When my mom died, Ryan and I moved our stuff into my uncle’s house, and most of my mom’s belongings were donated. My uncle kept her pictures and a couple mementos—a tiny ruby ring she wore, a gold rope necklace. But it didn’t occur to him to keep her Christmas decorations, her cookbooks, or any of the other remnants of her life. Yet those are the things I wish I had now.
“How come you never bought any new decorations?” Elizabeth asks.
“Too busy, I guess. Felt like overkill.”
“Leave these here, and I’ll come back tomorrow morning. I have to get home.” She heads to Ryan’s room to say good-bye as I stare at the small, dented box on the floor.
It’s the day before Christmas, and Elizabeth shows up at our door bright and early.
Ryan goes out to talk to her while I try to fall back asleep, but the noise they’re making eventually gets me out of bed and into the living room.
It appears someone has vomited Christmas up in here, with our stockings hanging from the fireplace mantel, lights strewn all around the room, and Ryan dragging a tree through the front door. Elizabeth is stringing a garland of paper reindeer between the living room and kitchen. The dining room table is covered by a cloth with big red poinsettias on it.
“Where in the hell is that thing going?” I ask, pointing to the tree.
“You look like the Grinch,” Elizabeth says, laughing. She walks over to me and puts a Santa hat on my head. Ryan chuckles and then drags the tree into the corner. It has a basin nailed into the bottom of it, so I head to the kitchen to get some water.
“Where did you get all this crap?” I ask later as they make me string the tree with lights.
Elizabeth starts opening a box of red and gold Christmas ornaments. “I might’ve gone a little nuts. Everything’s on sale already.”
“You went a lot nuts,” Ryan says, but he’s smiling like, well, a kid at Christmas.
“You’re lucky I didn’t get you a light-up reindeer wearing a Santa hat for the front yard, ’cuz that was on the table,” she says.
We decorate the tree and put everything away, and I head to the kitchen to make breakfast.
Elizabeth comes in to set the table. “I hope I didn’t overstep.” I can see she’s nervous that I don’t like what she’s done. Now I feel like an ass.
I shake my head. “No. I should have done more for Christmas. I always thought our Charlie Brown tree and our Christmas dinner were enough.”
She comes over to me. “C’mon. I wasn’t trying to criticize your traditions.”
What she really did was make me feel nostalgic—for the Christmases Ryan and I spent with Mom, frosting cookies and decorating our tree. Falling all over ourselves Christmas morning to get to our stockings to see what Santa brought us. Chipping in to buy Mom a crappy present she always pretended to like.
Those were good times, and the memories feel so welcome and warm. Where have they been hidden for the past eleven years, and why didn’t I ever search for them?
Today, Elizabeth dug up those memories and gave them back to me. Nobody has ever given me a better gift than that.
“It’s nice,” I say, my voice choked. It’s difficult to get the words out, but I thank her anyway. It’s worth it when she smiles.
Elizabeth leaves for a while, but she comes back that night. Tara is with her parents in LA, so it’s just the three of us for Christmas Eve. I search for a Rick Bayless recipe and make tostadas. Afterward, Elizabeth pulls some DVDs out of her bag.
“I have Charlie Brown and the Grinch. I also have It’s a Wonderful Life, Elf, and A Christmas Story.”
“Where did you find all these?” I ask.
“I own them.”
I bark out a laugh. “Of course you fucking do.” I head back into the kitchen to clean up.
“Santa won’t fill your stocking if you keep saying the F-word,” she shouts at my back.
We stay up late watching all of Elizabeth’s movies—even the cartoons—and I make popcorn and hot chocolate. It feels comforting and awkward at the same time, especially when Ryan snuggles up with her on the couch as I watch from the chair.
They slip off to Ryan’s room after the last movie, so I head to bed. I lie there awake, wondering what Ryan says to Elizabeth as he holds her. What it’s like when he makes love to her. I roll over and encase my head with my pillow, trying to shut out the images.
I grab my phone and text Tara. You up?
