A Kiss Under the Mistletoe

by Jennifer Basye Sander

  The day my world came apart, and the day it came together, was the day after Thanksgiving in 1989. It was my personal “black Friday,” the day I hit bottom.

  Thanksgiving had been just another miserable holiday for me. I spent it alone, holed up in my fancy condo on the north side of Chicago. I sat in my comfy white chair—a big tumbler of vodka in hand—overlooking Lake Michigan. It was only 2:30 in the afternoon, and I was already far too drunk. I was a daily, maintenance drinker by then and—although I started drinking in the morning—I usually paced myself so that I wouldn’t pass out until around 9 p.m. But not this day. I had totally overshot my mark. What was I going to do? I couldn’t stop drinking; I couldn’t even slow down. And if I had a couple more, I’d surely pass out in the chair. Somehow the idea of passing out in the middle of the day was horrific. I knew I was a bad drunk, but not that bad.

  And then something happened. Some people call it a moment of clarity. But right then, I knew the jig was up. My life passed before my eyes. I sped through the years of hopping from one advertising agency job to another—a jump ahead of getting fired for lack of performance, lack of attendance or lack of anything resembling a good attitude toward my coworkers, my bosses or the clients. I drank that promising career away, and now I was unemployed yet again.

  I had never been married…never had any kids. I ticked off my list of unhealthy love interests that mostly centered around us getting drunk or getting high. I was estranged from my parents and other relatives. I had no girlfriends and the couple of men friends I had were only drinking buddies. And they’d pretty much given up on me, too.

  I looked at all the mistakes I’d made, the harebrained schemes, the moves to different cities. Running…always running away from something or someone, some bad decision, the wrong job or the wrong relationship. Running away from my dysfunctional childhood. Oh, I could always drag out that old drama and try to elicit a sympathetic ear. But somehow all the running away from the truth about myself stopped and started in that white chair, in the middle of the day, the day after Thanksgiving.

  I looked around my beautiful living room. Everything became slightly out of focus. I couldn’t really hear the TV—my constant companion. It’s as if my whole world were put on mute. I felt weightless in that chair. And I knew this all had to stop. I knew my entire life and everything that had happened was centered around my alcoholism; the key to me was alcohol. I faced it and, for a split second, something in me surrendered, and I opened myself up to possibilities. I whispered, “Now what?”

  Suddenly the phone rang—this didn’t happen often. And then someone was buzzing me from the downstairs lobby—this never happened. I picked up the phone. It was my old boyfriend, Tom. We were together for a couple of drunken years, and then he decided to get sober. I asked him to hold as I went to the intercom. It was a nurse I’d met at one of the AA meetings I attended as Tom’s “significant other.”

  Between the two of them, double-teaming in an intervention, I agreed to check myself into a treatment center. As the phone calls were placed and the arrangements made, I sat in wonder that all this was unfolding in front of me, and that I was actually going along with it. Could I really break up with the bottle? Could I leave this long-term relationship behind?

  Several days later, I found myself walking up the steps to a twenty-eight-day recovery center. I was still in shock at what was happening, but I kept putting one foot in front of the other and, thank God, I never turned away and bolted for the door.

  The weeks passed and slowly the haze lifted. I saw myself clearly, probably for the first time in my life, but not with anguish, remorse or guilt. I saw that I was a sick person. I had a disease. Yes, I did things that were stupid and destructive, but they were knee-jerk reactions—the result of operating under the heavy cloak of alcoholism.

  My life lay in front of me—blank pages yet to be filled in. I had no script, no plans and no big ideas. The day of the “big idea” was over. I was just taking it one day at a time. One revelation, one insight at a time.

  And I was about to face my first sober Christmas. I was glad I was in treatment. At least I wouldn’t be alone.

  The administrators and counselors were dissuading us from making a big deal about Christmas. Why? Because the holiday symbolized too much nostalgia. It brought up too many emotional triggers. As a result, there were no Christmas decorations, and we weren’t allowed to accept gifts or cards from the outside. For dinner Christmas Eve, we had tuna noodle casserole. Not exactly your traditional holiday fare. After dinner and a low-key group session, we each retired to our rooms.

