by Jason Carney
“MERRY CHRISTMAS! SANTA HAS COME,” my mom says.
She wakes me with a smile. The edges of the pillow are cold. I turn my head and look up at the ceiling. A faint chill seeps from the window above my bed. The cold room is full of light—the white walls have an extra-clean sheen this morning. The heated air from the vent ripples as it touches the frost of the room. I am wide awake two seconds after I hear her voice.
I am eleven years old and I no longer believe in Santa. She knows this. We both pretend to recapture some lost moment when I was a small boy and still believed.
“Santa’s here!” I shout.
Before she can say another word, I am out of the bed, hurling myself down the stairs, two at a time.
I smell her coffee brewing in the Mr. Coffee as I reach the bottom step. She loves coffee. I love the aroma and my mom’s elegant appearance when she drinks a cup.
I get most of my ideas from television. The people in the commercials are all successful sophisticates who embrace the challenges of the day, while they stare out at the snow-covered ski slopes, happy with their white-teeth smiles. I crave my mom’s happiness. I smile knowing she will enjoy my gifts—a five-dollar bottle of grocery-store perfume and a coffee mug. The sound of the coffee trickling, one droplet at a time into the pool of the carafe, gives me comfort. The room feels fresh and alive.
The miniblinds on the living room window are open. The world outside resembles an ice cube. An ice storm is as close to a white Christmas as Big D gets and stillness looms over the day. The car windshield looks like shattered glass, as a sheet of ice radiates fractures across its surface. The large green electrical box in the front yard has clumps of ice draping over its constant hum. The way the ice freezes, trapped in a slow trickle down the smooth surface, I imagine the box to be a huge holiday cake. The sensations of winter stir over me. I am in no hurry today.
“Where do you want to start?” she asks.
“I’ll pass them out, Deb,” I say.
The fact that I call her by her name does not always bother her. My mother enjoys the thought of us being confidantes. She loves when salespeople mistake her for my older sister. She relishes the attention that comes from having your brother and not your son on your arm in public. Men often hit on her with this error in thinking; she is never quick to correct them. The way she readily accepts their flirtations with an innocent smile intrigues me to no end. I often play along. For those brief moments, she can be a twenty-something young woman not saddled with a half-grown child. She thinks the reason she cannot find a decent man is that guys do not want to date women with baggage. I think good men are hard to find drunk in a bar or naked in a strange bed. I am not as naïve as she thinks.
My mom sits on the couch. Her green velour robe with a zipper running down the front droops under the mess of loose blond curls that cascade lopsided from her head. She wears this robe more than anything else she owns. She has headaches about four days a week. Home by six in the evening, she is in the robe five minutes later. Then she stretches out on the couch until her medication kicks in around eight thirty or nine. The bright peach and pink flowers of the couch clash with the green robe as she sleeps. On those days when she does not feel bad, she hits happy hour after work; some nights until nine or ten, other nights she does not come home at all. Her schedule, like most things in her life, is very erratic.
The tension in her face is not recognizable. This morning, her eyes appear to be the same size. When she has headaches, her right eye swells, closes tight, and waters as if something behind it has squeezed all the liquid out. If she has a hangover, her makeup cascades down her cheeks, reminders of late-night prayers into the toilet. I have heard her begging Jesus to give her back her legs. She thought herself paralyzed one night last month from the waist down and lay in her own vomit. I feel bad that I laughed. My loyalty to her rarely waivers; I have become a good reader of her signs. Today, I know she feels sane. This morning she belongs to me.
She lights up a cigarette. The gray sunlight illuminates her exhales. The air inside our home is grimy with a layer of smoke. The dust of its residue covers most of our furniture, saturates our clothes. I dislike that she smokes, urge her to quit; she never gives me that gift. I pass out the six presents. Two for her and four for me; I feel guilty that I did not give her more.
“Shit, the cinnamon rolls,” she says as she darts into the kitchen. “Wait just a second.”
