At one point he gets up–taking the remote with him, of course–and returns with a plate toppling over with my Christmas cookies. “Wow, these are actually good. Thanks!” He raises a cookie up in cheers.
Finally, an hour and thirty-seven minutes later, T.K. clicks the TV off and turns to face me on the couch, his socked foot lightly brushing my bare one. I pull it back into the covers where it is safe.
“Was that so bad?” he asks, obviously pleased.
“Who talks that much during a movie? You’re supposed to be quiet.”
“Yeah, but we’ve both already seen it. New commentary is like watching it over for the first time.”
“I like it without the commentary.” I narrow my eyes. “Why are you here? Other than to hog my TV and eat all my cookies, I mean.”
T.K. sighs and runs a hand through his dark blonde curls–even slightly messy they look flawless. “Okay... So.” He sighs again before continuing. “I want to apologize for the talent show. That wasn’t cool.”
“You’re figuring that out now?” I ask, shocked. “It’s Christmas Eve!”
“Exactly. Christmas is about forgiveness and fresh starts, right?”
“I think Christmas is about cheesy holiday specials and sugar cookies, which you’ve ruined. Apology not accepted. Go away.”
I have given up any and all hope he will actually leave.
“No, no. You’re supposed to apologize to me now.” He shakes his head in disapproval. “That’s how this works.”
“How what works?” I eye him incredulously, waiting for him to make his point.
“Making up. Then I think we’re supposed to kiss or something.”
“Oh my god, get out, get out!” I hit him with a throw pillow. I hear a decorative button connect with his head and smile in victory.
“I’m joking! At least about the kissing; that can come later.” He gives me a wink and tosses his hands up to brace for the pillow. “Raye, I’m serious. I come in peace, okay?” His laughter makes it hard to take anything he says sincerely. “I like you. I have for a while. I’ve tried not to like you, but it seems I really am a bit masochistic and I can’t turn it off.” I give him another pillow to the face. “Oh, come on,” he says. “You don’t make it easy for people to care about you.”
“Maybe you should take that as a hint.” I drop the pillow in defeat.
“You can pretend not to be interested all you want, Raye, but that kiss took two people, and you were definitely one of them. It’s not the first time a situation like that has come up, either. You were this close,” he says, holding his fingers an inch apart, “from giving me a chance a few months ago. What’s changed?”
“You dated half the female population of our high school!” I say with more emotion in my voice than I want. I take a breath and compose my face, trying not to gnaw the inside of my cheek.
“Yeah, well, I was an idiot.”
“Was?”
“Okay, fine. I am an idiot. But I’m not seeing anyone now. I haven’t since that night, and I have no plans to start again.”
For about two seconds, I actually believe him. Then I remember all the girls who toured his lap and his lips and god knows where else over the past few months and I snap out of it.
“I give you a week. Ten bucks says you’re sucking face with whomever you can get your hands on by New Year’s.” I hope I don’t sound jealous–because I am not jealous.
I don’t know what is happening until it is too late.
One minute I’m snapping at him, the next his nose is brushing mine and his lips are pressing against me, filling my mouth with cinnamon and sugar cookies. His hand touches my neck, bringing me closer for a moment before he pulls away.
I don’t think I kissed him back, but his face looks satisfied as though I had. “Ten bucks says I’m kissing you on New Year’s.”
Finally, he stands up from the couch and walks to the door, disappearing from sight. When I hear the faint slam of metal hitting wood, I exhale deeply and put my head in my hands. I’m shaking.
He is so silent; I don’t hear him walk back into the room.
“I bought you this,” he says, making me snap up from my vulnerable position. T.K.’s eyes are warm and focused on mine, a new emotion dancing in the background. It looks like excitement.
Then he hands me a cat.
Well, a kitten.
About as big as T.K.’s cupped hands and covered in mass amounts of grey fluff, the kitten is the cutest thing I have ever seen. It even has green eyes like mine.
“You...bought me a cat?” The confusion is evident in my voice.