  But in the middle of the night, I was wide awake. It was Christmas, after all. A day in which gifts from the heart are given and received. How could I express the love that was developing inside me, not just for my sober self, but also for those who were helping me on this difficult journey? There must be some way I can show them, I thought as I quietly padded around the facility. I poked around until I hit the laundry room. There on long bars, hung up high, were dozens of my housemates’ blouses, jeans and T-shirts. Bingo. I’d found it. There was a way I could put my love into action.

  So at 3:30 on Christmas morning, I ironed everyone’s clothes. I didn’t tell them who’d done it. It was my secret gift to them.

  That Christmas day was the same as all the others in that twenty-eight-day center. Morning meditation, group therapy, individual counseling and so on. And for Christmas dinner, we were served enchiladas. We all laughed and spontaneously said: “Hold the Corona.”

  That was twenty-three years ago. It’s hard to believe; it’s a miracle, actually. I never looked back, not once. I just stared straight ahead at my unknown future. One step in front of the other, one day at a time. And miracles have happened to me beyond my wildest dreams. Unbelievably wonderful things have occurred. I wouldn’t even have dreamed to ask for what’s happened; I would have shortchanged myself. But the most important gifts I’ve received are the gifts of freedom, serenity, peace of mind and true joy. Getting sober was the most loving Christmas present I have ever received, and yes, it came hand-delivered from me to me.

  PERFECT RECORD

  LELIA KUTGER, AS TOLD TO APRIL KUTGER

  There was a fierce blizzard in the days before Christmas in 1951. We were snowed in in Morrisville, Pennsylvania. Snowplows had left four-foot high drifts blocking the driveway. We had our tree, but, according to tradition, would not decorate it until Christmas Eve. The presents for the girls were stowed in the trunk of my big, old Packard. It was all up to me this year, just as it had been for our daughter JoAnne’s first Christmas some years before, during World War II. That was the year I got the telegram.

  Joe was a navigator for the B-24 bombers dropping their payloads over Germany. I feared for his life every day, but my precious baby girl diverted my attention from missing her father. JoAnne was born in September 1944, nine months after Joe’s and my first Christmas together. I hadn’t seen him since that Christmas. I had sent pictures of our baby girl to Joe, but I hadn’t received a letter from him since a short V-mail, bursting with joy and relief that his first child had been born safely. I wished so much that he could be with us for JoAnne’s first Christmas, but it was the same for me as for most of the women I knew. The men were off at war.

  It was November 30 when the boy who worked at the drugstore rode his bike up to the cottage we rented near Fort Dix, New Jersey. JoAnne was asleep in her cradle and I was folding diapers, stiff from drying in the cold air.

  “Ma’am,” he said with a small nod. He was holding a yellow envelope in his hand. A telegram. I sucked in my breath, but didn’t make a sound. The boy pushed the envelope toward me and repeated, “Ma’am.” I took it from his gloved hand and, for some absurd reason, I said, “Thank you.” I handed him a quarter from my coin purse and stood in the open doorway, staring into space. It was several moments before the chill air made me realize where I was.

  Clutching the telegram to my breast, I sat down on t
he navy-blue-velvet couch my parents had handed down to us. I couldn’t open it. I went to the kitchen to reheat the morning coffee. It would taste bitter, but my mouth was already bitter. I swallowed a big gulp. Suddenly I was in a cold sweat and shaking. I ran to the bathroom and threw up. “This is absurd,” I said to myself. “I don’t even know what’s in the telegram.” But I knew. I went back to the kitchen and sat down again, slipped my thumb under the envelope flap and gently pried it open as if it were an ancient papyrus artifact.

  “LT JOSEPH P KUTGER MISSING IN ACTION STOP.” I stopped.

