Everything Is Horrible and Wonderful

by Stephanie Wittels Wachs

  Naturally, Iris’s first Christmas was a big deal, and I wanted it to be special for her despite all the heavy shit that was weighing the rest of us down. I was still bothered by what Harris said on the porch but had chosen to go with the reasonable side of my brain that assured me he didn’t mean it. I just wanted him to stay sober, and making it about my poor, hurt feelings wasn’t a means to that end. Love was the best thing I could offer at this point. And what better day to give it than on Christmas?

  We got to my parents’ around 10:00 a.m. to find the room littered with presents, all for Iris. Presents on the floor, presents on the table, presents on the sofa, presents in the kitchen. Wrapped presents, presents in gift bags, presents in envelopes. Presents everywhere. We tried to do the whole happy Christmas morning song and dance for her benefit, but it was hard to muster the strength. Especially for Harris. He tried to participate but was still so sick from detox and had to go back to bed within minutes.

  After Iris opened the last of her presents and scraps of wrapping paper coated the floor of the living room, I found a check for $6,000 sitting on the kitchen counter, folded up in a piece of scrap paper from a Houston SPCA notepad. On the bottom of the page sat a picture of a dog and cat playing with a blue ball of yarn. Scribbled in pencil on the back of the paper was a note that read:

  Sorry for no card.

  I’ve been going through stuff if you haven’t noticed.

  Anyways.

  Here is to being besties again.

  Hope this helps with Iris in some way.

  Love you

  —Brother

  Only a couple days earlier I’d been complaining about the burden of Iris’s hearing aids not being covered by insurance and having to pay up to $6,000 out of pocket when her loaner pair expires. My stress was apparent. Even with all the shit he’d been going through, Harris still managed to hear me. He still managed to come through and save the day. I was so grateful. I couldn’t do these sorts of things for him. We got him a gift card to Chili’s. I mean, he loved Chili’s, but it was no $6,000.

  31

  Ten Months, Five Days

  It’s our first Christmas without you.

  How did we get from there to here? Last Christmas Eve, you were home. You were alive. You were detoxing. It was agony, but you were here.

  The Christmas Eve before, I was eight months pregnant. A world of promise curled up inside my belly. Mike brought home a key lime pie, my favorite. We ate it together on the sofa, right out of the box with two forks.

  The Christmas Eve before that, Mike proposed to me in bed in the middle of the night, one year to the minute after we’d met. It was as joyous a moment as I’ve known.

  Ten years ago, our family was making s’mores by the fireplace in our childhood home. We stuck marshmallows on unfurled wire coat hangers. We let them catch fire. Our overweight cocker spaniel, Buster, kept stealing them off the table as they cooled.

  This Christmas Eve, you are dead. Permanently and forever gone.

  Once it gets dark, we drive around and look at Christmas lights, as we do every year. Iris, Mom, and Dad are in the back seat. Mike drives. I sit in the passenger seat. Iris is on the hunt for Santa Claus, or “Kiki Cause,” as she calls him. She keeps shouting, “Bapa! Where Kiki Cause?!” Dad tells her to keep her eyes peeled. He said the same thing to us when we were little.

  We drive slowly around the mansion-clad neighborhood of River Oaks with the windows rolled down, since it’s eighty degrees in Houston. We see sprawling trees dripping with twinkling lights, inflatable Santas and snowmen, and nativity scenes. We sing “Jingle Bells” and “Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer.”

  At some point, Dad quietly says, “We used to drive over here every Christmas Eve to look at these lights.” The car goes silent. And the silence says what it always says: Harris should be here. It’s the same sound the fireworks made on our first Fourth of July without you. As we watched the epic fireworks show from Mom and Dad’s balcony, Mom grabbed me by the waist and held on tight. Every exploding mass of light whispered Harris, and we both heard it.

  There’s no way to tune it out. It’s a frequency that’s always ringing in our ears.