Yeah. Are you having a good Xmas?
Yep. What do you do since you don’t celebrate Xmas?
Lots of shopping & eating
How’s the family? I ask, desperate for a way to connect with her somehow.
The usual. Kind of glad to be heading home soon.
Glad you’re coming home, I type, even though I’m not sure it’s true.
Aww you’re being cute. Are you in bed?
Yeah, I answer, knowing where this is leading.
Yummy. Wanna play?
Yeah sure
It might not be what I wanted, but it’s better than being alone.
We all wake up together on Christmas Day. It is so odd to have someone here on Christmas besides Ryan, but nice, too, because the house feels fuller. Elizabeth’s enthusiasm is contagious as she bustles around the kitchen, pulling eggs out of the refrigerator. Plus, she already started coffee for me, and God knows I need it.
After we eat breakfast and do dishes, Ryan and Elizabeth go into the living room to exchange gifts. I stay in the kitchen to give them privacy.
“Come in here,” Ryan calls out. I peek out to see Elizabeth motioning to me with her hands.
I sit on the floor with them, and we form a small circle. The tree lights are twinkling, like red, green, and blue starbursts. The scent of fir tree fills the room and makes it feel fresher.
Elizabeth tears the wrapping off her package from Ryan, and paper flies all over. She takes a silver necklace with her initial on it out of the box and smiles.
“It’s beautiful,” she says.
I know Ryan saved up for this gift for a while. If it were me, I would have gotten her black pearl hair clips and run them through all those blond locks when we were alone.
Ryan opens his gift from Elizabeth—a leather journal with a fancy pen. Then he opens the fishhook bracelet I got him, which he loves.
I’m shocked when I open Ryan’s gift, which is a silver Nixon watch. I know it cost too much, but I don’t say anything. I wrap it around my wrist, and it feels good there.
Then Elizabeth hands me a package, which turns out to be a blue scarf that’s sort of chunky and messed up. When I realize she made it for me, I feel shitty about my gift for her.
“Pink Floyd,” she says, holding up the T-shirt. “You really shouldn’t have.”
“For your hideous collection,” I say.
She laughs long and hard, delighted by this ridiculous gift, and that makes me feel kind of achy. Ryan is glancing back and forth between us, his eyebrows knitted with concern because he doesn’t get the joke. I don’t explain it to him.
It’s going to be New Year’s soon, and a lot of people will be making wishes. I never saw the point of that. If I did make a wish, though, it would be for Elizabeth to be mine and only mine. Instead, I’ll be in Vegas, giving Tara a drunken kiss, thankful that at least I’ve got that.
I swallow the lump in my throat that has migrated from my stomach, or maybe my heart.
It was like Ryan, Elizabeth, and I were in a Christmas time warp. It was the happiest few days—and the most torturous—that I’ve had in a long time: being sheltered with her in this house, wanting to keep her here forever; wishing Ryan weren’t there, and then feeling like shit for even thinking that.
Now Ryan and I are taking down decorations and packing them into boxes before I head to Vegas.
“Sucks you have to work today,” I say, padding the tree angel in bubble wrap.
“Yeah, but I get a c-couple days off around New Year’s. You all ready for your t-trip?”
I leave in two days. The flight to Vegas may only take an hour, but it’s still my first adult vacation. I’m excited to get away from everything here for a while; I could sure as hell use the breather. “I need a couple more things and then I’m good to go.”
Ryan looks at me sideways as he pulls down the garland. “This is a big d-deal, man.”
“Not really.”
“Yeah, it is. You’ve never b-been anywhere with a woman before. Things must be s-serious.”
I know Ryan is asking because he cares, but my blood begins to pump harder.
“No, it’s just casual.” Because my heart belongs to someone else; because I want your girlfriend so much I’m going to choke on it. The list of things I can never say to him just grows and grows.
“Maybe just leave the d-door open to it being something more,” Ryan says, because now he’s the relationship expert.
