Chapter 12 December 14, Christmas Past
I take the stairs slowly, clutching the holly-berry-garland-wrapped handrail.
I’m out of breath, my thoughts frantic. You hit your head, because someone—okay, Amelia—invited a potbellied pig to a wedding.
You’re unconscious. None of this is real.
You have not travelled to an alternate reality, nor have you gone back in time.
It’s a fabrication of your mind, filling in the blanks because, again, you hit your head.
You’re unconscious. None of this is real. You have not travelled back in time …
I murmur, “There’s an explanation for everything. Even for this. Whatever this is.”
“Is that you, Libby?” Mom’s voice rings out.
Stepping into the living room, I find my mom seated on the couch, her socked feet resting on an embroidered Santa Claus pillow on the coffee table.
She’s been reading, as evidenced by the book nesting in her lap.
She pulls her glasses to the end of her nose and looks my way.
The television is on in the background—Mom likes to multitask.
“What are you watching?” I ask.
“What am I watching?” Mom tilts her head, purses her lips. Her “Doc Munro” look—she’s evaluating me, and I’m antsy under her gaze.
Chuckling nervously, I glance back at the television. “Kidding. Obviously, it’s Elf . Which I’ve seen no fewer than a hundred times.”
“For a moment there I wondered if you were sleepwalking,” Mom says, tipping the readers atop her head.
“Ha ha, nope! Wide awake.” My jaw hurts from my forced smile. Then I gesture towards the stairs, my arm moving somewhat wildly. “Also, sorry, but I broke a lamp. The Christmas one, that plays music? Do you have Krazy Glue?”
Mom raises her eyebrows at my frenetic pace, but before she can respond Amelia and Dad walk in.
They’re also wearing pyjamas—the same pattern—and when I look down, and then over at Mom, I notice we’re in matching sets.
Of course. The Munro holiday tradition of wearing family Christmas pjs, which begins the moment we’re all under the same roof.
At first I don’t recognize the pattern, which features melting snowmen against the soft flannel, and a matching long-sleeved jersey top.
But then I remember these are last year’s family pyjamas.
Wrapped under the tree when I got home, with a tag in Mom’s handwriting that read “Dearest Libby—Wishing You a Festive Meltdown!”
Except with all the chaos of Mom’s injury, and my very brief trip home, I didn’t open the present until after Austin and I got back from L.A. The pyjamas ended up stuffed into the back of a drawer in my Toronto apartment, never worn. And yet, somehow, here I am wearing them.
“Libby! There you are. Was just about to come up and check on you.” Dad’s wearing an apron over his pyjamas, and has two mugs in hand. The apron reads WE WHISK YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS , and I would chuckle at the pun if I wasn’t so freaked out.
He takes a sip from one of the mugs, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee hits my nose. I need caffeine and sugar in my system, STAT. He holds up the other mug. “Made you some flat ginger ale.”
Well, at least it will take care of the sugar craving. “Thanks, Dad.”
“How are you feeling now, honey?” Mom asks.
Confused? Alarmed? Having an existential crisis, thanks for asking?
“Weird. Really weird.” My voice cracks, and my smile fades.
Amelia’s looking at me as though my head is about to spin around, and Mom nibbles the arm of her glasses as she exchanges a glance with Dad. He sets the mugs down, as Amelia murmurs, “See? I told you something’s up.”
“Libby, let’s sit.” Dad leads me over to one of the overstuffed chairs across from the couch. I sink into the plush cushions, but my body won’t relax. I’m wringing my hands, and then shove them under my thighs to hide my discomfort.
Dad crouches beside the chair, leaning on the armrest. His expression is neutral—no smile but also no frown; no worry lines between his eyes, the same colour as my own—as he checks my pulse. “A bit quick, but you’re likely dehydrated. Let’s give that ginger ale a try, eh?”
I nod, and take a small sip from the mug Dad hands me.
“What happened?” I ask, in my head adding, Any idea how I travelled back in time to last Christmas? Anyone?
“You ate a bad sandwich on the drive home, had severe emesis for a few hours, and woke up in a bit of a fuddle, it seems.” Mom puts her book on the couch beside her.
It’s by her favourite horror writer, the cover black with bloodred slashes across it.
I almost laugh—reading gory horror while watching the Christmas movie Elf … a tableau of contrasts.
“Bad sandwich,” I say, mostly to myself. I’m running through possible food-borne pathogens that might explain how I’ve hallucinated being a time traveller, but nothing comes to mind.