  Christmas Day is even worse. It knocks me down, drags me out by my hair, and leaves me dismembered all over again.

  Iris wakes up at 5:55 a.m., but I’ve been awake for the last half hour, lying in bed, thinking about Christmas mornings when we were kids. I remember getting one of those little red and yellow Cozy Coupe cars one year and you and I taking turns riding it up and down our block. When I was six, we got our cocker spaniel. You wanted to name him Ghostbuster. I threw a fit, so Dad used it as an opportunity to teach us about compromise: we settled on Buster. He lived until he was sixteen. I was a junior in college. His death was really hard on you. We loved that dog.

  I turn off the baby monitor, throw on my robe, and walk down the hall to Iris’s room. I lift her out of her crib, and she wraps her little arms tightly around my neck. It’s the best part of my day. We sit in the big rocking chair where she lays on my lap with her head nestled against my chest. We rock back and forth as she slowly wakes up. After a few quiet moments, she pops up, looks at me, and starts giggling. I giggle back. She giggles back. This goes on for several rounds.

  “Light,” she says and points to the lamp. I turn it on. Our eyes squint to adjust.

  “Iris, guess who you’re gonna see today?”

  “Ummm…”

  “Santa Claus!”

  “He ’cary.”

  “No, he’s not scary. He is a nice man who brings presents to good little boys and girls. Are you a good girl?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Well, Santa came to Momo-Bapa’s house last night and brought lots of presents for Iris. Do you want some presents?”

  “Yeah! I open dem!”

  “That’s right. How many presents will you open?”

  “Ummm, tree!”

  “Three? How about ten?”

  “Yeah, ten!”

  Iris is electrified. She jumps out of my lap, and the whirlwind of our morning routine begins. I soundcheck and put in her hearing aids, she demands milk, we migrate downstairs, she eats grapes—lots of grapes—and watches episodes of Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood, Angelina Ballerina, and Barney. Mike heads downstairs around 8:00 a.m. in his colorful Peruvian robe; I purchased one for each of us on our second anniversary, the cotton year. They’re from the Hotel Havana where we stayed in San Antonio during our road trip through West Texas last December.

  We take turns getting dressed. Between Iris having a meltdown when I leave the room to take a shower and Mike locking himself in his office to handwrite his eight-page letter from Santa, we are running a solid hour behind. Mom texts me several times that morning about bagels and lox, eggs and biscuits, and a list of grocery stores that would be open on Christmas Day. It’s the most Jewish correspondence a person could ever have on Christmas morning.

  We finally arrive at their house a little after 10:00 a.m. As we pull up to the building, Iris starts clapping and screaming, “Momobapa!” She often combines their names into one name. We get out of the car, and Iris runs to the elevators to press the Up button. We ride up seventeen floors. She jumps up and down. She always loves to jump up and down in a moving elevator. When the doors open, she and the dog chase each other down the long hallway to their door. Dad opens it with an enthusiasm strictly reserved for Iris. I catch a glimpse into the living room, littered with presents. More presents than any almost-two-year-old would ever need or deserve. But this isn’t really for her. It’s for them. They need this the most.

  She doesn’t know where to start. She bangs on a big box and starts tearing the paper off it in tiny pieces. She lights up when a remote-controlled Olaf appears. She is excited to hear him say, “Hi! I’m Olaf, and I like warm hugs” when she presses the little button on his hand.
A noise-making toy is such a dick move. He holds her attention for about twenty-five seconds until she moves on to the next shiny object, rips the paper off, throws it all over the room, plays with the thing inside for several seconds, gets distracted by the next shiny object, etc. She’s having a ball.

  But the focal point of Christmas Day has never been the presents. It’s always been the annual letter from “Santa.” Sometimes I would read it; sometimes you would. But Dad was always the one to watch. He wore the most content and satisfied look on his face as they were read. Dad never excelled at expressing his emotions, but this was his way. This was how he told us how proud he was of us, how much joy we brought him, how much he loved us.

