Chapter 30 December 21
The doorbell rings for the third time this morning, likely another kind neighbour dropping something off. The fridge and freezer are full, and there’s little room left for any more “get well soon” casseroles. Amelia’s started putting casseroles in her freezer.
The contrast between city life and living in Harmony Hills is stark: the former offers anonymity; the latter is like being at the centre of a giant group hug.
Even though none of this is particularly revelatory, every time that doorbell rings, I have a pensive moment of reflection on what I have given up.
Also, it has been confirmed. Despite my best efforts, I can’t change the past (or the future, probably). It happened on a different day, in a different way, but Mom still got hurt.
The crash Amelia and I heard, the night of the surprise party, was Mom falling from a wobbly stool when she tried to hang the bath bomb ornament onto the Christmas tree.
The room was dark, and one of the stool’s legs was on the carpet while the rest were on the hardwood, making it unstable.
Even though she’s tall, she was on her tiptoes trying reach the tree’s top branches.
She said one moment she was hooking the ornament’s string over the branch, and the next she was on the floor with her ankle crumpled underneath her.
I’ve felt sick since it happened and wish again that I had someone, anyone, to confide in.
Thankfully, the fracture didn’t require surgery—a cast for six to eight weeks, and then physiotherapy.
Regardless, not ideal when you’re the only doctor in town.
“Would you mind getting the door, honey?” Mom asks, settled comfortably on the living room couch in her silk candy-cane-adorned pajamas.
Her leg, encased to the knee in a pink fibreglass cast, is propped up on the embroidered Santa Claus pillow.
Scrooged plays on the television, and I’ve been watching carefully, searching for clues about how to handle my own time-hopping Christmas situation.
But in the end, it’s simply a fictional movie with a well-oiled plot, and I can’t glean anything helpful from it.
“Sure.” I tighten the nail polish bottle’s lid, having just finished painting Mom’s toenails, then head to the front door.
Millicent Mueller stands on the other side, donning a wide smile and a sage-green plaid quilted winter coat, with a matching hat that barely covers her springy, grey curls.
In her hands is a rectangular glass casserole dish, which is covered in tinfoil held tightly with a series of elastic bands.
“Hi, Miss Millicent, how are you?”
“Hello, Libby! I’m well,” she says, in a cheerful, singsong tone. She thrusts the casserole dish towards me, and I take it from her, noting that it’s still warm to the touch.
“Wanted to drop this off, so no one has to think about dinner tonight,” she says. “My chopped-ham-and-pea casserole. Just put it in at three seventy-five for about twenty minutes, until it’s bubbling.”
“Oh, thank you. This was… very kind of you,” I say, knowing from past experience that this is the casserole with the jar of mayonnaise in it, and that not a forkful of it will pass my lips.
Ham, yes (though now I can’t help but think of Mary Piggins with a slight wiggle of guilt).
Peas, of course. “Bubbling” hot mayonnaise? No, thank you.
“It’s the least I could do, honey,” she says, wringing her gloved hands, her lips turning down in a frown. “Your poor mother, with that pesky leg. How is she feeling?”
Millicent Mueller, being not at all subtle, peers around me, craning her head to look into the living room.
“Why don’t you come in for a coffee?” I step to the side. “Mom will appreciate the company. Especially someone who isn’t a hovering doctor or nurse.” I smile at this last part, knowing that Mom probably needs us less than we need to take care of her.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to be a bother,” she says, but then she’s through the doorway and taking off her hat. She looks around the foyer entrance wide-eyed, taking in all the holiday touches. “Monica always does such a lovely job with the decorating. It’s so festive and cheerful!”
Fresh cedar garland frames the front door’s interior, with white twinkle lights and pine cones nestled into the branches.
Two miniature Christmas trees stand on either side of the front-hall closet.
A blooming red poinsettia is on a pot stand by the stairwell, with a trio of faux candle-lit lanterns beside it.
Then, there’s a red-green-and-white-plaid runner for snow-covered shoes and boots by the door.
Finally, decorative stockings hang on the coat hooks that line the wall opposite the closet.
“She loves doing it.” I shift the warm casserole dish in my hands. It has some weight to it, and thinking about the ingredients makes my stomach lurch. “Head on into the living room, and I’ll make coffee. You can hang your coat in the closet if you like.”
