’t think Mother would welcome me with open arms. And I’d rather cherish the rare moment of closeness I just shared with Dad than end the night on a sour note.

  In my room, I pick up my Bible and look at the clock. An hour until midnight. A few verses into my daily reading, my mother’s angry voice comes through the wall. “A Bible?”

  Dad’s deeper tone is quiet, and I can’t hear the words.

  “I don’t care if I did carry it down the aisle. You know she had an ulterior motive, Jared. She never wanted you to marry me.”

  I reach over and turn on the radio. If there’s more, I don’t want to hear it. I still remember every hateful word she said after Gran’s funeral. How glad she was that I could sell the store and apartment now and “move on.” How they’d always tried to rise above this town and if I stayed in Jingle Bells, they never could. Acid rolls in my stomach as I play it over again in my mind.

  I glance down at the Bible, open on my lap. Ironically, my verses tonight are about forgiveness and how God forgives us as we forgive others. I figure right now I need to just be really good, so I don’t need as much. Ha. Like that will work.

  I pray for a long time, then stare in the dark at the red numbers on my clock. We never lose power, but peace eludes me, until I drift off to sleep.

  ~~~~~

  “I really can’t understand why you had to invite every stray person in Jingle Bells for lunch, Kristianna.” Mother sips her iced tea at the table and watches me fly around the kitchen like a mad woman. I woke up this morning to three inches of fresh white snow. A white Christmas. And no time to go out and play.

  “Like I told you, the guests are my friends. Besides, Gran did this for years and you never complained.”

  My dad, by the coffeepot, pauses in mid-pour. “Humph. Maybe never where you could hear it.” He finishes pouring and lifts his coffee in a mock-salute to Mother. “Your mother’s never been comfortable socializing with the masses, dear.”

  I turn back to my broccoli casserole, unsure what to say to that. My parents don’t profess to be Christians, but even besides that obvious difference, I occasionally wonder how we can share the same genes. Since Gran’s gone, I feel so alone in this family sometimes. Like today. Gran and I would have talked things over after last night’s drama. But my parents are pretending it never happened. And I guess I’m no better. I’m going along with their pretense.

  When I turn, Mother is glaring at Dad, but she addresses her words to me. “Your Gran was an old woman. Gathering together a band of misfits around her table was just one of her many eccentricities. It seems funny for you to do it.”

  “Well, then everyone can get a good laugh while they’re passing the rolls. Come on, Mother, help me make green bean bundles.”

  “What time will your. . .guests. . .be arriving?”

  I glance up at the big clock on t
he wall. “Noon. We have an hour and a half to get it all done.”

  “I’ll get out of y’all’s hair,” Dad says. “I think I’ll take a turn around the town.”

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s trying to leave us alone together. Today, I’m so busy I don’t even care.

  “Watch out for the riff-raff,” Mother calls to him. “Although I suppose most of those will be showing up here shortly anyway,” she mutters, but I ignore it.

  “Can you preheat the oven for me, please?” I ask pleasantly.

  She moves to do it and I’m grateful. My mother is used to servants, not serving. “Are you leaving the shop door unlocked like your grandmother always did when she expected guests?”

  I nod.

  She sighs. “I don’t understand you.”

  Now there’s the truest statement of the year, ladies and gentlemen. “I know.”

  “How many people are coming?” she asks, as she refills her tea glass.

  I do a mental count. “Anywhere from five to seven, besides the three of us.”

  “You mean some people didn’t RSVP?” Horror fills her voice. You’d think that failure to RSVP was a crime worthy of death.

  “There are two that I’m not sure about.” One of those is Shawn. I invited him before the town meeting, and considering all the events since then, I’m not expecting him, but who knows? Sam is the other one who didn’t call, but unless he’s embarrassed about last night, he’ll be here. “We’ll plan for ten.”

  “Well, if they didn’t respond, I’d tell them they weren’t welcome if they show up.” She tears a pink packet open and pours it into her tea.

  I stop with the freezer door open and stare at her. Surely there’s a joke in there somewhere. “On Christmas Day?”

  “Manners are manners.” She stirs the sweetener in with a long handle spoon. “Every day.”

  Gotcha. “Good. That means you’ll be polite to all my guests.” I unwrap the rolls.

  “Don’t seat me next to that drunken horse man,” she says, her voice stern.

  I don’t even bother reminding her there’s no seating chart.

