Chapter 8 December 22
“Libby, honey, there’s a delivery for you!” Mom calls to me from the front door.
“For me?” I’m not expecting anything—especially not here.
It’s still early, just after seven. We have about two hours before we need to be at Season’s Eatings for the wedding rehearsal breakfast. Amelia’s still asleep upstairs, Dad’s making coffee, and Mom and I are finishing the final to-do item for the ceremony: tying ribbons onto candy canes and attaching miniature white note cards with ’Tis the Season to Be Married!
handwritten in calligraphy. Apparently, Beckett’s craftswomanship.
“She’s multitalented, my wife-to-be,” Amelia said last night, as we were getting ready for bed, tracing the calligraphy with her finger. “I’m getting married tomorrow, Libby. Tomorrow. ”
My heart had exploded then, and I vowed to do whatever I could to make Amelia’s wedding perfect. Which began with getting up at five a.m. to finish the candy cane ribbons.
“Apparently you need to sign for it,” Mom says, coming into the living room. She has an unfamiliar travel mug in hand.
“Who’s that for?”
“Thomas,” Mom replies, disappearing into the kitchen. She returns a moment later, pressing the lid firmly onto the mug.
“Who’s Thomas?” I ask, focused on tying a knot in one of the ribbons.
“The deliveryman. It’s chilly out there, and I offered him a top-up,” she adds.
I smile and nod. Only in Harmony Hills. Following Mom to the front door, I hum along to the Christmas carol currently playing—“Hark! The Herald Angels Sing”.
“This is Libby—Dr. Elizabeth Munro,” Mom says, nudging me forward. Towards Thomas, who holds the refilled travel mug in one gloved hand, an envelope in the other, and has an awkward smile on his face.
“Where do you need me to sign?” I ask. Thomas is probably a decade younger than me, and it’s all I can do not to roll my eyes at my mom’s thinly veiled attempts to get me to flirt with him.
“Right here,” he says, turning a tablet towards me for a digital signature. “Thanks again for the coffee, Monica, and Merry Christmas!”
“To you as well, Thomas,” Mom says. “Stay warm out there.”
He waves over his shoulder as he heads to his truck, and Mom waves back before shutting the door. “You know, honey, it wouldn’t kill you to be a touch more… joyful . ’Tis the season, after all.”
“Mother, please,” I reply, laughing. “Thomas is barely out of his teens, for one thing. For another, like I’ve explained, I’m on a dating hiatus. Until further notice.”
I turn the envelope over in my hands and see the sender’s name. “Did the hospital call? Asking for your address?” My heart rate picks up. “I left your number in case they needed to reach me over the holidays.”
“I didn’t get a call,” Mom says. “But maybe your dad answered?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I reply, tearing the strip from the cardboard envelope with impatient fingers. Inside is another envelope, covered in holly berries and ivy. I frown.
“A holiday card?” Mom says. “Strange to have it delivered so urgently. Who is it from?”
Inside the decorative envelope is a letter, folded in half, tucked into the generic holiday card with a “Season’s Greetings!” message, stamped with signatures from the hospital’s executive team. The hospital I’ve been waiting to hear back from after my interview.
But it’s odd they’ve sent a card, unless I’m somehow already on the list of employees? An excited flutter fills me, and I turn to the letter, which is dated almost a week ago.
Dear Dr. Elizabeth Munro , it begins, Thank you for your interest in the attending emergency physician position.
You’re an impressive and highly skilled candidate, and so it was an incredibly difficult decision.
However, we’ve decided to go in another direction and hire internally for the role. We wish you the best with your search …
Stunned, I hold the letter in trembling hands. I read it again, flip it over to see if there’s any further explanation. There’s a handwritten note on the back, which says they’ve been trying to reach me by telephone but my voicemail inbox is full.
Why didn’t they send an email instead? I wonder. The next line explains it, with the excuse of circumventing “aggressive spam filters.”
I sit down heavily on the small bench by the doorway, deflated. This was supposed to be my fresh start! A new year, new you opportunity. I never considered I wouldn’t get the job—it seemed a perfect fit, and it couldn’t have come at a better time.
With a sharp inhale, I grip the bench’s edge as I reread the letter. Thank you for your interest. Difficult decision. We wish you the best. The phrases bounce around my mind like glitter in a shaken snow globe.
Mom takes the letter from my hand and quickly scans it. Then she folds it up and tucks it into her cardigan pocket, before nudging me over. It’s a tight squeeze with both of us on the bench. “I didn’t know you wanted to leave the hospital, Libby. I thought you were happy there.”
“I am. Or I was,” I say, with a shrug. Tears prick my eyes.