I study the Christmas packages. Each wrapped tightly— my mother has a knack for ribbons, bows, and tape. She damn near makes them impenetrable. Yet she cannot disguise the sound of the contents as I shake them. Two are definitely clothes, each bulky enough to contain a pair of pants or a sweater.
Typical.
My mother uses my birthday in June as an excuse to give me a couple of summer outfits every year. Christmas is when I get the other two outfits of new school clothes. She has a talent for combining my presents with things that I need anyway.
I bet one of these is some dress clothes for today.
One of the other two sounds like a board game.
Great, I think, some little-kid game.
The contents rattle like a thousand-piece puzzle; the package is the appropriate weight.
I hate jigsaw puzzles.
The last is unknown, which I like best. A medium-sized square, ten inches long, ten inches deep, ten inches wide. When I shake the box, it makes no sound, a good, balanced weight, not too heavy but definitely not clothes. I am excited that I have no idea what is inside. On each package is a holiday sticker that tells who the gift is for and who gave the present. All of my packages say, From Santa, in my mom’s handwriting.
She is so retarded.
She sings “Silent Night” in the kitchen while she frosts the rolls. Pillsbury cinnamon rolls are her idea of a weekend breakfast. She knows how to make eggs and bacon, hash browns. We eat breakfast for dinner two nights a week. She never cooks breakfast for breakfast. I do not understand this.
I look through the branches of the tree. Stare off into the light of the patio. The needles muddle together in the foreground as I focus on the pavement. The ice sheet reminds me of the rough bumpy grain of ostrich-skin boots. I can practically feel the frozen wet chill of the surface with my eyes. My body shivers warm, I retreat to the lights of the tree. We always get a real tree; always decorate the pine needles the same way—red and silver glass balls hang over strings of white blinking lights covered in fuzzy aluminum garlands and silver icicles. By the time we finish, the whole thing looks fake.
My grandparents’ tree is artificial. A revolving color wheel sits on the plush red tree skirt with an embroidered Santa Claus face. The wheel underneath the tree at the back points up. As it spins, silver icicles hanging from the plastic needles shimmer blue and green, red and orange, the living room of their house becoming a plastic-covered-couch discotheque. My mom learned early that white-trash people, trying to look expensive, do gaudy best.
“Hurry!” I shout into the kitchen. After all, it is Christmas morning.
“They’re ready. Come and get some! Milk or orange juice?”
“Dr. Pepper,” I say, heading down the hall. I drink more soda than anything else.
I always get the middle cinnamon roll. That specific roll is the prime one—all the edges soft and moist, the icing runs into the middle of the cluster, coats the top like a glacier. A paper plate with three rolls and a DP in hand, I head back to the tree.
I sit cross-legged in front of my presents, my breakfast on the coffee table to my left. My mom sits on the couch: smokes, drinks coffee, and nibbles on a roll.
“I want to open this one,” I say, mouth full of food, pointing to one of the boxes of clothes.
“Sure,” she smiles. She has always liked to dress me up as if I was some kind of Ken doll. I hate her taste in clothes.
I shovel the second half of the roll into my still-full mouth. I chew vigorously to make room for air. I lick my fingers clean. Take a gulp of soda
. Pick up the package and struggle with the ribbon. I tear Frosty the Snowman and elves with candy canes, discard the paper to the floor. The white box is taped on all sides.
I hand her the box without even trying to open the flimsy film adhesive. My mother offers a fingernail and promptly gets a paper cut.
“Shit,” she says. “Fuck me. Debbie, you should know better. Let me get a knife.”
I can’t wait that long. I grab the box and rip a spot along the edge of the top between the tape and the corner. The top peels back, I can see the white tissue paper.
“I got it!” I yell.
She comes back out of the kitchen, butter knife in hand, laughing at my impatience. I remove the tissue.
“A sweater and some jeans,” I say with a surprised look on my face.
“That isn’t all,” she says, as she stands behind me.
I reach into the box. There is nothing else in there.
“Look on the pants.”
“Oh, a belt,” I say in a less-than-surprised way.
