Chapter 5 #2
It infuriates me that my mother thinks she needs to tell me that.
As if I’m not haunted by the ghosts of Christmas Michelles Past. Like I don’t think about the Christmas mornings I’d push open her bedroom door, and though she wasn’t even close to being awake, she’d lift up the covers and say, “Okay, Pop-Tart, climb in,” and we’d wait together until Naomi was ready to do presents.
Or the late-night scheming sessions every December over what gift to make or get for our mother.
Or the way she always managed to give me something for Christmas that I never expected or asked for, but then could never live without—like that red copy of A Christmas Carol .
Of course I know that Michelle did love Christmas. But how do I know what she loves now? Or if she loves or cares about anything or anyone? And how does my mom think she knows what I want? It feels like we’re all strangers these last few months.
I take off my glasses and rub the bridge of my nose, but Naomi can’t see me, so she continues, “I would consider it a gift, if you’d do it for me.”
Now I really have to practice being a grown-up—one who would not throw this box of cookies clear across the room like I want to right now.
My mother has no idea how hard I worked on the gift I’ve already gotten for her.
Or how much I have “considered” our situation even before she asked this question.
But it’s like she implanted a little remote-control guilt-mobile in my gut at birth, and she decides when to turn it on and hit the gas pedal.
So as much as I’m fuming at her, I still can’t stand the idea of disappointing her.
By the time those emotions finish battling, they’ve canceled each other out, and I’m just freaking exhausted.
When I still don’t respond, she finally says, “Just actually think about it, okay? I need to let them know soon. They need visitors’ names in advance.”
“Okay,” I say, mostly because I just can’t wait to be off the phone.
“Anyway, I’ll be late tonight—don’t wait up,” she says, and then in a slightly sunnier tone, “Joany will want you in tip-top shape tomorrow.”
I don’t bother correcting her that I’m off. I’m sure she won’t notice either way.
“So… what’re your feelings on mac and cheese?” I ask Marley. Once I’ve sort of recovered from the call, I sit across from him with my microwaved meal (à la Home Alone ). The lights Izaac and I so carefully wrapped around him wink and glimmer in reply.
“Mm, vegan, eh? Guess that makes sense,” I say, stabbing a few orange elbows and watching the steam curl. The good news is my mom’s not here to tell me I can’t put maple syrup on it—the best upgrade to mac and cheese ever.
“Well, I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”
I drop the fork and slap my forehead, because now I’m talking to a literal tree. But he’s a beautiful tree, and he deserves to have a family around him, celebrating him on his holiday, like all the other beautiful trees.
It’s not that I thought surprising my mom with Marley would fix everything.
I believe in magic, not miracles, and I’m seventeen, not seven.
But I did think it would at least show her that despite everything, we could still be a family around the holidays—that some forms of magic are still possible.
And I guess I thought that maybe, if I could give us something else to focus on, she might forget her question or rethink her plan for the visit, at least for a little while.
I want to do the right thing, but I don’t know what that is. And the two people I always relied on to tell me right from wrong are pretty hard to trust these days.
“Ughhhhh,” I say, and let the sound rattle in the back of my throat, then apologize to Marley and put down my mac. I’m not hungry anymore.
I head to my bedroom—my one true sanctuary besides the farm, the walls lined with all the things that bring me inspiration and joy.
I have posters of some of my favorite movies, with the crown jewel of my collection, The Muppet Christmas Carol , above my bed, and a whole corner dedicated to photos.
My favorite is of Diya, Cash, Izaac, and me from last Christmas, in the midst of our annual snow globe making session.
Or at least, it was annual, until this year, when I couldn’t find a time that worked for everyone.
I sit at my desk to force myself to look at these applications since the vibe is so off already, but as I pick up the forms I printed at school, I find the envelope I’ve buried under the stack.
It’s a letter from Michelle that Naomi brought home for me after her last visit.
I already know what it is—her amends letter.
She gave me one last year too, the first time she went through recovery.
“I promise,” she’d said then, holding my hand as we sat at Rhapsody together last winter, when she had just finished her first stint in rehab. We were drinking hot cocoa. She got me extra marshmallows when she ordered. She knew my food upgrades and modifications better than anyone.
“Part of what motivated me to get through treatment was wanting to be there for you, and with you,” she said, with real tears in her eyes.
“For your graduation, and the premiere of your first feature film…” Her long sandy-blond hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail.
There was color in her cheeks, and she looked like her old self again.
Cleaned up, put together, making a promise to me to stay on her meds, and off the drugs that had caused us all so much pain.
“And of course, to hear all about your first kiss. I didn’t miss it, did I? ”
She smiled wide, and for the first time in a very long time, I saw Michelle— my Michelle. The one who supported me and encouraged my dreams and soothed my fears. Not the one who said awful things to me, who seemed to try to tear me down, who scared me more than anyone ever had.
I shook my head, but said nothing.
“What I’m saying is, I don’t want to miss any more of your life, and I never want to go through it all again either. Or put anyone else through that kind of… pain,” she said, squeezing my hand. “Trust me.”
And that was enough for me. I stood and hugged her, and we finished our cocoa, and I put the nightmare behind me. Case closed.
It felt so good at the time, to think she was taking responsibility, apologizing, and promising to get better.
I didn’t even think twice about forgiving her—after all, forgiveness and transformation are among the core themes of Christmas stories (along with awe, wonder, surprise, generosity, and kindness).
They’re central to classics like How the Grinch Stole Christmas!
and A Christmas Carol , and even the Hallmark movies with the hard-hearted corporate types.
But it’s tough to muster that kind of forgiveness a second time.
Can I believe my sister can transform again—and stick with it this time?
I stash the envelope back where I found it, because whatever’s inside, I can’t even imagine a response. I reach for a blank sheet of paper instead.
I’d rather be writing to Eve. If only I could send her a letter and address it to Santa at the North Pole like kids do.
Eve, Taco Truck/Tree Lot, Brooklyn, NY
I feel lighter just at the thought. But what would I say?
She seemed to have a sense of weight, even sadness, when she said her faith in magic had been tested. Like she’s been through something heavy too. And even though I don’t know her story, when I think about Michelle, I feel like I can relate.
If I could find her, I’d make it my purpose to bring out her smile, to restore her faith, to show her that magic is very real. Especially at Christmas.
But Eve wouldn’t just take my word for it.
“I guess I like things I can prove,” she said, and her words float above my head in a cartoon bubble.