I take a deep breath. Must be nice to have the luxury of self-righteousness. Ryan got my blessing to date Elizabeth like a good boy and never looked back. Not once. But no one can be that naive—not even my brother. And just the suspicion that he knows, deep down, how twisted up and miserable I am, but is ignoring it, makes my vision go red.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I say, throwing the angel into a box with enough force that her wing goes askew despite the bubble wrap.
“What’s that s-supposed to mean?”
“Seems like you’re pretty eager for me and Tara to work out,” I say. “Any particular reason?”
“What fucking reason would I h-have, other than w-wanting you to be h-happy?” His hands clench.
I know he understands what I’m talking about, but he will never admit it.
I grab one of the boxes so hard that it almost spills. “Nothing. Just forget it. I’m going to load these in the garage.”
He nods, and I make my escape before I say something that will wreck us both. Amazing how he and I can talk about bullshit all day long, but the most important things between us will go unsaid.
The next day, I head to the gym for a long workout. Tara calls as I’m heading home. She’s been to Vegas lots of times, so she’s not quite as enthusiastic as I am, but she’s still game.
“Hey. What’s up?”
“You all set for tomorrow?” she asks.
“Yep. Did you get my text?”
“You sure your brother’s okay taking us to the airport?”
“Yeah, it’s not a problem.” At least I hope not, because I haven’t talked to Ryan much since our near-fight yesterday.
“Then let’s go make some trouble. We can start by breaking in our suite. And the New Year’s party on the strip is going to be insane.”
“Cool. See you tomorrow.” I end the call.
Tara is assertive, blunt, and doesn’t want anything complicated. In the two months we’ve been dating, I’m not sure I’ve learned all that much about her. One thing I do know: She doesn’t mind relationships, as long as there are no actual demands put upon her. That sorts of feels depressing, but this is the longest I’ve dated anyone in years, so I guess that’s progress.
As I’m driving home, I hear the “Friends in Low Places” ringtone that Elizabeth chose for her number. It reminds me of the first night we met, when she did that ridiculous southern accent. She never calls me, so I answer right away.
“Hello?”
“Jude? Where are you?”
Elizabeth’s voice is shaking, and I can tell she’s on the verge of crying.
“What is it?” My stomach plummets and my hands go cold on the steering wheel.
“I’m at O’Connor Hospital. Ryan’s had an accident.”
“What? I’m already in the car, but I’m fifteen minutes away, so you need to tell me right fucking now what is going on.” I hear myself yelling at her, but it sounds like someone else’s voice. I notice the red stoplight in front of me. I see people crossing back and forth in the intersection. But it’s as though none of that is making any sense—like I am underwater but trying to take a deep breath.
“He got hurt pretty bad, but he’s stable. He’s going to be okay. Do not get in an accident. Can you pull over and have someone come get you?”
“Are you fucking kidding me? I will be there in ten minutes.”
Why the fuck do bad things always feel like they’re happening in slow motion? I’m barely conscious as I drive to the hospital, yet it still feels like an eternity.
When I walk into Ryan’s room, my heart is beating so fast, it’s like I just ran a five-minute mile. My little brother is hooked up to tubes and wires, and I see at least one cast on him. I can’t step any closer. I hesitate, until Elizabeth crosses over to me and puts her hand on my shoulder. I move closer to him; his eyes are closed and his face is peaceful.
“What happened?”
“He got hit by a car while he was crossing the street. Brett was with him and called an ambulance.”
“How bad is it?”
“They said he broke a couple ribs, and they set his arm. He hit his head, so he has a mild concussion. He might need some physical therapy for his hip, too. He’s sleeping right now, but they said it will hurt a lot when he wakes up. They want to do some more scans tomorrow. I lied and said I was his sister so they’d tell me what was going on.”
My hands hurt from being in such tight fists, but they are shaking so bad, I don’t know what else to do with them. “He was alone for a few hours?”
“No. Brett stayed. I guess Ryan was unconscious for some of it. He was lucky. If the car had been going faster . . .”
