Grace
Christmas Eve
You’d think all this snow—nine inches and counting since Monday—would keep my family away, but no. Minus a few random cousins, everyone’s here, and my mom and dad’s house is packed.
“Why are you hugging me so much, you groper?” she asks, and I tell her to shut up because admitting that I need my sister right now would be embarrassing.
Our mom’s Bose CD changer whirls and we wait.
“Who’s it gonna be, you think?” Ruth asks. “Jesus or Bublé?”
I guess Jesus, she guesses Bublé, but we’re both wrong: It’s Elvis.
“Ah, the real king of kings.”
“I heard that, babe!” says Nick.
Ian and Bella are at the base of my parents’ Christmas tree shaking presents. Harry Styles is beside them, and Ruth and I watch as he takes a casual bite of a sparkly bow.
“Get outta there, foot-licker,” my sister says, and he slinks away.
“When can we open these?” Bella asks.
“Soon, baby.”
Ian’s prize-winning painting is on the mantel above the fireplace. I brought it with us tonight so he could be celebrated, and my family delivered. They clapped and cheered and raised their glasses for him, and Ian blushed so hard I was afraid he was going to pass out.
My single aunt Samantha brought a date—a nice guy named Paul with a mustache who’s currently listening to my brother-in-law re-create the drive from Manhattan. Samantha keeps slyly touching Paul’s hand, which is wonderful. Go get ’em, Samantha.
My sister is holding a fizzy water in both hands. She’s dressed it up in a nice glass with a lime wedge, but I’m no fool. “So, what’s the protocol here?” I ask. “Am I supposed to pretend not to notice that you’re not drinking or…?”
“Shh,” she says and smiles.
I put my hand on her stomach and kiss her cheek. My eyes fill with tears, but then I laugh when she says, “Bad touch,” and tells me to get away.
“Who’s the father?” I ask.
She pauses for effect. “Seventy-five percent sure it’s that dipshit over there.”
Nick, who’s wearing a New York Jets jersey, has taken a break from talking about the power of four-wheel drive to thrust his hips like Elvis. Samantha’s date, Paul, has joined him. It’s quite a sight.
“Well, at least he’s tall,” I say.
Love Actually is on the flat-screen across the room—an edited version for basic cable.
Ruth and I are the only ones watching, but it’s comforting to have it playing, like the movie equivalent of a warm fire.
It’s near the end where all the storylines start to converge.
Hugh Grant has just raced out of 10 Downing Street to a Pointer Sisters song in search of Natalie, and now he knocks on an old lady’s door.
Ruth sighs. “I wish he’d show up at my house.”
“Nah, he’s old now,” I say. “You wouldn’t like him.”
“Not there, he isn’t,” she says, pointing at prime Hugh. “I think that’s why everyone loves holiday movies so much. The world goes to shit, but they stay exactly the same.”
She’s right. I think of Tim cheering on young Bruce Willis as he shoots terrorists in the ’80s. It was a simpler time.
“Plus,” she adds, “look at those eyes.”
We watch Hugh Grant find Natalie at her parents’ place. Then there’s the Christmas pageant that ends with them making out in front of half the cast.
“I always forget Liam Neeson’s in this,” Ruth says. “God, that man’s hot.”
I take down the last of my drink as Colin Firth reappears, determined and handsome. I thought of Henry a few scenes ago when Colin Firth is all forlorn at his family’s house and one of the kids there says the funniest thing in the whole movie: “I hate Uncle Jamie.” I bet Henry loves that line.
“Oh, and hello again, Mr. Darcy,” Ruth says.
“Stop it,” I tell her. “Also, you’re mixing Colin Firth movies.”
As my family shouts and drinks and listens to Christmas CDs, Ruth says, “But enough about middle-aged European guys and me. How are you?”
“Good,” I say.
She purses her lips. “Really?”
“Goodish?” I say. “It’s been a tough week.”
“You knew this first Christmas was gonna be shit, Gracey.”
I nod and feel guilty for letting my sister think that I’m sad for the most obvious reason. That’s how it has to be for now, though. Maybe forever. Who knows?
“Come on,” I say. “I need a refill.”
We find our mom in the kitchen, a blur of hands at work. “Hi, girls. Ruth, take the pigs in a blanket out of the oven, will you? I don’t want them to burn.”
My sister does as she’s told, and I find the appropriate bottle of wine in the ice tub on the kitchen counter. There’s more food here than is reasonable, so I do my part by eating a deviled egg and a few Hershey’s Kiss–topped pretzels.