“What do you think? It’s your Christmas Day outfit.” She smiles with triumph and hands me the butter knife for the rest of the presents, then returns to the couch.
A gray sweater with big aqua diamonds on the front, a pair of black pants with matching black belt: an excellent outfit for going to church on Sundays or to an important family gathering.
Gross.
She smiles endlessly as I hold up the clothes to my body to check the size.
I am a dress-up doll in an ugly sweater.
I know I have to wear it later today. We are going to Mamaw and Papaw’s house for lunch. I have to look my best for the gala of paper plates and casseroles.
“I like it a lot. Thanks, Mom. Your turn.”
She opens her present. This is not as much fun for her; she prefers watching me open mine. I love the moments when I can do something nice for her. The package not bound so neatly, she opens hers without pause.
“Oh, perfume, my favorite.” The look on her face tells me that the gift does not matter, whatever brand it happens to be; the important thing is that the gift was from me. “Thank you, Jason.” By the time she gets that out of her mouth, I am opening the second boxes of clothes. The butter knife makes my job easy.
“All right! A Michigan sweatshirt and a pair of jeans,” I say, honestly excited, they are my favorite college team. Strange for a kid from Texas, I watch Michigan football every Saturday afternoon in the fall. Sure, I like UT, the Longhorns are my family’s favorite. Earl Campbell achieves Muhammad Ali or Hank Aaron status around our Sunday supper conversations. They call him by name. The truth is my grandmother and I watch University of Michigan football together on Saturdays when I spend the night; I like the team mainly for the time I get with my grandma and for the helmets. Every Christmas I receive a new University of Michigan sweatshirt. My mom thinks I will go to law school there; I think I’ll be playing football there until the Dallas Cowboys draft me. Neither one of us knows yet how much of a pipe dream this is.
“You open another one,” she says.
I make a move for the square box. Her eyes brighten and I can tell this is the big present. Solid two or three minutes to undo the bow, ribbons, and wrapping paper. Tape is four layers deep along the edges of the box.
She must go through four or five rolls per gift.
I struggle to pull the plain brown box apart. I can now hear the rattle of the contents. What sounds like one solid object moves from side to side, as I fight with the adhesive. I can tell it takes up most of the box. I reach inside and pullout a telephone. My eyes light up.
“A telephone!” I cry out, excitement overcoming me. I begin to rip through the packaging, removing the plastic and twist ties that hold it all together.
When my mom’s eyes fall on me in pleased ways, a feeling of contentment comes over me that I cannot describe. So much of her life has been turmoil and pain. I just want her to be happy.
“There are a couple of different stickers inside the box,” she explains. “You can change them as often as you want. They have all kinds of sports team and television show decals you can get for it.” She laughs. “You can even get one with Fonzie. Answer the phone HEEEYYY!” Her imitation leaves a lot to be desired.
I ignore her. My focus is on the telephone, a large white square, with the receiver on the left and the number pad to the right. The flat surface of the top is blue with a big gray star. A Dallas Cowboys decal already covers the entire top of the phone, which looks very modern and cool. I search through the box and pull out two more sports decals. The whole idea of having a phone in my room is very exciting to me.
This is a big-kid present for sure.
I take a few minutes to study my new phone. Pick up the receiver, act as if I am talking with someone. The phone is lightweight. The number pad is push-button, not rotary like most of our other phones have been. I feel like a teenager with it in my hand. I forget about the other present still in its wrapping. I plug the phone into the wall and listen to the dial tone.
“This is so great,” I say. “Thanks, Mom, a lot.”
“You have one more to open.”
“You first,” I say, still playing with the phone.
She grabs the second of her gifts. The obvious shape clings to the comic section of newspaper that I used for wrapping paper. She fakes excitement well as she opens it.
“Oh good, a new coffee mug,” she smiles, “I need one of these.”