  Five months after that lonely and anxious time, not knowing if Joe was dead or alive or, as proved to be true, a prisoner of war, the war in Europe ended. A month later Joe was transferred to a state-side hospital. The following Christmas I was four months’ pregnant with our second child. Joe was healthy and had gained back most of the weight he’d lost in prison camp. On Christmas Eve he gave me a gold crucifix. He told me it should remind me that I was never alone, because God was always with me. I cried and said, “It’s beautiful, but I want you to always be with me.” Joe held me in his arms and said he would never miss another Christmas. I knew he might not be able to keep that promise. But now it had been six years, and he had.

  In 1951 Joe was stationed at Godman Air Field near Fort Knox, Kentucky, more than seven hundred miles from where the children and I lived. I hadn’t seen him for three months, but after a lot of finagling, trading duty assignments and finishing his training assignment ahead of schedule, Joe told me he thought he would be able to make it home at least for a few days. He was going to hitch a couple of rides on puddle jumpers that would get him to Millville Air Field in New Jersey.

  Then the blizzard blanketed the East Coast and another one was expected. Joe called to say, “There’s no way I can get there, Honey. I’m really sorry. I wanted to keep my promise. I did everything I could to make this happen.”

  “Oh, Joe,” I cried.

  “Honey, I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”

  “What about the girls? They’ve been counting down the days until you’d be here.”

  “You know I would if I could, but there are no flights operating. It’s just not possible.”

  “I can’t do this without you, Joe. I can’t make Christmas without you.”

  “You have to, Lee. You have to be strong and make everything about this Christmas the same as always. Make sugar cookies. Decorate the tree on Christmas Eve. Open the presents in the morning. Serve roast beef for Christmas dinner…”

  “Oh, Joe, I feel like I did when you were shot down in ’44. I need you.”

  “I know you can do this, Hon. Are you wearing your crucifix? Remember, you’re not alone. God is with you.”

  “I hate it when you tell me that whenever I’m missing you too much. I don’t want God. I want you.” I caught my breath and said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I do want God. It’s just that I want you so much.”

  “It’s going to be okay, Sweetheart.”

  I blew my nose and modulated my tone. “I know. I can do it. Don’t worry,” I told him, even though I didn’t feel that way at all.

  “That’s my girl.”

  With the driveway packed in, we couldn’t get to church on Sunday, and the weatherman forecasted a new storm by nightfall. I hoped my brother, Ralph, would be able to make it on Christmas Day. I always counted on Ralph to be there for me when Joe was gone.

  It did not snow Sunday night, and I got my hopes up that we might be able to dig out soon. On Monday, Christmas Eve morning, a friend of Joe’s showed up with a pickup truck and a plow.

  “Pete,” I yelled from the front door, “what are you doing here?”

  “Joe called me, so here I am,” he laughed. My sweet husband. Taking care of us even when he was hundreds of miles away.

  “Thank you so much, Pete.”

  “I’m happy to do it, Lee.”

  “Come on in for a cup of coffee.”

  “I will when I’m finished.”

  Pete cleared the driveway, the front steps and the walkway, as well as a path to the garage at the edge of the woods behind the house, which made it possible for us to keep one of our traditions. We always cut evergreen boughs to decorate the mantle and banister and a few to burn in the fireplace to give the house the wonderful smell of burning pine needles and the popping sound of pinecones.

  A short time later, my very devoted milkman trudged through two-feet-deep snow to deliver three quarts of milk, a pound of butter and a dozen eggs. Another dilemma resolved. I had the ingredients I needed to make cookies. I handed him a Christmas card with $2 in it. Before he left, he said, “You’re lucky to have power.”

  We had radio reception, too, so we could listen, as we did every morning, to Don McNeill’s Breakfast Club. I did the dishes and the laundry, and the girls marched around the table when Don told them to. By 11:00 a.m., the sky was heavily overcast and the neighborhood was eerily silent except for the occasional sound of a tree branch breaking. The storm was on its way.

  The night before I had told the girls their daddy could not come for Christmas. They were crushed, but soon they stopped crying and then whimpered into sleep as I sang to them. They had seemed fine all morning, but now I could tell they were not taking it well. They were ripping around the house like monkeys that had escaped from the zoo. Whooping and hollering. Arguing and taunting and fighting. JoAnne teased April. April cried and hit her. JoAnne ran to me to tattle. Finally, I said, “Naptime! And separate bedrooms!”

