My sister, always the jokester, replies, “Mom and Dad would’ve left me home with the family mice. Hell, they we’re going to leave me with strangers in an airport bar.” She turns to me. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
I kiss her on the cheek. “Go inside, sis, and make yourself at home. The bourbon is on the top shelf of the corner cabinet in the dining room.”
Walking up behind Philip, I hear his mother, Barbara, say, “Can somebody please get the door? These bags are getting heavy.”
Philip jumps into the rescue. “Sorry, Mom. Here, let me help you.”
Barbara stops abruptly, waves a black leather glove at him, and he nearly falls back into me. “No, Phil,” she says. “You will not carry your own Christmas gifts.” She yells to her husband, Jim, for help.
With Jim at her side, Barbara continues, “You wouldn’t believe how swamped the Burlington mall was. And the people were rude. They’d cut in front of me with no idea that I was even standing there. Oblivious! I almost decked—”
“Would you hurry up, Barb!” Jim was standing close to us, his arms stacked with Christmas packages and grocery bags Barbara had handed him. In the glow of the porch light, I could see Jim’s meticulously short brown hair slicked to the nines, and his handlebar moustache trimmed in Hercule Poirot fashion. “Just hurry up, will ya! It’s freezing out here. You can tell the boys all about your day when we get inside. These packages are killing my arms.”
Barbara whirls around, eyes wide, as if somebody had asked her to shovel the front steps.
To add insult to injury, Barbara glares at Jim, adding, “Age before beauty.”
I want to say: This is going to be the best Christmas ever, but I keep my comments to myself.
Chapter 16
Inside the house, my father shrugs out of his coat, dripping snow all over the kitchen tiles. “This is a big effing house,” he announces, and bends as far as his arthritic back will allow him, and pets Darth Vader on the top of his head.
Darth’s tail thumps the floor excitedly.
My sister is at my side. “Where’s the bourbon?”
I point in the direction of the dining room and she disappears quickly out of sight.
“Darth is a long story,” I tell my father. The playful interaction between my father and Darth calms my nerves. I smile as happiness settles over me.
Then I hear the soft tunes of Nat King Cole playing. My sister pokes her sage green eyes around the corner. “Nice stereo, bro. But do you have any Tim McGraw?”
It is going to be a long week.
Philip helps me put away groceries and he asks, wedging cartons of eggnog and his mother’s rum fruitcake into the fridge, “How are you holding up?”
A nervous laugh ejects from the pit of my stomach. “So far so good.”
“I’m sorry for my parents’ outburst earlier.”
“The more the merrier. At least everybody is getting along.”
Then we hear an arsenal of high-spirited words and a crashing thud. Darth is barking.
Philip looks at me, wide-eyed. “Spoke too soon.”
I slam the refrigerator door shut and we race into the living room, where Philip’s parents and my mother are hovering over my father in the middle of the room. “What happened?” I ask, panic in my voice.
Philip sidesteps the overturned ottoman and leans down to pull my father slowly to his feet. “Are you all right, Henry?”
I am at my father’s side, reaching for his fallen cane on the floor. “Dad?”
He flaps a fleshy hand at us, grabbing the cane. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I just lost my footing, that’s all.”
My mother says, pointing at a cowering Darth, “I saw it. Your dog tripped him.”
“Mom,” I say.
“I saw it. The dog. He walked right under your father’s feet and tripped him.”
Dad is waving at us manically. I turn to look at Darth who is lying in his doggie bed next to Paula and the Christmas tree. My father says, glaring up at my mother, “It wasn’t the dog’s fault, Lori. I got dizzy and tripped over the ottoman. Nothing is broken. I’m fine. I’m probably just overwhelmed to be home with my son and his husband.”
I feel my heart racing. A hand flies to my mouth. Philip slides his arm along my lower back.
Husband.
I say, “Dad—”
But he cuts me off, wiping his bald spot with a trembling hand. “We’re damn proud of you, son. Damn proud!”