“Marcella mentioned you spend a lot of time alone here.” His eyes wander around the room, daring it to prove him wrong. I guess the lack of a parent on Christmas Eve is confirmation enough. “I figured you could use some company. Since you don’t seem interested in human companionship, I thought this little guy might be more fitting.”
I hold out my arms without intending to. The kitten crawls to me immediately, as though we are meant to be. My dad always wanted a cat, but my mom pretended to be allergic.
I don’t know where the kitten came from, if he has waited in T.K.’s car this entire time, or if he was with the neighbours. I don’t care to ask.
“Do you like him?” T.K. whispers. I realize I haven’t said anything yet.
I don’t want to love the kitten.
I want to hate him, toss him back at T.K., and tell him I don’t need pity movie dates, kittens, or any of that garbage.
Instead, I pat the kitten’s head. His fur is like fine velvet. “I think I’ll call him Oswald.”
∆∆∆
T.K. finds the name ridiculous, but he seems pleased enough I’m keeping little Os that he doesn’t put up a fight. I manage to convince him to leave pretty soon afterward–after bringing in tons of cat supplies I wouldn’t have thought to buy–so I spend the remainder of Christmas Eve wrapped up in my blankets, sappy holiday movies playing, with Oswald in my lap. His purr is extraordinary for such a small cat.
“When did we get a cat?” Mom asks around eleven when she finally gets home, her arms carrying pre-wrapped gifts she probably paid a fortune to have done.
“What cat?” I keep my voice flat, not bothering to turn to face her.
As if on cue, Oswald runs up the stairs chasing something only he can see. “That cat.” She sets her gifts on the counter and crosses her arms, her face stern. It’s all I can do to refrain from laughing. “I’m allergic to cats, Raye.”
“Bullshit you are,” I reply, turning back to the TV to finish watching The Grinch.
“Where did it even come from?”
“It is a he, his name is Oswald, and I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t want a cat, Raye.” She sound tired, which gives me perverse satisfaction.
“Good thing we don’t have a cat.” I pop a cookie in my mouth as I hear her heels click closer to the couch.
“Seriously?” she asks, exasperated. Os makes a point of rubbing up against her leg and letting out a purr befitting a lion.
“Maybe you’ve finally worked yourself into insanity,” I suggest, cookie still in my mouth. I summon Oswald to me with a feather on a string.
“Oswald is a terrible name.” She finally gives up and sits in the recliner next to the Christmas tree. I decorated it myself a few days ago, using all of her least favourite ornaments–a cartoon mouse playing the drums, a nutcracker with a notch taken out of his head, and a few others I made back when arts and crafts was the best class of the day. She has yet to comment on it.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It sounds like a pretty great name for a cat. If we had one.” I stroke Os’s fur to piss her off. I don’t know why I feel so bitchy this evening. I usually enjoy ignoring my mom, but tonight feels special. ‘Tis the season.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” She eyes Os like he is a terrorist about to pull a gun on her and steal Christmas. “Santa doesn’t come
if you’re awake.”
“I’ll sleep when The Grinch gives back Christmas.”
Mom leaves me to finish the rest of my film in peace, heading off to heat up the chicken parmigiana I left for her in the fridge. Os rushes to join her, enticed by the smell. My grin would make even Mr. Grinch proud.
∆∆∆
When I wake up Christmas morning, the sky outside my window is pure white, a perfect Christmas blizzard. I’m immensely thankful Mom and I don’t have family to visit.
Since Dad died, most of his family has drifted away from us–not that he had much to begin with–and my mom isn’t on speaking terms with either of her parents. They’ve yet to forgive her for moving away from the big city to chase a boy. I’ve never even met them.
So, the past few years have been spent at home, alone, with a pre-catered meal and a few gifts neither my mom nor I want or need. This year, I bought her a few books she will never read and a sweater she will only ever wear around the house. It isn’t easy to shop for someone you don’t know. My dad always bought her jewellery.