  ~~~~~

  When the door chime rings downstairs an hour later, I glance around the kitchen. Mother has retired to her room to rest before dinner. Too much strenuous tea drinking, I guess. Everything is ready. Garrett volunteered to bring the ham. Hopefully that’s him. Or probably Dad back from his walk.

  Sure enough, I hear steps on the stairs and Dad comes in, but he’s escorting the Campbell twins. “Look, Kristianna. We got a man for Christmas,” Elva calls.

  “Elva, shame on you.” Ermyl shakes her head. “You’re going to embarrass Jared.”

  I laugh and hug them both. Sometimes I forget that Dad was raised in Jingle Bells.

  Dad reaches out his arms and I give him a hug, too. I smile. Talk about unexpected Christmas presents.

  Dad graciously shows the twins to the living room, and the door chime rings again. This time, it’s Garrett, bearing a beautiful honey-baked ham. He grins at me. “You’re looking festive.”

  I glance down at my red Mrs. Santa apron and laugh. “You know me. Always in the Christmas spirit.” I start to give him a high five. But he sets the ham down on the front table and pulls me into a hug. “Merry Christmas, sport,” he says against my ear.

  “Merry Christmas,” I whisper. “I’m so glad to have you back.”

  And I’m glad he came. When he was nine, his dad left on Christmas Day, apparently tired of his wife and kids. I remember Garrett’s mom called Gran, frantic. She couldn’t find Garrett and was hoping he was with us. I’d led Gran straight to where I knew he’d be. I’ll never forget him, huddled in our secret fort up on Snowy Mountain, tears leaving streaks down his dirty face. We didn’t spend another Christmas apart, until college.

  During the years we lost touch, there was a big hole in my life. I’m sure I would have adapted eventually, but it’s incredibly nice not to have to.

  He meets my gaze, his green eyes serious. “It’s really good to be back.”

  There’s something in his eyes that begs closer examination, but a peck on the door behind him stops me from pursuing it. “Oops. I didn’t even hear the door chime downstairs.”

  “Me either.” He picks up the ham. “I’ll take this to the kitchen.”

  Dottie Wells sticks her head in. “Is this the party?”

  I laugh. “This is the place. Come on in.”

  Dottie pulls Mr. Pletka into the room. “I found this old man loitering on the doorstep so I brought him, too.”

  “Old man, my feet,” he says. Even after twenty years, he can’t quite get American expressions right, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. “You’re no spring hen yourself.”

  “Well,” Dottie says, “my birthday is coming up in a couple of weeks.”

  I hug her. “Celebrating the big 6-0, right?”

  “You got it, sister.”

  Dottie’s been having her “big 6-0” ever since I can remember, even though she’s probably older than Mr. Pletka. But the town doesn’t seem to mind. Last year, a couple of newcomers had the nerve to comment that she’d turned sixty both years they’d lived here and they were never seen again. Rumor has it that tar and feathers were involved, but my guess is they realized what a nutty place they’d moved to and relocated voluntarily.

  Dottie and Mr. Pletka gravitate to the living room, where everyone is laughing and talking. I step down the hall and tap on Mother’s door.

  “Come in.” She’s sitting in a chair in the corner, working on some papers.

  “Merry Christmas.” I smile. “You ready to face the crowd?”

  She narrows her eyes. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not unless you want one of those women twice his age to take Dad home with her.”

  She closes her portfolio and tilts her lips slightly upward. “I’d better rescue him.”