My mother is on my right side, consoling me.
My father’s voice cracks as he says, pointing up at Philip and me, “Your mom and I could not ask for better sons. We love you both.” His eyes mist over, and he pauses, looking to where my mother stands beside me. He nods at her, extending his hand, wheezing. “Get my pills for me?”
Mom rummages inside one of her luggage bags on the floor. She pulls out an orange pill bottle. She unclasps the childproof cap and digs out a large white pill and hands it to Dad.
He dry-swallows it.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
My father shakes his head, grunting. “Arthritis, son. It comes with age.”
My mother says to me, gesturing towards Philip to change the conversation, “We don’t see enough of the two of you. Your dad and I didn’t want to miss being here in Milestone County for Christmas.”
I look to where my sister sits on the floor next to Darth in front of the lopsided Christmas tree, her legs crossed. She runs her hand up and down the dog’s back as his head lolls in Paula’s lap. Paula holds a tumbler of Johnnie Walker in her other hand.
She is going to need help getting down the basement stairs to her bed, I tell myself.
She raises the glass to me. Over her glassy stare, I notice that she is already three-sheets-to-the-wind.
I smile. My mother hugs me.
Chapter 17
Later that night, we all attend midnight Mass downtown at St. Thomas’s Episcopal Church in Trinity Park.
Everyone except my father, that is. “The dog and I are comfortably fine sitting here in front of the fire,” he says.
At the church, Philip and his mother walk up the marble stairs to the red front doors, his father trailing closely behind, adjusting the blue silk checkered scarf around his neck and yanking the collar on his wool jacket, holding it closed against the sharp chill. I wait outside with my mother. I wave at Philip to let him know we will join them shortly. As wisps of snowflakes fly around us, I ask my mother, “Is there something you’re not telling me about Dad?”
She looks dumbfounded, her face wrinkled in question. A muscle in her bottom lip twitches. “No. Why?”
I stare down at my hands, my fingers interlocking nervously. “Don’t beat around the bush, Mom. Tell me what’s really going on.”
The muscle in her lip jerks faster. She sighs. “It’s Christmas. Let’s enjoy each other’s company, okay?” She pats me on the arm and turns and ambles up the stairs.
“Is Dad sick? Is he dying?” I ask.
My mother stops on the middle step and grips the snowy metal railing. She turns halfway, clasps her necklace, and glances down at me. The bright light from the LED lampposts illuminates her striking features. “We’re all dying,” she says.
I come up behind her, place my hand on her back to comfort her. “What’s wrong with Dad?”
The last of the congregation passes us in haste to get into the warm church.
I ask my mother, “Is Dad dying?”
A firm nod. “He didn’t want me to say anything.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Brain tumor. It’s inoperable,” she says through tears.
I pull her into me and we both stand in the falling snow, an icy wind whipping around us.
“How long has he known?” I ask.
A pause. “Two years.”
I lean back. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“He didn’t want me to say anything,” she says, blowing into a tissue.
“My own
father—” I say, and the words trail off into the wind.
After standing quiet in the cold for a few minutes, we head inside.
Mass is an hour long.
We meet and greet other members. But I am in no mood to mingle and chitchat with the other parishioners. Philip pulls me aside in one of the near-empty pews. He looks like I feel, perplexed. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “You’ve been unusually quiet tonight.”
I am overtaken with grief and I start to tremble. “What’s happened?” he asks.
In the crook of his neck, I mumble, “My dad’s not well. He’s sick. He’s…dying.”
Philip looks more confused by this announcement. “What is it?”
“Brain tumor. My mother says it’s inoperable.”
“But he seems fine. He’s full of energy.”
“Two years and nobody calls me,” I say, my voice climbing a decibel too high.
Philip hugs me. It feels reassuring.
“I suspect that’s why he fell back at the house,” Philip says.