Here’s what I don’t say: I’m tired of avoiding my ex-boyfriend in the hallways, because seeing him makes me feel like a failure; things have started to feel monotonous, with the work less satisfying than it used to be, although I’m not sure why; and I thought a change of location might change me , for the better—unlike this haircut, which is currently pinned back with old bobby pins I found in my nightstand, and definitely one of my top regrets for the year.
“And now?” Mom asks.
“And now—” My voice catches as reality hits me like a rogue snowball.
“Oh my God. I gave notice. I have no job.” How irresponsible can I be?
I still have loans; I have rent. Pepper apparently needs a new catalytic converter.
Do not panic, Elizabeth. Do not panic. Too late—I’m panicking.
I clutch my chest and twist towards my mom, which isn’t easy on the narrow bench.
“ I gave notice , Mom. I don’t have a job. Any job!”
“Don’t panic, honey. Take a breath.”
“I’m not panicking,” I say, and Mom nods, kindly accepting the lie. “This is a calculated meltdown. It’s fine. I’m—”
There’s a loud wail upstairs, and Mom says, “I guess Amelia’s up.
” Just then my sister appears on the stairs.
Her hair is set in one of those heatless curling rods, the braided ends splaying out.
She’s in her robe, has moisturizing eye patches—bright pink—under her eyes, and is still wearing her retainer.
“My dress is gone . Mom, did someone move my dress?” Her words come in a lisp due to the retainer, and frantic—almost one syllable. “ Hasanyoneseenthedress? ”
“Mila, no one moved your dress. It’s in our closet—left-hand side. Take a breath, honey.”
Now Mila clutches her chest, and I almost laugh at the gesture, so similar to my own from a few moments ago.
“Mon Dieu. I had a nightmare I used the dress to make cutout snowflakes with my class, and when I couldn’t find it this morning, I lost my mind for a second. Sorry to interrupt…” She’s about to head back upstairs, but pauses, looking at me closely. “Are you okay? You don’t look so hot.”
“She’s fine,” Mom replies for me. “Go get ready. Dad’s making pancakes.”
“Perfect, I’m starving,” Amelia replies before heading back upstairs. Some might find it odd to have breakfast before breakfast, but not if you’re a Munro. Always being hungry is a genetic trait.
“This is not good,” I mutter, holding my face in my hands. “Also? Who puts a letter like that— bad news —into a Christmas card?”
With a pat on my knee, Mom stands. “Whoever it was is clearly getting coal in his or her stocking this year. As for you, you’ll be just fine. You’ll see.”
“Think if I chase Thomas down I’ll find a better envelope in his truck? Ideally one with a signing bonus?” I groan lightly and hang my head.
“Maybe Santa will leave something nice under the tree?” Mom says, wrapping her arm around me and giving me a squeeze. “Now, can we put this—very justified—meltdown on hold? At least until the candy canes are finished?”
I nod, sullen. “My candy cane should read, ‘’Tis the Season to Lower Your Expectations!’?”
I’m still holding the holiday card. “What should I do with this?”
“I was thinking of starting a fire,” Mom replies with a wink. I hand her the card as Dad calls out, “Pancakes are ready!” from the kitchen.
Amelia barrels down the stairs and into the living room. “Family… my cue-card vows are missing. This is not a drill. ”
I’ve never seen my sister so disheveled and so disorganized. My first thought is, Well, when you decide to get married with only a week to plan, what do you expect? But then I remember the happy secret she’s keeping, and I feel a bloom of sympathy for her.
“Where did you last see them?” I ask, keeping my voice calm.
“Last night. There.” She points to the overstuffed easy chair closest to the Christmas tree. I check under the chair, slide my hands down the sides of the cushions, but come up empty.
“What if I can’t find them?” Amelia moans.
“Are these the ones you practiced for us five times last night?” Dad, the fuss drawing him out of the kitchen, says. “You’ve memorized them, haven’t you, kiddo?”
“That’s not the point!” Amelia’s close to tears.
“Mila, sweetheart, Dad made pancakes.” Mom takes her hand. “Let’s get something to eat, and then we’ll attack this problem head-on.”
“Is there apple cider?” Amelia asks, letting Mom lead her into the kitchen.
“Of course,” Dad says, then adds, “I’m sure your sister will get you a mug, right, Libby?”
“Happy to,” I reply, ladling some from the simmering pot on the stove. It’s fragrant with cloves and cinnamon sticks and dried orange slices that bob on the surface, the way Dad has always made it. I set the steaming mug in front of my sister’s seat, whispering, “I’m sorry I can’t spike it.”
“Moi aussi,” Amelia replies as she sits down. An odd look comes over her face, and she stands again, sticking her hand in her robe’s pocket.