Eventually, I begin to head downstairs. When I walk into the living room, the smell of coffee and the sight of gifts take me a little by surprise. Mom has poured me a cup of coffee and is sitting by the tree reading her paper. For her, it is downright festive. Oswald is chasing another unseen beast around the room, and I actually see my mom smile at him.
“Merry Christmas, honey. I was starting to wonder if you would ever wake up. Did you sleep well?”
I eye her suspiciously. “Fine…”
She passes me the pre-poured coffee–it is even in a Santa mug I forgot we owned–and pats the spot beside her on the couch. “Stockings first!” she cheers.
An alien has abducted my mother.
It is the only explanation.
Unless this is one of those murder-suicide things you sometimes read about, where parents go mad and murder their children.
“Are you possessed?” I take a timid sip of the coffee; I’m semi-afraid it is poisoned.
“It’s Christmas, Raye. Aren’t I allowed to be cheerful?”
“Yeah, if you were possessed,” I mumble, reaching for my stocking and putting the probably not poisoned coffee back on the table.
The stocking contains mass amounts of my favourite chocolates–I wonder who Mom paid to find out what I like–and a thousand dollars preloaded on a credit card. “You’re just so hard to shop for. This way, you can buy some things you really want.”
I toss the treats and the card on the table and go for one of the gifts under the tree. Most teenagers would flip out over a thousand dollars. I’m mildly annoyed my mom is so pleased about the gesture.
Yes, Mother, buy my affection. How original.
My other gifts follow a similar buy-my-love sort of pattern.
A new jacket filled with down feathers to replace the one I left at the talent show and never went back for–I have been using a spring jacket with lots of layers ever since.
A MacBook.
An iPhone.
“I don’t need a cell phone,” I comment, thinking of Lindsay and how badly she wants the newest iPhone and knowing her parents definitely cannot afford it.
“Well, like I said, you’re hard to shop for. Plus, it goes with the laptop.” She makes it sound like an accessory. “Thank you for the books, honey. I promise I’ll try to read them.” She gives me a genuine smile. I don’t know how much of New Mom I can handle.
I glance back at my gifts, thinking about how much they all cost and how most people would be swimming in a pool of happiness at this point. All I can think about is the lack of socks. Aren’t parents supposed to buy their children socks? Isn’t that a symbol of love or something?
My dad always bought me socks.
“So,” Mom says as I’m about to retreat into the kitchen for pancakes. “Tell me about the boy.”
“What boy?” I ask, immediately defensive. I compose my stance. “Why do you think there’s a boy?”
“Well, I don’t think you bought that cat yourself.” She raises one of her eyebrows at me, probing. Who is she to ask personal questions about my life? “I also heard about the talent show.”
I freeze. “You, uh, heard what, exactly?”
“Oh, please.” She waves her hand, as though finding out her daughter basically had sex on stage in front of a few hundred people is no big thing. She actually sounds amused. “I’m a little surprised, I suppose, since you haven’t seemed interested in dating since Mitchel.”
“I’m not. Interested in dating, I mean.”
“Just interested in grand displays of affection?”
Maybe it’s her light tone, or maybe it’s because Christmas magic is in the air, but I’m not feeling defensive anymore. I sit down on the armchair and cross my legs in a triangle.
“His name’s T.K. And there’s no affection there, trust me.”
“Well, why did you kiss him?”
I shrug. “He has a nice voice.”
Mom laughs. A real, genuine laugh. I can’t remember the last time I heard the sound. Maybe before Dad died. “You’re my daughter. I shouldn’t be so shocked.”
“Dad wasn’t a singer,” I say, remembering his awful renditions of Christmas carols. My ears start to hurt as I think about it.
“No, he most definitely wasn’t. But he wasn’t the first boy I dated. And many of his predecessors were in bands.” Somehow, I can’t picture my mom dating anyone, much less a musician. I can barely remember her with my dad.
