Thirty-Two
Winter
We aren’t allowed into the rehab facility where my dad is a patient until nine, even though it’s a holiday. This means diverting from our usual family traditions for Christmas morning.
My mom is there, waiting as well, so we all walk in together, carrying the few presents that aren’t already in my dad’s room.
A week ago, we set up a miniature Christmas tree for him.
He was disappointed not to have a real tree this year, but the staff explained that even a small tree could pose a fire hazard.
So a cheap plastic tree from the store had to suffice.
We even found a little string of garland for it and some small ornaments that fit at the local general store.
Saint even made a couple of small decorations for it at his shop, which he custom-designed for my dad, one of his favorite football teams, and one for his favorite hockey team. Dad was ecstatic about it.
His Christmas tree sits on top of a little table in the corner, and we have been bringing presents to put under it, a few at a time, so that we could all exchange presents together.
When we get to my dad’s room, we find him sitting up in bed, drinking a cup of hot chocolate. He greets us with an infectious joy. His injury and future outlook are not keeping him from being happy on his favorite holiday, and that’s something to be thankful for.
Cypress sets up a portable speaker in the corner and turns on a playlist he made for our dad that includes his favorite versions of Christmas songs. The music plays quietly in the background for us, filling me with nostalgia.
I hug Dad and take a seat next to him on his bed. It’s terribly uncomfortable. I feel awful that he’s stuck in this thing pretty much all the time.
Mom has us gather around. My brothers fight over one of the plastic visitor chairs since Saint claimed the other one, but Mom breaks up their squabble quickly.
“Help me hand these out,” she directs Cypress, who begrudgingly assists her, even if it means Douglas gets the other chair. He wouldn’t go against our mother, especially on a holiday.
As my mom bends down to pick up some of the presents from the pile, I spot Douglas stick his tongue out at Cypress. Fortunately, Mom is distracted, but she turns around just in time to see Cypress return the gesture.
With a stern talking-to and a gentle swat, my brother apologizes while Douglas sits smugly in the chair. The look Cypress gives him promises payback at his earliest convenience.
Apologies finished, Mom and Cypress hand out the presents until we each have a small stack sitting before us.
We take turns opening gifts. Cypress gets some business-related books he asked for. I can tell Mom feels bad once they’re opened since he withdrew from school for the semester, but she bought them before Dad’s accident.
Douglas gets a new handheld gaming device and quickly tunes us all out to try one of the games that came with it.
My mom opens a box and pulls out something wrapped in bubble wrap that she has to painstakingly peel the tape from.
“Guess I went overboard,” Saint admits.
When she finally peels off the last piece of tape and pulls back the protective wrapping, she squeals with excitement. Since she’s on the other side of my dad, he and I both cringe at the force of her shriek, covering our ears.
“You really made it!” she exclaims.
Saint’s face flushes with embarrassment as he nods.
Mom proceeds to pull out each of the pieces of pottery and show them off to all of us.
He made her a tea set. Not just any tea set.
She loves mushroom figurines, so he made a teapot that is shaped like a mushroom; the lip is the mushroom cap, and the part that holds water is the stalk.
Then she shows us the cups, which look like upside-down mushrooms; the saucer is the cap, the cup is the stalk.
“I love these. Thank you!” She hugs him with excitement.
“Great,” Cypress grumbles. “Way to make the rest of us look bad.” He sits back, looking cross.
“Oh, now you stop it,” Mom demands. “I loved your present too,” she says as she holds up the coasters he bought for her.
We’re almost finished opening presents. Only one is left, and Saint hands it to me. I look for a tag, but I don’t see one, so I ask, “Who’s this one from?”
“It’s from me,” he confesses. It’s rectangular and kind of heavy as I move it around, finding a better position to hold it while I peel back the wrapping paper.
When it’s uncovered, I pull it out and am in awe. It’s the painting I saw in his studio, the one of me. It was still a work in progress then. Now it’s not only finished but a masterpiece.
The painting colors are muted; if I weren’t in modern clothes, it would look like something you’d find in a museum.
“This is beautiful,” I choke out as I cast my eyes over every detail, every brush stroke he painstakingly painted with care.
It’s encased in an antique-style golden frame, weirdly one that would match some of my decor at my apartment in New York.
It’s funny how that happened, considering he’s never been to or seen my apartment. It’s perfect.
I hug it to me, a reaction that feels at odds with my normal behavior. No one is going to take it from me, so I’m not sure where that idea came from.
I lock eyes with Saint across the room. “Thank you. I love it.”
My eyes tear a little bit as I quickly turn to hide my face so he can’t see, disguised as just wanting to show it off. If I could, I’d keep it to myself, save it as a precious memory meant for us and us alone.
“Oh my gosh!” Mom yells when I show her the portrait. “It looks so much like Winter. Doesn’t it, Gene?” She turns it toward my dad.
“Spitting image that there is,” he replies with a slight smile on his face.
We spend a while longer hanging around, and after a bit, Cypress volunteers to grab some Chinese takeout for lunch.
Somehow, he convinces Saint to let him borrow his SUV. Saint tosses him the keys, hesitance clear in his expression.
“Be careful. No running over curbs,” I instruct my brother.
He gives me a sour look before returning, “I’ve learned how to drive since you’ve been gone. I bet I can drive even better than you, Miss City Girl. You probably take the subway everywhere.”
I squint my eyes at him and do the hand gesture for ‘I’m watching you.’
He makes a face back before leaving the room.
Fifteen minutes later, he’s back with enough food to feed an army.
“That was fast,” my mom compliments.
“I’m surprised since it’s the only place that’s usually open around here on Christmas,” my dad comments.
“I was worried when I first got there because I was like the sixth car in line, and the parking lot was full with all the people eating inside the restaurant, but it looked like they had a whole crew working.”
We eat together, silence filling the air except for the occasional crunch of a fortune cookie or the hum of delight.
When we’re all finished, Saint pulls a trash bag from the back pocket of his jeans and starts putting wrapping paper from the presents inside before passing it around for the empty food containers.
“So thoughtful,” Mom says as she takes her turn putting her empty Styrofoam container inside.
“I barely remembered to snag it on the way out the door,” he says. “I just figured the staff wouldn’t be too happy with us if we left behind a big mess for them to clean up.”
“You’re right,” Dad answers. “We’ve got the cranky nurse assistant today. She would’ve probably made a scene.”
We pack up the gifts to take home and say our goodbyes. Mom is staying for a while longer, wanting to watch the Christmas carolers that my dad told her will be coming around in an hour. The rest of us head to the car to make the drive back to the farm.
Christmas looked different this year, but it wasn’t bad. In fact, I would say this was the best Christmas I’ve had in years.