Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Anna
Ever since our parents divorced twenty years ago, my younger brother, Ryder, and I celebrated Christmas twice a year, once with each parent. Those celebrations were as different as night and day.
On Christmas Day, I’d driven to the ranch outside of town where Ryder lived, and we’d made a day trip from there to our dad’s house in Knoxville.
As usual, it was drama-free, pleasant, and just the right length for a visit.
Our dad had a good heart and always made us feel welcome.
He carried his own damage from our family’s tragedy, but compared to our mother, he’d adapted, healed as much as possible, and moved forward with his life, marrying Carol twelve years ago.
That left our belated “celebration” with our mom.
As usual, Ryder refused to go to her place in Nashville, so we were gathering at my one-bedroom apartment, which was the top floor in a three-story house built in 1911 that showed every year of its age.
I’d lived here for several years though, and my landlord, Morris McDaniel, who lived on the bottom floor, was a dear man in his seventies who was going through health challenges.
The dynamics between my mom and Ryder were always tense, which usually had me trying to keep the peace so we could all go through the motions of a family holiday, then go our separate ways unscathed, without any big blowups.
My role was exhausting, but it still took less energy than a major mother-son explosion.
Having Kemp here provided an extra buffer.
There’d been no blatant arguments so far, and we’d nearly made it through the main course. That in itself was a feat.
I’d cooked a spiral ham, green bean casserole, dinner rolls, and Ryder’s favorite mac and cheese recipe. Kemp had brought an apple pie and a tray full of holiday cookies from the Country Market. Ryder’s famous slow-cooker scalloped potatoes rounded out the menu.
Bless little Oliver’s heart. He’d taken a bottle shortly after Kemp had arrived with him and had been down for a nap in his playpen in my bedroom ever since. Kemp had been able to focus on stuffing food in his face, and he’d done that like a man who hadn’t eaten without interruption for days.
“You seem a little more relaxed than you were Friday evening,” I said to him as he finished one last helping of potatoes.
Kemp chuckled. “I wouldn’t use the word relaxed to describe me for the past few days. Being here helps though. It’s good to be with people I’m comfortable with. I feel less on guard while I wait for him to wake up.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “You know I’ll help you if you need it.”
“I don’t want to need help, but yeah.”
“I still can’t wrap my head around Daddy Kemp,” Ryder said, shaking his head.
“Neither can I, dude,” Kemp said.
Kemp had grown up with us, our backyards adjacent to each other. He was my age and had always been closer to me, but he and Ryder had had sports in common throughout our childhoods.
“I, for one, can’t wait for Oliver to wake up. I only got to see him for five minutes,” my mom said.
This was how our mother was. Instead of being sensitive to Kemp’s relief that Oliver slumbered on, she wanted the baby to wake up so she could fawn over him.
“If you would’ve gotten here on time, you would’ve seen him more,” Ryder said, all warmth gone from his tone.
“My yoga class didn’t end until eleven,” she stated.
“It didn’t occur to you that you should skip it this week so you could get to your noon lunch date at your daughter’s for Christmas dinner?” Ryder asked.
“No, Ryder, that didn’t occur to me,” our mom said as I prepared to jump in if they didn’t quit. “I made it, didn’t I?”
Instead of continuing the impossible-to-win argument, my brother blessedly bit down on his response, picked up his empty plate, and carried it to the sink.
Kemp tossed his napkin on his plate, signaling he was finished eating as well. I hopped up and took his plate, mine, and my mom’s and joined Ryder at the counter.
Before Kemp could sit back and relax, Oliver’s fussing became audible from behind the closed bedroom door. I glanced back in time to see my big, formerly fearless friend tense up.
“I love that little dude,” he said, “but I can’t wait till he sleeps for longer stretches.”
“I could give him his bottle,” my mom said.
“You don’t have to do that, Mrs. D,” Kemp said.
“I’d love to. I can pretend like he’s a grandbaby, since my kids aren’t making progress toward giving me any.”
Ryder and I exchanged an eye roll and let the comment go, while Kemp jumped on it. “Let’s get you your grandbaby dose then. He probably needs a diaper too.”
Our mom stood and went into the bedroom with Kemp, surprising me.
“Stepping up isn’t usually her way,” I muttered to Ryder when they shut the door that connected the kitchen and bedroom.
“Obviously she feels there’s something in it for her,” Ryder said matter-of-factly. I couldn’t argue. “Plus it gives her an excuse to continue to contribute nothing to the meal or cleanup.”
I shrugged. “You know it would’ve been an ordeal if I’d asked her to bring something. Even a bag of rolls.”