“He looks pale and thinner to me.”
Philip’s parents walk over to us. My mother is at my side, crying into a tissue. “I’m so sorry, Chris.”
I pull out of Philip’s arms and turn to her. “There has to be something we can do for him.”
She holds her hands out as if asking for a hug. “Your father wanted to be here to enjoy whatever time he has left with his family. That’s what we’re going to do.” She pauses to blow her nose. “I’m sorry for not telling you when we spoke on the phone. Your father didn’t want me to say anything.”
“Does Paula know?” I ask.
She nods.
My skin prickles from a chill in the air. “You told her but not me?”
“She lives across town from us,” Lori says.
“I’m a phone call away,” I tell her, my heartbeat pounding hard in my ears.
Philip grabs my hand and whispers into my ear, “Why don’t we go for a walk?”
“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” I hear my mother say as Philip and I leave the church.
* * * *
Outside, Philip and I sit on a bench in Trinity Park. Philip slips in next to me and wraps an arm over my shoulder. “I’m sorry you’re going through this.”
“I had a feeling something was wrong,” I say into the brisk night, wiping my nose with one of Philip’s handkerchiefs. “My father didn’t trip over Darth. He fell because he’s weak.”
“Which would explain your mother’s reaction in blaming Darth,” Philip says.
I watch the late-leaving churchgoers pile out of the front doors of the church. “I haven’t seen my parents for eight years.” I inhale the brisk air, and release slowly. “They rarely came to visit when Russ and I were together.” I squeeze Philip’s hand. “My father didn’t like him, but he seems to admire you, which I’m happy to see.”
“Chris—”
“This might be the last Christmas I have with my father,” I say.
I notice our families leaving the church, thanking Father O’ Brian with an interlocking of hands and wide smiles. Our mothers hold on to each other as they descend the stairs. Philip’s father, Jim, waves at us to join them.
The warmth of Philip’s hand falls across my lap, calming me. “What do you say we go back to the house?” he suggests. “We can get something to eat.” He kisses my forehead.
“I’m not hungry.” I turn to him, teary eyed. “I don’t know if I can face my father this way.”
“I’m here for you,” he says. “Always will be. Whatever you need let me know. Come on, let’s go home.”
Chapter 18
Around two-thirty that morning, I am rattled out of a light sleep.
The sound is muffled and far-off.
I look to where Philip snores beside me, dead to the world.
I lie in bed, listening to a sharp needling of sleet striking the windowpanes.
Seconds later, when the thudding noise grows louder, I toss the comforter off me and crawl out of bed, tiptoeing across the room, slinking out into the hallway.
The moment I step out into the hall, I am engulfed with the aromatic smells of chocolate chip cookies wafting in the air.
I check in on my parents who are three doors down from our room. I poke my head into one of the two spare bedrooms and listen to the growling snorts and spurts of my father fast asleep.
The room is too dark to see anything.
As I shut the door and turn and head back to my bedroom, I hear a muffled noise down the hallway.
Stepping through the archway of the dining room and kitchen, I see my mother opening and closing cupboards, searching for measuring spoons and bowls.
“Mom?” I say, my voice thick with sleep. I blink my eyes against the harsh kitchen lights.
She whirls around, her baggy eyes alarmed. Her face is caked with flour. She stares at me like an animal caught in the headlights of a car. “Oh Chris, dear. I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to bed.” She flutters her hands at me like she did when I was younger and a gust of flour billows into the air. “Where are your large mixing bowls?”
I walk into the room. “What are you making?”
“My famous chocolate and peanut butter trifle, and potato au gratin. I’m handy with pots and pans, you know.”
I nod, grinning and yawning. “My childhood would attest to it,” I say, looking at the sifter of whiskey on the counter by her elbow. “All those wonderful desserts you used to make us.”