The mug is black and has quotes from Shakespeare on the front. To be or not to be is the first one. I thought the mug appropriate, considering my mom’s trouble with that question. It has been two years since she last tried to swallow pills and ended up in the mental ward of the hospital. Our life has not changed much. I have moved four times since that night, I have changed schools three times, but we have been together. We spent last year living in this same complex with her friend Pam. Then they got into a fight over money and we moved in here. This rented town house is only the second home we have had that was all ours; I like it even though most nights are lonely.
“All right, last present,” she says, looking at her watch.
I grab the box and shake it to draw out the suspense. “I wonder what this could be. A jigsaw puzzle?”
“You hate those,” she says.
I tear the paper. When the main fold comes undone, I can see the back of a board game. I remove the rest of the paper, flip the box over.
“Scrabble?” I say.
“It’s an adult game. You love words and language so much, poetry and your big vocabulary, I thought you would enjoy this.”
An adult game sounds boring. What a waste. She did remember I like words, but I like Dungeons & Dragons and the handheld Electronic Quarterback video game more.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, feeling a bit unsatisfied. I conceal my feelings with a large kiss and a hug.
“Are you sure you like them, Jason?”
“Yes, Mom. I’m going to call Craig right now,” I say.
Craig and I have a tradition. Every Christmas morning I call him after I open my presents and we discuss what Santa had delivered. I live vicariously through Craig. He always gets cool stuff; Aunt Annie gives the best gifts. Our moms are both single. Yet there is something different about him. Not the fact that he is a year and nine months older, not the fact that he is the youngest grandchild while I am the oldest great-grandchild. He is comfortable being himself. I recognize in him what I lack. He is everything I want to be; I imitate his actions, his sayings, and the things he is into. His favorites become mine. He is meticulous and clean, his room is always spotless.
In my room, there are no posters on the white walls. A dark walnut desk my mother bought for me when we rented this place is the focal point. The dark stain and brass knobs seem more suited to an office or study than a ten-year-old’s bedroom. The window above my bed has Budweiser Beer Budman curtains, which belonged to whoever lived here last. My bed belongs to my dead great-great-gr
andmother. The bed smells like Grandma Spades—dusty body powder and grit. The blanket on top has white pearls of fabric intertwined with the fancy woven cotton top. She made this blanket with her buckled hands. In her bitter old age, her arthritic knuckles were the only frail part of her. At least that is what my family says.
She is in my dreams. We talk feverishly about things I do not understand. I get the sense that she loves me dearly; the fact that I dream of this old dead woman bothers me. I never say anything about my dreams or feelings, scared they will put me into the crazy bin like my mom. I live in silence, uncomfortable about the bed I sleep heavy in and the old woman who does not bother me but will not leave me alone. My only memory of her is not really a memory at all. A framed black-and-white photograph sits on Papaw’s end table. A five-generation image holds the lineage that shapes me. I do not understand the emotion that the grains of the image stir inside my heart. I sit in that old woman’s lap barely nine months old. When I am at my great-grandparents’ house, I stare lost at the photograph for hours. The love trapped under the glass is magical.
My mom crouches behind me on the floor as I start to dial Craig’s number. She squeezes me tightly, an exhale of happiness slow out of her lungs. I hang up the phone and she hugs me as if she is never letting go.
“Why don’t you try on your clothes?” she asks.
“Let’s play a game before we get ready to go,” I say.
“You go try on the pants and I’ll set up the game.” She lets go and moves back to her coffee cup.
I stand up, fetch the pants out of the box, head upstairs. I have a good feeling about today.
The smell of the ice on the roof invades the bright shadow of the gray morning that hangs over my room. The room is crisp; Grandma Spades’s blanket glistens.
The phone should go there on the desk.
I struggle with the black cotton pants. “They’re too tight!” I yell down from my bed.
“Shit, I knew they would be,” she calls back. “Take them off. We’ll bring them back.”
Downstairs, I study the top of the board game. The pink and blue squares are intriguing and there’s a large star in the center. There are no rooms to move pieces into, no elaborate maze of contraptions to construct before trying to snare a plastic mouse. There are no pictures of children falling down ladders into large bins of apples, no dome-covered dice tray that makes annoying sounds every time it is pressed.