“Thanks, Libby,” she replies, tucking her gloves into her coat’s pocket, which she hangs up. Then she straightens her forest-green slacks and cream cardigan, which has a small, jeweled wreath pinned to it, and heads into the living room. “Just lovely. Lovely! Look at that tree, my word…”
I smile as I head to the kitchen, listening to Miss Millicent fawn over Mom. “Oh, Monica, you poor thing. Let me fluff that pillow for you. There, isn’t that better?”
In the kitchen I open the fridge and start moving containers and dishes around, trying to find a spot for the large glass dish.
“This is like Tetris,” I mumble, shifting and stacking until I create a spot. Dad’s packing a lunch for his afternoon at the clinic and turns from the sink, where he’s washing a bright red apple. “What did Millicent bring over?”
“Hot ham casserole, with mayo-nnaise .” I shudder, close the fridge door, and press my hands to my stomach.
Dad laughs. “It’s actually pretty tasty, honey. Don’t you remember? You liked it when you were little.”
I frown. “I did? Are you sure?” I don’t share this memory, and I can’t believe there was ever a time I liked anything with warm mayonnaise. I think it’s the worst condiment out there, by a long shot.
“You and Amelia always asked for seconds,” he says, tucking the apple into his reusable lunch bag, and setting a freezer pack on top.
“Do you need me today, at the clinic?” I ask. “Millicent is having coffee and a visit with Mom—but she said she could stay most of the day, if needed. I could give you a hand? I’m sure things have piled up these past couple of days.”
“I just made a pot of coffee, so you don’t need to start a fresh one.
And the gingersnaps are in that tin,” he says, pointing to a mistletoe-adorned cookie tin on the countertop.
“The clinic isn’t busy today, so I can handle the load.
Why don’t you go do something with Amelia?
It’s your last day in town, honey. Make the most of it.
I cleaned Pepper off after last night’s snow. She’s all ready for your drive back.”
“Thanks, Dad. You didn’t have to do that.” I pour coffee from the steaming carafe, my chest constricting with emotion. “Maybe Amelia and I will do something later. We’ll see. Mom seems okay, right? Do you think she’s okay?”
“She’s okay, Libby.” He takes a last sip of his coffee and puts the mug into the dishwasher.
“I’m just glad it wasn’t worse,” I reply, arranging a few cookies on a plate and picking up a small stack of napkins.
“Me, too, honey. I think I aged about ten years, seeing her on the ground like that.” He shakes his head, his mouth a tight line.
I rub his arm, give him the biggest, brightest smile I can. “Like you said, she’s okay. Let’s not worry about what could have been.”
We walk into the living room, him carrying the plate of cookies and the napkins and me with the coffee mugs. I set one in front of Miss Millicent, and hand the other mug to Mom. “I think I’d rather be here—keep an eye on things. Mila’s on her way over, too.”
“Suit yourself.” Dad kisses me on the cheek, then gives Millicent a hug and Mom a kiss goodbye. “Millicent, please make sure she doesn’t do any more ornament hanging, okay?”
Miss Millicent chuckles, pulling a deck of cards from her purse. “I’m going to keep her busy trying to beat me at cards. Don’t you worry, Stark.”
A moment later Dad’s out the door.
“Anything else I can get for you?” I ask.
“I don’t think so, Libby.” Mom smiles my way, blowing on the top of her coffee to dissipate some of the heat.
“Maybe a time machine?” Miss Millicent suggests, one eyebrow raised comically high. “Then your mom could go back in time and not stand up on that flimsy stool, in the dark, to hang that ornament, hmm?”
A joke, of course—she has no idea how close she is to the reality of what I’ve been going through. But unnerved, a high-pitched laugh escapes me. It’s a beat too late, and too loud for the room, which causes both Mom and Miss Millicent to look my way in confusion.
“A time machine! Good one,” I reply. “If only, right? Right?”
“Indeed,” Mom replies, sighing wistfully, her fingers tapping restlessly against her mug. I know she’s suffering with boredom. The pain is well managed, but my mom is not great at resting or staying still.
Miss Millicent bites into one of the cookies. “Delicious. Did you make these, Libby?”
“Those cookies don’t have burnt edges—my signature—so no,” I say with a smile.
Mom chuckles kindly. She knows I’m not wrong, and that she’s only moderately more skilled than I am. Amelia’s the best baker in our family, though Dad is decent. “Evie dropped off a whole box of Cookie Cottage treats earlier,” she says.
“Ah, yes. I should have guessed.” Miss Millicent looks at the other half of the cookie, then points to its chewy interior. “They use real candied ginger pieces. Divine.”