  All the letters now sit in an orange file folder labeled Santa Letters in a file cabinet in my guest-bedroom closet. Collectively, they read like a Wittels family history. The oldest letter dates back to 1985, when I was four and you were one. Up until 1999, they were all composed in Dad’s illegible chicken scratch. Post-2000, Santa got a PC and started typing the letters.

  Dad’s notes to you feel especially poignant in hindsight. Reading through them now feels like an exercise in Greek tragedy. I want to cry out to the protagonist, “Hey! You’re doomed! Pay attention! Take another path!” But that’s the thing about Greek tragedy: the hero’s downfall is inevitable. That’s why it’s so tragic. The audience feels pathos because they know what’s coming but can’t do anything to stop it.

  Here are some of my favorite excerpts from Santa’s notes to you:

  2000

  When you were small, your parents could protect you from most trouble and problems. As you get older, your parents cannot protect you from many troubles and problems. Santa has confident that your mother’s teachings will help you to make the right decisions when things don’t go your way.

  Thank you for the milk and cookies. Santa is a hungry dude.

  Love

  The Clauses

  2007

  HARRIS—A REGULAR DYNAMO IN LA. HARRIS, TOO MUCH WORRY IS NOT GOOD FOR A COMEDIAN OR ANYONE ELSE, TAKES A LOT OF TIME AND WORK TO LEARN AN ACT. CHIMNEY SLIDING WAS HARD FOR SANTA TO LEARN. LAST HARD THING I REMEMBER. HAVE FUN AND PLEASE TELL YUR FATHER ALL ABOUT THE FUN. THE OLD GUY NEEDS A THRILL. HAVE FUN, ENJOY, LAUGH, LOVE, AND USE PROTECTION.

  2009

  Harris, thank goodness you got your dada’s hair and body. U never looked better. Truly LA and getting famous. U do know how to live. The number of people u know and things u have accomplished are incredible. Santa has not met his next door neighbors and has trouble accomplishing a BM.

  But prepare for leaner days. The only thing that never goes down is old mrs claus. But that is for a different letter.

  2010

  Harris—if you work hard, your mother worries that you are too tired and that you will burn out. If you are not working hard, your mother worries that your career is over. Either way she gets to worry and she does enjoy a good worry. Your father worries that he will not get to see pictures of your dates.

  It is good to take time to relax, recharge batteries. It is not only what you do, but the kind of person you are. Do not work so hard that you lose yourself, because yourself is terrific and to lose it would be a real lose. Besides there is no sense working for the money, the new communist governor of California will take all your money. Remember that it is raining in LA, so do not forget to wear your rubbers. The claus’ are really proud of you.

  2011

  Harris, the old demented frail santa and the hot, sexy, voluptuous mrs claus are sooo proud of you. U have accomplished so much in so short a time. U have so much going on and have had so much success in all that you have done. Mrs claus is always able to find the dark lining in every silver cloud and worries that you have too much going on. Save some energy for you. You are gifted and talented and very cool and you are also beautiful. Clearly you both have inherited your father’s good looks. Harris, the only person who can stop you from reaching your goals is you.

  2014

  Dear people;

  This year almost did Santa in. 2014 had unbelievable ups and downs. Talking of ups and downs, there are always the insatiable needs of Mrs. Claus. Old Santa is worn down. It wasn’t that there was good and there was bad, it was the rapid changes from good to bad and back. Let us remember:

  Stephanie had a little girl BUT, The little girl has a hearing problem.

  We were told and thought that this precious baby could have the worst genetic hearing problem possible. BUT lots of tests later, No she did not have a bad genetic problem. Now, you are told that she has a mild, moderate, severe hearing loss—Whatever that means. The baby is a normal, really smart 11 month old.

  Iris even gets up in a great mood BUT she gets up at 5 a.m.