“Don’t forget those midnight snacks too.” She sighs, gulping her drink of choice, placing the glass down a tad too hard into the sink, and opening a top cupboard, poking around inside. “I still love baking. It’s therapeutic.”
To pass the time or ignore life’s hard realities? I want to ask, but I say instead, “Can’t sleep?”
She shakes her head without looking back at me.
I pull out a chair and take a seat at the kitchen table. I watch my mother rummaging frantically in the cupboards for something, flipping open doors and closing them like she is Vanna White turning letters. I am reminded how much I am like my mother: a lively, frantic soul anxious about everything.
I look at her and wonder: How many more years do we have together?
Closing my eyes against a surge of stinging tears, I lean my head forward into my tented hands, praying. I think of Dad leaving us.
Then my mother pipes up, breaking the stillness.
I open my eyes to her motherly hands sliding over my shoulders, consoling me, fingerprints of flour on my pajamas. She leans down and whispers, “Your father and I appreciate all you have done for us. Bringing us here to your home for Christmas has made us very happy.”
It’s been too long.
“Mom. Please sit.” I guide her from behind my chair to the seat opposite me.
She is breathless. “But I need to finish my amazing trifle.”
I wave at the disarranged marble counter. “Your trifle is the last thing on my mind right now.”
She heaves a guttural groan and twirls her wedding ring between her fingers.
“You all right?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Fine. I just want to finish my desserts. I’m up against the clock.”
“How much time does Dad have left?” I ask matter-of-factly, altering the conversation.
I hear the unsteady rhythm of her breathing change course. It is thin like a broken flute. “I don’t know.” She is raspy as if a heavy bout of seasonal pneumonia is settling deep in her chest.
I reach my hand out to her. She shakes her head. “The doctor says a year. Maybe two. But that’s reaching.”
“What was that pill you gave Dad earlier tonight?”
She looks away, to the window, where sleet drums the eaves along the house. She coils her hands into a tight-fisted ball in front of her. Another head shake. “I can’t pronounce it. It’s for headaches.”
I exhale, look up at the ceiling, over to the messy countertop, and
back to my mother.
Her eyes are misty. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about all of this before, sweetie. But your father and I knew how hard the news would be for you to digest right after your breakup with Russ. It wasn’t the right time.”
I shake my head. “Stop making excuses. I could’ve been there for him. You and Dad are my life.”
We listen to wet snow pattering against the slate roof. The wind howls beyond the band of trees in the backyard.
My mother grabs my hand and holds it.
My shoulders tremble. I bury my face in my hands.
My mother pushes the chair out and stands. She circles the table, wrapping her body around me and holding me like when I was five.
Through my muffled sobs, I say, “There has to be something we can do for him.” She pulls me into her arms, trying to calm me.
“We’ve tried everything we can. Medication. Acupuncture. Swimming at YMCA. We’ve even optioned surgery.” She pauses. “Dad doesn’t want it.”
“Why not?” I ask, bothered by her answer.
A shrug. “You know your father. He’s stubborn as an ox. He doesn’t like to answer to anyone, including me.”
She grips me in a strong hug. “Hey, how about a cup of hot cocoa?” she asks. “It was your favorite drink as a child.”
I grin. “Sounds good.”
Ten minutes later, we are drinking hot chocolate and dunking my mother’s homemade chocolate chip cookies into the thick, creamy beverage.
“My trifle will knock everybody’s socks off, nobody will know the cookies are gone,” my mother mumbles between bites.
I smile and hold her hand. “How long have you been baking?”
She grunts. “About two hours.”
I gaze at her as if she has lost her mind. “You need to get some sleep, Mom.”
“Are you and Philip happy?” she asks, changing the subject.
I nod. “Philip saved me from my depression. If it wasn’t for him—” I close my eyes. “He’s a prayer answered. I couldn’t ask for a more caring, loving man.”
“The two of you look content. I was watching you tonight in church. You look the happiest you’ve been in years, Chris. I am proud of you.”
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