Jingle All the Way

by Fern Michaels

  After a long minute, we part and I hug my father. “Bonsoir, Papa. Noël joyeux.”

  After hugging Bridgette, I help them put their bags in the trunk, and we all pile into the car.

  On the drive home I tell them all about my little adventure last night. It feels so good to be speaking French again. My entire family is bilingual—at least half of Montrealers are—but when we’re together we speak our native tongue, and speaking it makes me feel like I’m home. I have so little chance to talk in French in my daily life. It frequently intrudes on my dreams, which are often a mishmash of French and English, but in my day-to-day grind, I can almost forget I’m a native French speaker.

  “So I didn’t get home until really late and didn’t quite get enough sleep last night,” I say in French. “And I didn’t get my townhome cleaned up quite as much as I wanted.”

  “Is that why you look sad, because you’re tired?” my mother says.

  “I’m not sad. I look sad?”

  “Oui. There is a sadness in your eyes. What is it?”

  I think about it for a moment.

  “Well, maybe I’m a little sad about breaking up with Sean. And I’m sad because I met this nice guy yesterday—he was the guy who played Santa last night. And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him all day. The thing is, I’d really like to see him again, but I don’t have his number and I don’t even know his last name.”

  “Can’t you call the organization you volunteered for and see if they’ll give you his name and number?” Bridgette suggests.

  “Oh, maybe. That’s a good idea. But won’t he think I’m stalking him?”

  “I think he’d be flattered.”

  “Maybe I will. But I’ve never asked a guy out before. I’ll think about it.”

  When we get home, I take their coats and show Mom and Dad to the guest room (Bridgette gets to sleep on the couch). Then I heat up some spiced cider spiked with Goldschlager, and we sit around the kitchen table and catch up.

  In the morning, I get up to make breakfast while Mom and Bridgette take turns in the shower. When breakfast is ready, Mom and Bridgette are still styling their hair and putting makeup on. I keep yelling for them to hurry up or the quiche will get cold (even though I’m keeping it warm in the oven), but they still take forever getting ready. Why they feel the need to get decked out as if they are going to the Academy Awards and not opening Christmas presents at home with their family eludes me. I’d forgotten how nuts this drives me. When I still lived at home, I’d sleep in half an hour later than the two of them, go for a half-hour run, and still be ready for school before Mom would be ready for work or Bridgette would be ready for school. They are beautiful women, though; I have to give them that.

  After we finally get to eat we sit around the Christmas tree to open gifts. I miss the Christmas tree I grew up with, which was decorated largely with ornaments Bridgette and I had made. Naturally, they involved lots of popsicle sticks, pipe cleaners, and glued-on googly eyed creatures. Neither Bridgette nor I have ever had a shred of artistic ability, and our whacky-eyed reindeer ornaments and green felt creations were pathetic excuses for decorations, but I liked them anyway. Each year we’d add new ornaments to the collection, and I liked how looking at the tree each year would bring me back to memories of Christmases past. Then one year when I was about fourteen, a pipe burst in our house, destroying most of what we had in storage, including our Christmas tree ornaments. Mom went out and bought a slew of boring bulbs and mass market decorations without heart. That’s the kind of tree I have now. It’s a beautiful (though fake) tree, with a white and blue theme and lots of glittery snowflakes dangling from the branches. It looks picture-perfect, the kind of thing you’d see in a department store or magazine. But I miss the popsicle sticks and misaligned eyes and strangely painted faces of the decorations of our youth.