Ryder ran water into one side of the sink to start washing dishes.
“You need to stop letting her get away with it, Anna. You give her an inch; she takes a mile. You give her an invitation; she neglects to offer to bring something, shows up late, and doesn’t lift a finger to help. That leaves more for you.”
“You’re helping me,” I pointed out as I got the drying rack out from under the sink.
“Why should you and I do everything? She’s fifty-eight, not eighty-eight.”
“She’s ‘fragile.’ It’s easier just to take care of things.”
“She takes advantage of you,” Ryder said.
“I don’t mind, Ryder. I’d rather keep the peace.”
“Tell her that,” he said. His tone was gentle, and I knew it came from a place of sticking up for me. “She’s the one who acts like a child.”
I grinned at the understatement. “You won’t get any arguments about that from me. It’s Christmas. Let’s just get this over with.”
“Amen, sister.”
The bedroom door opened as I washed dishes and Ryder dried and put them away.
“He’s the most precious thing,” our mom gushed as she emerged with Oliver in her arms.
“Even has a clean rear end,” Kemp said, following them into the kitchen. “We’ll see how long that lasts.” He carried a baby bottle of water he’d boiled at home and a small can of formula. At the table, he busied himself mixing them for his son.
Our mom headed into the living room with Oliver and sat on the couch as his fussing gained momentum.
“Are you okay with her feeding him?” I asked so she couldn’t hear.
Kemp nodded. “She knows what she’s doing. She’s given a few bottles.”
“A few thousand,” I agreed. My mom might be flighty, but I was confident she’d be good with Oliver. She wasn’t malicious, just self-absorbed.
Kemp took the prepared bottle out to my mom and made sure Oliver got started okay, then went to the bathroom, which was also off the kitchen in my tiny apartment.
“The door doesn’t close all the way,” I told him. “That’s what the planter on the floor is for—to brace it shut.”
My back was to him, but I felt him pause and knew he was looking at me in disbelief.
“You still haven’t gotten this fixed?” he asked.
“It’s not a huge priority when I’m alone here ninety-eight percent of the time,” I said.
“Did you tell Morris?” Ryder asked, teaming up with Kemp, who closed the door until the little metal thingy in the knob, which was stuck in the out position, got in the way. Then he shoved the planter against it.
“He can’t get up here after his hip surgery,” I explained.
My brother frowned. “So he should call someone to fix it.” He put a pan in the stove drawer, then eyed me. “You haven’t told him it’s broken, have you?”
“There’s no need. I’m fine. Even Kemp’s fine.” I gestured toward the bathroom door. “It’s not like it’s the door to the outside, putting my safety at risk.”
“You pay rent. It’s okay to ask for things to be fixed, Anna.”
“And if it was something crucial, I would,” I told him.
The bathroom door creaked open, and Kemp came out. He went straight to the junk drawer, opened it, and took out my screwdriver.
“You got any WD-40?” he asked.
“I think there’s a can in the broom closet.” I pointed to the narrow door in the corner of the cramped kitchen.
“If you have WD-40, why haven’t you stopped that creaking?” Ryder asked.
I laughed. “You’re such a guy. I don’t care about a door creaking. There’s nobody here to care about the door creaking. I didn’t even think about it.”
Kemp took the screwdriver and the WD-40 to the bathroom door and started working on it.
“How much longer do you think she’ll stay?” Ryder asked so our mother couldn’t hear.
I chuckled. “You know her. Not too long. She’s got more important things to do.”
“Like what? Does she have a nail appointment this afternoon?” he said dryly.
“Anything’s possible,” I said. I raised my voice slightly and addressed Kemp. “You know you don’t have to do that, right?”
He had the knobs off and was going after the innards. The metal thing that was stuck popped back in where it was supposed to be. “There,” Kemp said. “Gotta love a five-minute fix.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It won’t get stuck again when the door’s closed and lock me in the bathroom, will it?”
“No guarantees on that,” he said. “Keep your screwdriver in the bathroom just in case.”
“And do what with it?” I asked, grinning. I could be completely self-sufficient and fix things thanks to online videos, but I liked to exasperate these two men in my life by playing stupid sometimes. And really, the door hadn’t bothered me.
With a begrudging grin, Kemp shook his head as if I couldn’t be helped.
A few minutes later, the dishes were washed and put away, and we were settling back at the table for pie and cookies. Oliver had downed his bottle, so our mom sauntered in with him against her shoulder as she burped him.
“There’s nothing like holding a baby to make you feel loved,” she said. “He’s a doll, Kemp.”