“I’d say this is more than a ‘fuddle,’?” Amelia says with a harsh laugh. “Nutty as a fruitcake, is more like it. She was going on about Mary Piggins, and some wedding?”
I gently tug my wrist out of Dad’s hand. “Whatever it was, I feel fine now.”
At least physically, that’s true. I lean forward and set the mug on the coffee table, next to the embroidered pillow. Mom’s legs cover half of Santa’s face, but one eye is visible. He’s winking deeply, crinkling the corner of his eye above a rosy full cheek, as though he’s in on the joke.
A thought bubbles to the surface… maybe this is a joke?
I wouldn’t put it past them, especially Mom.
She has a wicked sense of humour and likes a good practical joke.
A wave of relief moves through me, and I stand and clap my hands together.
“I don’t know how you pulled this off—changed my calendar, even—but good one. You got me!”
I stare at my family, smiling, waiting for them to admit to my joke theory.
No one says anything. Buddy proclaims in the background, “I just like to smile. Smiling is my favourite!” As the quiet stretches, I realize it’s too much of a reach.
A joke doesn’t explain how my hair is long again.
Or how my nails are a colour I have never before chosen at the salon.
Or why my ex-boyfriend called me, acting as though we never broke up.
“No one’s messing with you, Libby,” Mom says. Dad and Amelia shake their heads.
“Oh, okay. Forget I said anything.” I need some air. To escape this living room, decorated floor to ceiling with Christmas merriment, and get away from my family’s watchful gaze. “I think I’ll take a walk.”
At my announcement Amelia throws her hands up in the air and mutters, “Doctors are the worst.” Mom nods and says, “That’s true,” as Dad, who is closest to me, gives me a side hug.
While other parents might say “Back to bed, young lady” after a bout of food poisoning—even when you’re a full-grown adult—being a doctor’s child means a blasé reaction to most illness and injury.
“Fresh air can do wonders,” Dad says, proving the point.
“What if Libby hit her head when she fell out of the bed and has some sort of brain bleed?” Amelia looks between us, clearly agitated by how laid-back our parents are acting. “Do we all remember my wrist?”
When Amelia was eight she broke the scaphoid bone in her wrist falling off her bike, and it took my parents two weeks to get her an X-ray, despite their youngest’s insistence something was wrong.
“Libby does not have a brain bleed, Amelia,” Mom says.
“Well, you didn’t think my wrist was broken, and it was, so…” Amelia replies, shrugging.
“Mila, Mom’s right. I don’t have a brain bleed,” I say, hoping it’s the truth.
“Oh, Libby.” Mom turns towards me now, snapping her fingers.
I remember her snapping her fingers in front of my face last night, before I passed out, and it unsettles me all over again.
“Would you pick up a sourdough loaf while you’re out?
Toast with honey is exactly what the doctor ordered.
Need to remind that stomach of yours that its job is to digest food, not reject it. ”
“Do we think eating anything is a good idea for Miss I Threw Up an Internal Organ Last Night?” Amelia asks. “Remember when you told me ‘getting back on the bike is the only way to overcome the fear’ after I fell, and then I did, and fell again and broke my wrist?”
“Darling, we’ve been apologizing for the wrist thing for years ,” Mom replies with a light sigh. But she gives Amelia a generous smile. “Maybe your Christmas present to us this year can be your letting it go?”
“Jamais,” Amelia whispers, narrowing her eyes. Never —I know that one.
“So just the loaf?” I ask Mom, who follows me to the front door.
I look around for my running shoes, a poor choice for the snowy conditions, but I need to get out of here.
Frustration boils inside me. Am I on the naughty list or something?
I think, silently adding in a few choice words.
The answer is likely in the “or something.”
“Just the loaf. Also, it’s minus ten,” Mom says. “There’s an extra pair of boots in the closet.” I see them when I open the closet door to grab my coat. They’re black Sorels, fur lining slightly matted, definitely well loved.
“Thanks,” I say, then realize I’m not wearing socks. But I’m not going back upstairs. Sockless, it is. I shove my feet into the boots.
When I open the front door, the frigid December air hits me. Mom’s right—it’s cold out here. My breath catches with the shift between the warm air inside the house and the frosty outdoors.
“Also, they’re fully waterproof,” Mom adds, as I’m readying to close the door behind me, my coat still undone and laces untied. “In case that ginger ale makes a comeback.”