  We tear into our gifts, ribbons and paper flying. As usual, Bridgette has gotten me a bunch of funky jewelry and hip, low-maintenance clothes. She knows my taste exactly. She knows I like artistic, unusual jewelry as long as it’s not big and clunky, and I like to wear fashionable outfits as long as they don’t take an hour to zip up and fight my way into. And as usual, Mom and Dad have gotten me stuff for my home. Since I have never had a wedding to pile up on dishware and towels, etc., every year they get me stuff-I’d-get-at-my-wedding type gifts. When I was just out of college the gifts were super practical—a colander, a big pot, a frying pan. But as the years have progressed and my salary has increased, the gifts have gotten less practical and more fun. This year they get me a set of very simple yet elegant sterling silver serving bowls and trays. I suspect Bridgette acted as a consultant on this purchase because if my mother had been left to her own devices, she would have probably gone for something very ornate, with detailed etchings of flowers and vines engraved into the servingwear, whereas I am all about simplicity and casual elegance.

  After we exchange gifts, we watch one of the DVDs Bridgette got me for Christmas. Mid-afternoon I get started on dinner. There are no traditional French-Canadian dishes on the menu today, except for dessert. My grandmother used to make this ground pork and veal pie called a tourtière for Christmas every year, and while her recipe is a delicious one, I don’t eat much red meat these days, so I opt for a stuffed goose instead. For dessert, I do make the traditional Christmas dessert called Buche de Noel, a yule log made with genoise sponge cake and buttercream that is to die for.

  We enjoy a pleasant meal and more wine than is really good for us. It’s a very nice, relaxed holiday, without the usual loud racket of little cousins running around whooping it up. But in a way, I sort of miss them. Yes, little kids hog all the attention when they are around, but they are also a lot of fun.

  I make a comment about how I miss our cousins, Adeline and Rochelle. “Of course, if they were here, we couldn’t hear ourselves think, but they’re so much fun.”

  “Well, you should be having your own kids soon,” Mom says. “Then you’ll always have kids around to have fun with.”

  Ugh, I can’t believe I inadvertently brought the you-should-be-having-kids-soon lecture upon myself. I left myself open for attack. Now for a defensive block: “I don’t even have a boyfriend. How do you expect me to have a child?”

  “But you will have children someday, right?”

  “Mom, please don’t bug me about this.”

  Mercifully, she lays off. Instead the conversation turns to how Rochelle and Adeline’s parents are doing. I’m glad Mom isn’t giving me a hard time, but usually we have to argue about this for at least an hour or two, so the fact that she dropped the topic so easily is highly suspicious. Something is going on.

  The reason we argue about me having kids is because one time I said I wasn’t sure I wanted to have children. It was at a time when I was watching my officemate Olivia’s marriage disintegrate, and I saw what a challenge it was for her to become a single mother.

  Olivia and I have worked together for seven years and shared an office for the last five, so we’ve had a chance to become pretty good friends, though it’s the kind of friendship that rarely extends beyond the office since she’s busy being a mom. Back when she was still married, I would share tales of my dating woes, and she would tell me about the everyday stresses of being a wife and mother—things her husband did that drove her crazy, the arguments she had with her mother-in-law, that sort of thing. Even so, she always seemed pretty happy with her life. Yes, she had her struggles, but we all do. So when she broke down crying one day at the office and said she wasn’t sure if she should leave her husband, I was flabbergasted. I had no idea things had gotten so bad at home for her.

  Marriages are like icebergs to outsiders. No matter how close you are to your friend, you can only really know about one-tenth of what her marriage is really like. Nine-tenths of it lurks beneath the surface in the dark, deep unknown.

  That was the time Olivia started becoming obsessed with horoscopes, psychics, and tarot cards. She was so
confused about her life, she wanted guidance from any source she could get her hands on. Her life had gone in a direction she’d never expected. She was lost and scared, and I don’t begrudge her her desire to be comforted with predictions that assure her that, in the end, everything will be all right.

  As it turned out, her husband left her. I was there to see the entire separation and divorce. I heard her talk about how angry her children were that they had to move from their three-bedroom house with a big backyard to a two-bedroom apartment with busy streets surrounding them and no yard at all. I heard all her fears about how tight money was now that she was a single mother (the child support her ex sent was a far cry from the fiscal stability she’d had living in a two-income household), and how scared she was about the possibility she could lose her job one day because how would she support her kids then? It made me realize that while many marriages fail and you can easily go from “wife” back to “single girl,” once you become a mother, you’re a mother forever. Did I really have the courage to shepherd another human being through life, no matter what financial, health, or personal circumstances might be thrown my way?