“So, what you’re saying is I should avoid T.K. unless I want to end up like you?” I don’t intend for my words to be so harsh, but somehow my mouth twists them in that direction without my consent.
Mom doesn’t flinch. “I think you’ll take any excuse you can find not to date the boy, Raye. You don’t need to build such a strong wall, you know. I’m sure a medium-sized one would suffice.” I think she is being sarcastic, but Jacqueline McKenna is not the joking type. I eye her wearily, wondering who the strange woman before me is.
Whoever she is, I don’t hate her.
“I don’t have a wall,” I say.
“What I can’t seem to gather, is why you have the wall,” she says, ignoring my comment. “I have thought about it.”
“And?” I request, curious. Maybe all that time when I thought she wasn’t seeing me, she was actually watching me far closer than I would have imagined.
“And, I think you’re afraid you’ll end up with someone your father never had the chance to approve of. I think it’s easier for you to see yourself alone than to see that.”
“Maybe I’m a lesbian,” I suggest, just to see what she’ll say.
“I’m sure if you could run off with Lindsay you would, but we both know you’ve always liked boys. I remember how you followed Gregory Santorini around in kindergarten, asking him to kiss you.” She smiles fondly at the memory. I don’t even remember it happening. Her response isn’t what I expect. I wanted a reaction, not whatever this is.
“You know about Lindsay?” I ask, focusing on the least confusing part of her statement.
“I have met her.” I’m amazed at her judgement-free tone. It makes me–for exactly three seconds–appreciate my mother.
I don’t know what to say. Not because she is wrong, but because I’ve never thought about it. There are so many components of my wall, I’ve lost track of most of its foundational pieces. Am I worried about ending up with someone my dad wouldn’t like?
“I never thought about it like that,” I answer honestly. It’s bothering me because it has to be true. The only boyfriend my dad ever met was Mitch, and I’m sure as hell not going to marry him.
My dad is never going to meet my husband, or my kids–if I ever chose to have either.
I suddenly feel more alone than I did when the morning started. My body is filled with the pain of missing him. I don’t know how to force the feeling away. It sticks to me like glue, clinging to the most vulnerable parts of myself.
“I miss him, too,” Mom says, reading my thoughts. I don’t want to cry in front of her. I haven’t cried in almost three years. I don’t want to cry today. Not here.
We are quiet for a while before my mom says, “I know my opinion doesn’t count when it comes to friends or boyfriends. I’m not blind, Raye,” she adds when she sees whatever expression I’m sporting. “But I want you to know, your dad would have liked anyone you chose. If you brought home a boy with tattoos and a motorcycle and piercings in unseen places, he still would have supported you. I know I don’t talk about him often, but if there was one good thing about your dad, it was that he loved you more than anything else in this world. And, for the record, he wouldn’t have wanted you to spend your life building walls around yourself.”
It is a mix between a lecture and girl talk, and it is the most my mother has said to me in over three years. I will never admit it, but her words are the best gift she has given me.
∆∆∆
My mom’s Christmas love-fest miracle is short-lived. I don’t like nor need the attention, but I can’t deny the warmth that zaps out of my chest when she picks herself up off the couch and goes to make herself breakfast. I abandon my thoughts of pancakes and retreat upstairs to spend the rest of my day figuring out how the hell to set up a laptop and a cell phone. Neither is difficult, but I do have to read the manuals. The phone doesn’t even have buttons.
Once I figure out how to work the laptop, I place Oswald in my lap and put my new credit card to work, purchasing sixty dollars worth of socks off Amazon. Everyone deserves to receive socks for Christmas, even if they have to buy them themselves.
After dinner, I type Lindsay’s number into the message app on the phone and send my first ever text.
Guess who has a phone?
OMG YES FINALLY! She responds a few seconds later. A happy face and what looks like the head of a fox accompany the message.
So T.K. bought you a–picture of a cat?
I groan. Of course Marcella knew about the cat, and of course she told Lindsay. I send a frustrated message back. It’s not a big deal.
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