  “I get Mommy’s bed,” JoAnne shouted.

  “No, me!” April whined.

  When there was silence from the second floor, I lay down, too. I slept fitfully until I heard little voices calling, “Can we get up now, Mommy?”

  After peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and hot chocolate, I bundled the girls into their snowsuits. Fresh air would be good for all of us. “Come on. We’re going to cut tree branches and put big red ribbons on them.”

  “Can I help, Mommy?” April asked with great enthusiasm.

  “Of course, Honey. I want you to tell me which branches are the best.”

  I got my garden shears, and we tramped through the snow to the woods behind the house. It was hard for my cherubs to make their way through the deep snow, but we followed the path Pete had plowed.

  “I’m cold, Mommy,” my little towhead April cried after we were out for a few minutes.

  “We’ll go in soon, Honey.”

  JoAnne, my stubborn and determined girl, said, “Can’t we stay out and make snow angels?” Before I could answer, the first new flurries began to fall.

  As soon as we were inside, I called Ralph. “Why don’t you come now? Stay overnight with us. The roads will be impossible in an hour.” He was silent. “I have pork chops for dinner,” I coaxed.

  “I was on my way to a friend’s. His parents came down for the holiday.”

  “Please, Ralph.” I didn’t want to be alone.

  “Okay, Sis. Do you want me to pick anything up on the way?”

  “I can’t think of anything—just get here before it’s too dangerous.”

  Ralph made it to us just as the early winter twilight fell. He scooped the girls up and threw them in the air as they screamed and giggled. I heated up my hard cider for the two of us, something Joe and I always shared on Christmas Eve.

  “Thank you,” I told him. “For everything.” We shared a smile.

  After dinner, the four of us gathered around the tree. “You girls do the low branches, I’ll do the middle and Uncle Ralph will do the high ones,” I announced. When we were finished, Ralph carefully placed an heirloom angel in a white satin dress on the very top branch. JoAnne and April clapped and oohed and aahed; their eyes shining with the reflection of the Christmas lights.

  “And now it’s time for bed, girls,” I said. They were wearing matching red plaid flannel nightgowns and fluffy slippers. Joe’s and my little angels.

  “I wish Daddy was here,”
JoAnne said, tears starting to fall.

  “Me, too,” cried April.

  I hugged my girls and said, “I wish Daddy was here, too. But we’ll be okay.”

  “I’ll take them up,” Ralph said, his hands reaching out for theirs.

  “Thanks, Ralph. I’m beat.” I gave each little forehead a good-night kiss and leaned back on the couch.

  Ralph stayed downstairs with me until midnight, and I think we both got a little tipsy. We had been listening to Christmas songs on the radio and sharing stories of our childhood. I blubbered as I told Ralph how much I missed Joe, especially at Christmas. “It’s just like the war. I went more than a year without seeing him when he was a POW. At first I didn’t even know if he was alive.”

  Ralph had heard the story many times. He always listened sympathetically, but not for too long. He started making fun of me and my tears and my memories. “You are not going to look like a merry Christmas girl with those swollen eyes and mascara running down your cheeks.” I laughed and wiped my eyes. “How do you think Joe would feel if he saw you like this? It’s bad enough that he can’t be here, but then to think you’ve become completely discombobulated in his absence.” Now I couldn’t stop laughing. “Soused and sobbing on Christmas Eve. Or is it Christmas morning?” he said as he looked at his watch. “You’re not the woman Joe married, I can tell you that. Pull yourself together, Sis!” Ralph grabbed my shoulders and shook me in jest. I was laughing so hard I thought I would wake the girls.

  After Ralph climbed the stairs, I lay down on the old blue-velvet couch—Joe’s favorite place to nap. I turned the radio to a station that played the Hit Parade. Everything from Johnnie Ray’s “Cry” and “Too Young” by Nat King Cole to Les Paul and Mary Ford’s “How High the Moon.” I loved that one. Joe said he played it on the Officer’s Club jukebox because it made him think of me. I couldn’t help shedding a tear. I wondered if Joe was listening to it now.