  Really, my mother’s haranguing makes me want to go out and get my tubes tied just to spite her. My father takes a much better approach. Dad pretends to be a stereotypical French male letch, but he may well be the most hard-core women’s rights activist I know. (Hence my low tolerance for all things sexist.) He’s always saying that the world needs more female leaders and politicians because women aren’t nearly so eager to send their sons and daughters off to get killed in war as male leaders seem to be. He appreciates the beauty of women of all shapes and sizes. He’s very European that way. Europeans don’t see an extra few pounds or a kink in someone’s nose to be a flaw that needs to be surgically changed but as what makes people unique and therefore beautiful. And he talks at length about how amazing women’s bodies are for being able to carry another life within us and then give birth to brand-new human beings. If Mom would focus more on the magic and beauty of having children and less time simply antagonizing me (which causes me to get defensive and contrary), she might have a better chance of helping me overcome my fears.

  The next day, Mom and Dad go to check out Denver on their own for a few hours so Bridgette and I have a chance to catch up. In Canada, the day after Christmas is called Boxing Day. It has something to do with some saint and some legend. The story has a few different versions, but the one I grew up with was that it was the day noblemen “boxed up” gifts for their servants. (Clearly an early form of regifting.)

  Bridgette and I usually go for sushi when we have time alone together since there is no way we could drag our parents to a sushi restaurant, so this is really our only chance to go.

  We order far too much food, but we can’t help ourselves. It’s so much fun to sample all the different possibilities. When our waiter brings us our spicy miso soup to start, I study my sister across the table. It finally hits me that she has been unusually quiet since she got to Denver. She looks sad. Has she been sad this whole time and I just didn’t notice because my mind was too wrapped up with thoughts of Ryan?

  “Bridgette, is something wrong?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I have something I need to tell you.”

  “Mon Dieu, you’re pregnant. That’s why Mom didn’t give me a hard time about not having kids yet yesterday. I knew something was up!”

  “No. I’m not pregnant. Mom will bug you about having kids, don’t worry. I think she was just trying to avoid a fight on Christmas.”

  “Oh, well, what’s up, then?”

  “I broke up with Tristan.”

  “You’re kidding! When? Why didn’t you tell me? Why?”

  “About a month ago. I told you just now. And as for why . . .”

  “I thought you two were talking marriage.”

  “We were. Well, it was mostly me talking marriage. I was bored with our relationship and I wanted a change. I decided that the change should be that we should get married. And then when you finally worked up the courage to break up with Sean, I realized that getting married wasn’t going to solve the problems we were having; it was going to make them a whole lot worse. So I finally broke it off.”

  “I’m so sorry, Bridgette.”

  I reach across the table and take her hands in mine.

  “I know. I wasn’t expecting it to be so hard.”

  “What problems were you having?”

  “We were just bored with each other. Bored with the sex, bored with having the same conversations over and over, bored with doing the same things night after night. I know you have to work at keeping things fresh in a relationship, and I tried, I swear I tried. It wasn’t like we never had fun together. Sometimes we did . . . Aimee, how do people keep their relationships interesting?”

  “Phpt!” I grunt, pushing air through my bottom lip and upper teeth. “How should I know? Do I look like a happily married person to you?”

  “Do you think we expect too much from relationships? Do you think we can ever get married, or will we just get bored someday?”

  “I don’t think it’s easy to keep any relationship passionate and interesting, but I think it’s possible if the relationship is strong enough to begin with. I can’t speak for how things were between you and Tristan, but as for me and Sean, I don’t think the foundation was ever strong enough for the two of us. I think things were really exciting in the beginning, because meeting someone attractive and new is always exciting, and because we got along, our relationship was able to coast along for a really long time after the initial excitement wore off. I just don’t think we ever communicated at the level we needed to to make our relationship long-term.”