  She follows me back to the living room and the door chime sounds again. “Must be Sam.”

  But when I open the door, Shawn smiles sheepishly, a large bouquet of flowers in his hand. “For you,” he says. “Thank you for inviting me.”

  “Thank you for coming,” I mumble automatically and take the flowers. “Merry Christmas.”

  “I know we’re wearing out the whole ‘truce’ thing, but think we could call a Christmas ceasefire?” His dimple flashes.

  “I’m game if you are.” But even as I say it, I wonder how many signatures he has gotten. “Let’s just relax and enjoy the day.” I can’t resist one little jab at his note.

  He just smiles.

  “Come on in.” I guide him to the living room and introduce him to the group. The Campbell twins look puzzled and Dottie frowns.

  “Bear in dog’s clothing, if you ask me,” Mr. Pletka mutters.

  Could be an interesting meal.

  Garrett stands and shakes Shawn’s hand, but even he looks uncomfortable.

  Shawn seems unbothered by the hostility. I guess, as a lawyer-to-be, it goes with the territory.

  The grandfather clock against the wall chimes twelve. Mother stands and looks at me expectantly.

  My fault. I did say lunch at noon. “Why don’t we get things going in the kitchen and give Sam a few more minutes,” I say under my breath, as conversation swirls around us. Dad and Shawn are debating the finer points of the best law schools while Dottie and the Campbell twins switch recipes. Garrett and Mr. Pletka seem to be taking it all in.

  In the kitchen, I snag a vase from the china cabinet and put Shawn’s flowers in them.

  “Shawn seems very nice,” Mother says.

  I look up to see her eyes twinkling. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve ever seen that particular look in her eyes. I groan inwardly. How did I miss this obvious complication? I’ve gotten so used to my parents barely tolerating my friends that I didn’t consider how much Shawn would appeal to them.

  “He is nice. But he’s not my type.”

  �
��What do you mean? He’s an attorney.”

  “I’ve gotten over that.”

  “Honestly, Kristianna, is that supposed to be funny?”

  Sometimes no answer is the best answer. Particularly with my mother. “Would you help me carry these hot dishes out to the table?” I hand her two potholders and nod toward the stove, then load up my own arms and push through the double doors to the dining room.

  We work together well, to my amazement, and within minutes the table is laid out in true holiday style. “Thanks for your help,” I say as I ice the glasses.

  She shrugs. “It’s fine. Your grandmother never let me help with her dinners, so I assumed you’d be the same way.”

  I knock an ice cube onto a holiday napkin. As I reach to pick it up, I stop. Even though the cube is clear, the design of the napkin under it is distorted. Sometimes I think that’s how Mother views the past. Particularly Gran’s part in it.

  A commotion in the other room saves me from having to reply. I hurry out of the kitchen. Sam, his hat askew, stands in the foyer, with his fist clenched. Garrett stands between him and a red-faced Shawn.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Guilt floods Sam’s expression when he sees me. “I’m sorry, Miss Kristianna. Your grandmother was a gracious woman, but I don’t think she’d have wanted this Judas in her house.”

  “Sam.” I frown at him. “You know Gran would never insult a guest, no matter what his politics. Shawn has no family around, and I invited him for dinner.”

  He scoops his hat off and pinches it between his work-worn fingers. “I’m sorry.” He nods at Shawn. “Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I can’t stay. Merry Christmas to you all.” He turns and slips out the door. It clicks shut behind him.

  My heart pounds against my ribs, but I turn to face my guests, all gathered in the foyer now. “I hope y’all are hungry. It’s time to eat.”

  Shawn looks at me. “I don’t have to stay.”

  “Don’t be silly, young man,” Dottie says. “If you don’t stick around, how will you know the spirit of Christmas truly lives in Jingle Bells?”

  “Dottie’s right.” I include everyone in my smile. “I’m sorry for not realizing this might happen. But we’ll make sure Sam doesn’t go hungry. So let’s put this out of our minds for now, okay?”