“Who’s gonna eat all this, Mom?” I ask.
“That’s a good question,” she says. “Actually, you know what? Your friend Henry’s over at his mom and dad’s. Maybe see if they all wanna stop by for some food.”
“Mom,” I say.
“Wait, Henry Henry, from before?” asks Ruth. “Mr. Wi-Fi? Is he still in the pic—”
“No,” I say. “Henry is not in the picture. There is no picture.”
The kids appear now because kids are deaf until you actually want them to be deaf.
“Is Henry coming over?” Ian asks.
“We shoulda brought the video game,” says Bella. “We could’ve played it with him!”
“Kids, no,” I say. “Henry isn’t coming over. I think—honestly, you guys—I think we’ll probably be seeing less of Henry going forward, okay?”
“What?”
“But why?”
“We miss him,” says Bella.
“Did he do something, Grace?” my mom asks. “He seemed very nice when he fixed the internet.”
“He didn’t fix…Mom, it’s complicated.”
“But we like Henry,” says Bella.
“Yeah,” says Ian. “He helped me win my art contest. I wouldn’t’ve won without him. You heard Mr. Barton. Sixth graders never win.”
Harry Styles enters now as well, like he’s been looking for us.
“And I thought you liked him, too,” says Ian.
“He’s your friend,” says Bella. “You said so.”
I swallow another deviled egg. I don’t even like deviled eggs.
“Remember when he first came over to watch movies with us?” asks Ian. “You said he was coming over because he was sad like us.”
“Right,” I say. “Guys, these are very adult con—”
“But the thing is, whenever he was with us, we were all less sad. He was. Me and Bella were. You, too, Mom. You were less sad, too.”
“Way less sad!” says Bella. “We could tell!”
Goddammit.
Ruth eats a deviled egg now, too. I know for a fact that she likes them even less than I do. “So, what does this guy look like again?” she asks.
“Ruth,” I say.
“He’s cute,” my mom says. “Right? Anyway. I don’t know about how sad he is exactly, but his mom’s still worried about him.
She told me he moved back into his row house over in Federal Hill—you know, the one he and his wife shared before…
” She sets a baking sheet of crab cakes on the counter, takes off her oven mitts.
“Anyway. That all seemed like progress, right? Well, she told me yesterday that she went to visit him over the weekend, and, well, apparently, he’s living with a bunch of rodents. ”
“What?” I ask.
“Rodents?” says Ruth.
“Are mice rodents?” asks Bella.
“Yes, honey,” my mom says. “Mice. Disgusting creatures. He’s keeping them in an aquarium in his living room.
When she asked what in god’s name he was thinking, he told her it was too cold for them to be outside, so he’s keeping them until spring.
She said he built a whole habitat for them.
Egg cartons and torn-up newspaper. Which, let’s be honest, sounds like something someone would do who’s not doing so great.
Like, what kind of grown man has pet mice? ”
“Mom?” says Ian. “Are those…our mice?”
I nod, putting it together. Henry kept taking the mice away. I guess I never really thought about where he was taking them once the weather turned. “Dammit, Henry,” I whisper.
For most of my life, I haven’t been much of a crier. Then Tim died, and now I cry at things like my sister secretly being knocked up and Sad Henry hoarding rodents.
“Why would Henry take our mice to his house?” asks Bella.
Ian and I look at each other.
“Because he knows they’ll die if he lets them go outside,” my smart boy says. “And he promised us he wouldn’t hurt them.”
Bella smiles. “Aww. That’s nice of him. Do you think he gave them names?”
I look out the window over my parents’ sink. It’s dark, but the floodlights are on out back so I can see that the snow has died down a little. “Mom, you said he’s at his parents’?”
“Yeah,” she says.
“Where is that, exactly?”
“Just down the street. Three blocks, maybe. Why?”
“Kids, get your coats,” I say. “We’re going to see Henry.”
“Really?
“Yeah.”
“Yay!”
“Can Harry Styles come?” asks Bella. “He loves Henry.”
I tell my mom and Ruth that we’ll be right back.
“Screw that,” my sister says. “I’m coming, too.”
I’m in the family room now, dodging my relatives. I glance at Love Actually. The volume is low, but I can hear the music swelling. My mom shouts that she’s also coming and tells my dad to get his coat.
“My what?” he asks.
“Get your coat, Jack!”
“Where’s everyone going?” asks my brother-in-law.
“We’re going to see some guy named Henry,” Ruth says. “And you’re coming, too.”
“Okay,” says Nick. “Can we bring our drinks?”