  “I feel so scared. I’m not really used to being alone.”

  “I know how you feel.”

  “At least you have a possibility of having someone to date. What was that Santa guy’s name?”

  “Ryan.”

  “He sounds great. You should go for him.”

  “I have to tell you something about him.”

  “D’accord.”

  “He’s in a wheelchair.”

  “What do you mean? He’ll never walk again?”

  “Barring some scientific medical breakthrough, he’ll never walk again.”

  As she takes in this information, her eyebrows furrow, and her lips make this odd pucker-and-twist expression.

  “You don’t approve?” I say.

  She exhales a deep sigh. “No, it’s not that, it’s just . . . you’re so into sports, I can’t really see you with a guy who isn’t also into sports.”

  “He used to be into sports. He was driving home from skiing in the mountains when he got into his accident.”

  “That’s all fine, but it’s not what I mean. I mean the next time you want to go skiing, you won’t be able to go with him. Relationships are hard enough even without a major obstacle built in before you even get started.”

  “Look, all I know is that I had so much fun talking with him the other night, and I find him so attractive, and he’s really kind and—”

  “I’m not saying I don’t approve. I’m just . . . concerned. What if things don’t work out?”

  “No relationship is guaranteed to work out.”

  “I know that, Aimee, but just think about how hard it was for you to break up with Sean. Can you imagine how hard it would be to break up with a guy with a disability?”

  I nod. I see her point.

  “But you know what,” she goes on, “if you’re into this guy, you should go for it. You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t see if things can work out.”

  “You think so?”

  “I do.”

  That afternoon, my mother takes Bridgette and me for our traditional post-Christmas spa day (although granted, it’s just half a day). We get facials, manicures, pedicures, and massages. Mom says it’s so we girls can bond and relax, but secretly I think she’s appalled by the state of my cuticles and po
res, and this is an excuse for her to get me cleaned up, even if it is just once a year. And while I may not be all that into makeup, I have absolutely nothing against being pampered, so you won’t see me complaining.

  All through the day, as my face is being steamed, my feet are being pumiced, my nails are being painted, and my back muscles are kneaded into a heavenly state of relaxation, my thoughts turn to Ryan.

  I’m just going to call him. What’s the worst that could happen? He could turn me down. I’ll get over it. Eventually. I’ll probably never have to see him again, so what’s the big deal?

  When we get home, I stare at my telephone for a long time.

  I’m definitely going call him. Just not today.

  CHAPTER THREE

  On the last day my family is in town, we drive to the mountains for a day of snowmobiling. The snowmobile rental place outfits us in suits, boots, gloves, and helmets. The black outfits and helmets make my family members look like Evel Knievel wannabees.

  We each get a snowmobile and instructions for how to use them, and then we take off through the snowy woods.

  We all go rather slowly and cautiously at first. I’m the first person to increase the speed so I really feel like I’m flying, but soon the rest of my family is following suit. I’m not surprised by my dad hurtling through the woods at a pace that feels like it could break the sound barrier, but I’m impressed that my elegant mother and sister are adventurous enough to speed through the forested mountains.

  Racing through the snow and trees feels exhilarating and liberating and scary, all at the same time.

  Then it occurs to me that Ryan will never be able to go snowmobiling like this. I wonder if he’d ever gone before his accident. Will he ever know what it’s like?

  When we get home, my parents and sister lie down to take naps before we go out to dinner.

  I go into my bedroom, close the door, and do some deep breathing and positive visualization exercises like I used to do before a big swim meet or a softball match. Again, I stare at the phone for several minutes before I finally pick it up and call For the Children as fast as ripping off a bandage. I tell them that I went to the Children’s Hospital on Christmas Eve eve and the guy who played Santa lent me his gloves and I’d forgotten to give them back to him. (I figured that lie sounded better than saying, “I thought Santa was a babe and I want to ask him on a date.”)