  The voluptuous Mrs. Claus gives new meaning to “thar she blows” Sorry, Santa also has fantasies that will never happen

  Mike has finished 1 full year of selling real estate, but Mike had some slow times

  Mike sold lots of real estate recently—he is establishing himself and doing it fast

  Hold on. Stop the letter. What, not now Mrs. Claus I am busy. Start without me. Insatiable I tell you.

  Mike is taking his wife and daughter to Phoenix BUT, Mike is driving his wife and daughter to Phoenix. Can you all join Santa in saying “That is really a fucked idea.” Stephanie believes in Mike. Wonderful to see. Let us see if she still believes in him after she reaches Phoenix.

  Harris knows lots of people in LA and does lots of great things.

  Harris still loves writing, but Harris has had some rough times. Harris is working hard at doing better. It is tough.

  We love and support Harris. He is worth it.

  Stephanie, Mike and Harris—wonderful people BUT there are lost liberals. We pray that they find in their brains what scientists call the O’Reilly factor.

  Iris is the spirit in the family. Mrs. Claus holds the family together. Santa peas a lot.

  Santa thinks this is the most wonderful Christmas of all. This year we were all tested and we survived as individuals and as a family. Say what you want, think what you want, one thing is clear—We have been here for one another this very tough year.

  So, keep the faith. Trust 2015 will be lots better and Santa will see you next year.

  That was the last letter Santa ever wrote. I read it aloud last December as you lay on the couch, shivering, wrapped up in a hoodie and a blanket, watching your niece eat wrapping paper off the floor.

  Now that you’re gone, Dad is done writing letters. Now that you’re gone, Dad is just done. So this year, Mike takes over.

  Iris gets her first letter from Santa this Christmas morning. It’s eight pages handwritten and sits on the coffee table in a bulging, fat envelope labeled Iris in red crayon. I pick up the letter as Iris opens her last present and start to read it aloud.

  Mom quickly interrupts. “Let’s finish with these gifts first.” I put the letter in my lap until Iris finishes, then try to start again, but Mom is busying herself with the toy manual to the battery-operated Olaf. She refuses to look at Mike or me. She doesn’t want to pay attention, and it’s really fucking annoying to me. “Mom, Mike worked on this for five hours.”

  She puts down the card and focuses her attention on Mike.

  I continue reading and do fine until I get to this paragraph:

  “This year has been hard. Uncle Harris left way too soon. It’s like a big crater was left in Mommy, Momo, Bapa, and Daddy. It’s hard to explain to you now, but any time they thought it was too much, they’d see your smile, hear your laugh, or remember something hilarious you did, you’d start building more and more ground around that crater. Everyone loves you so much for that. I’m sure Uncle Harris is thankful that you’re able to make them smile.”

  I pause. I breathe. I try to keep reading, but when I get to the next part about Mom working
to help other families with craters, I throw my head down and audibly weep. Mom cries, too. Dad has tears in his eyes.

  “These are supposed to be funny,” I say.

  “Not much to be funny about this year,” Dad replies.

  Iris continues to play with Olaf.

  32

  Before

  December 26, 2014

  The day after her first Christmas, eleven-month-old Iris, Mike, and I packed up the Ford Explorer and drove far, far away from Houston and my parents and Harris and heroin. The destination was Phoenix, and we got there via West Texas. It was a lovely road trip for the most part, except for the eleven-hour stretch between Marfa and Phoenix, where I developed a head cold and Iris was done with her car seat thirty minutes in, and I wanted us to drive the car right off the road but played hours of Yo Gabba Gabba! on the iPad instead. It mostly worked.

  I hated to leave Harris in the state he was in and wouldn’t had I known it would be the last time I saw him, but the plan was for him to check into a rehab in LA and move into sober living. Nobody, including Harris, trusted that he could get from our parents’ house in Houston to a rehab in LA without relapsing, so my mom flew out there with him to act as bodyguard. She didn’t let him out of her sight, except for one night when he begged her to let him go visit his friends Paul and Lesley for an hour, just to talk and reconnect. He swore it would be fine and that she could trust him.