“Don’t—don’t fucking put that in my head.”
Elizabeth is taking deep breaths, trying to calm herself. My legs are weak, like standing is too difficult. I pull her into a hug and we lean on each other.
“It’s going to be okay,” she says, reassuring me because my body is trembling from head to toe.
“Of course he is. God, I hate hospitals.”
I stay with Ryan until the nurses and Elizabeth convince me that there’s no chance he’ll wake up tonight. As I walk back through the hallway corridors, I keep my eyes forward and try not to see the people in the rooms that I pass. I know they are old or sick or suffering or alone. In some cases, they seem chipper as they sit there and chat with visitors—family and friends who have brought them flowers or balloons. Even then, death hovers over them like a cloud filled to the brim with rain.
One of the best things in the world is the state of denial you walk around in each day—your bubble of immortality. For the longest time—into adulthood if you’re lucky—you don’t even know the bubble is there. The thing is, the minute you become aware of the bubble, it springs a leak. Most of the time, the leak is small—a fender bender, a fall from a ladder—and you can patch it, over and over. Until the people around you start dying—friends, relatives, then immediate family—and it gets harder to plug the leak. God forbid you get a terminal disease or a bad heart, and the bubble pops. That is the most terrifying place of all to live in. That’s why most of us want to die in our beds, unaware of what’s coming.
My immortality bubble sprang a leak when I was eleven. Mom had been dragging around the house, half awake, and had been going to the doctor. A lot. She told us she was sick but that she would get better, and being a kid, I didn’t ask questions. Then one day she was so weak that she couldn’t get up, and I had to call my Uncle Rob. He took her to the hospital while I watched Ryan, and when he came home she wasn’t with him. He sat me down and told me that Mom had breast cancer. She had been doing chemotherapy for a while and had complications, so she was staying overnight in the hospital. He told me that her treatments were helping, and that she was going to be fine once she got through them.
The whole time he gave me the news, my mind kept wandering to other things. I heard words and sentences, but I didn’t think to be that worried. If Rob said it would be fine, then it would be. I was more concerned about the baseball game I had the next day than I wa
s about cancer.
But I started to have a recurring dream.
In it, I was standing in a baseball field that was empty and quiet. The only other person there was Ryan, and even he was silent. I pitched to him over and over, the ball making no sound as it traveled through the air. No matter how fast or slow or straight or curved I threw the ball, Ryan didn’t swing at it. He stood there poised, with his bat in air, his skinny arms gripping the handle the way I’d taught him. But he never swung.
About a year after my mother got better, it finally occurred to me to ask her what would happen to me and Ryan if she died. She cried and told me that Uncle Rob would be there for us—that she had lots of friends that would love and care for us. I had been hoping she’d laugh and say, of course she wasn’t going to die. The leak in the bubble got bigger.
One of the things that haunts me now is that I never thought to ask Mom how she felt about being sick. Was it hard? Was she scared? Were Ryan and I a burden as she fought for her life? I didn’t have my mother long enough to think of her as anything more than my parent. I didn’t know her as a woman, as a person. And now I never will.
She didn’t die then, though, so my mind began to seal up the tear in my bubble with denial and happy thoughts and whatever else was around. Each week and month that went by in which I went to school and came home and nothing had happened was another tool I could use to patch the hole. In quiet moments, I could still hear the tiniest hiss of air as it seeped out, though. That never went away completely.
On August 27, three days after my fifteenth birthday, Mom collapsed at the house. I was too old to pretend that nothing was wrong, that I had no responsibility to take care of things. So when they scanned her and found out that her cancer had come back with a vengeance and had traveled through her body and attached itself to any fucking place it could find, my bubble exploded into a thousand pieces. It wasn’t the stench from the endless hospital visits that did it, or watching her throw up from chemo, or even staring into her lifeless face as she died in my arms at home. It was the moment I had to look into Ryan’s eyes—so big and brown, like my mom’s—and tell him that his mother was never coming back, and watch as his own bubble disintegrated around him.
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