Chapter 3 #2
May smiles like the best part is yet to come. “And as soon as that happens, we can put the farm on the market, and take everyone to Hawaii for a two-week Christmas vacation while the movers handle everything.”
I sit back down in my chair. If May or Thomas say anything further, I don’t hear it because my ears are ringing.
I mull things over, fighting the urge to yell at my siblings.
“Wait a minute,” I say, as something occurs to me. “It’s not like the farm is going to sell instantly. We can’t just pick up and leave, even if Mom and Dad say yes.”
May says, “We already have an offer. It’ll be basically a turnkey situation.”
And I’m supposed to move where? At Christmastime? I’m sure no one has given that any thought.
“So,” I say, glaring at Thomas after another long moment of dissociating, “You knew you were coming to talk to me about this when you were asking about covering medical bills?”
May pinches the bridge of her nose. “You know Thomas isn’t good about talking about important things.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Thomas snaps.
“Who’s the buyer?” I ask.
Thomas clears his throat and looks at May.
“Who?” I ask, looking at May.
“The Johnson family,” she says quietly but resolutely.”
Once again, my jaw drops.
“The Johnsons? The ones with the new Christmas tree plot across town that imports their trees from out of state? Those Johnsons?” I ask.
Thomas puts up his hands in surrender. “They’re offering cash on the barrel. You can’t be surprised they want the land. They’re expanding every year.”
“Yeah, the Johnsons are the reason why we’re losing business every year!” I exclaim.
May and Thomas exchange the look they give each other when I get riled up. They’ve been doing that look since I was four years old.
“The Johnsons and their selfie wall. The Johnsons and their gift shop full of candles made in China…” I mutter.
Thomas shrugs, “The Johnsons and their working needle-shaking machine, and netting machine…”
“We have those machines!” I push my rolling chair back from the desk.
May clears her throat. “Yeah, but half the time they don’t work properly.”
“That. Is. Exactly. My. Point. I need help!”
I’m done here.
Dad is opening the gate right now, and I should have had the pre-ordered trees netted and loaded onto the wagon already.
As I’m shoving my arms into my parka, May asks, “Where are you going?”
Blinking away my furious temper, I reply, “I’m going to work.
You know, the same work everyone in this room grew up doing.
I have trees to pull and hot cocoa to make and a wreath-making station to staff, without a staff.
Oh, and then there’s the half-assed wagon rides for the kids since the sleigh doesn’t work, and I have to prep the horses.
But thanks for offering to help. It’s great to see you guys. ”
Furiously, I exit the office and let the old creaky door slam shut. The wreath falls off for the fourth time this morning, but I don’t care.
May and Thomas steer clear of me for the rest of the day, mainly staying warm in the craft shack with the wreath making and the hot cocoa.
I appreciate the help with that, and feel guilty for being so angry.
But then I remember they’ve been talking about selling the farm, and my mood grows pretty sour again.
The one bright spot is taking a break around noon to check on Mom. The twins are napping, thank goodness.
I find her puttering in the kitchen, with pots bubbling on the stove and something baking in the oven. She wears an apron around her too-thin waist and looks happy but tired.
“Hi, baby,” she says, smiling at me as she appears to be returning all the flour, sugar and spices from the counter back to the pantry.
“Mom, give me that,” I say, taking items out of her arms. “You don’t want to wear yourself out just because you’re having a good day.”
She jokes, “Your fault for leaving me unsupervised.”
“Go put your feet up and I’ll make you some tea,” I say.
“Can’t argue with that,” she says.
Moments later, I have her tea ready and find her in the living room, where she’s nestled in her comfy chair.
I set the tea down on her side table and tuck a fuzzy blanket around her legs.
“Where are your slippers? And your hat? Your head must be freezing,” I say.
“I thought Thomas and May were helping you.”
She shrugs. “They were. After your little talk up at the office, Thomas helped me bake my blueberry pie, and May helped me with my e-reader. But then I sent them away to do some Christmas shopping with their old high school chums.”
“Must be nice,” I mutter, plopping onto the ottoman facing Mom.
Mom clucks at me. “Now, now, Ginger. They’re trying to be helpful in the way they know how.”
I rudely speak through a mouthful of food as I house my sandwich before heading back to work. “They know how to work on the farm. They just don’t want to.”
“Maybe they don’t want to be told they’re doing everything wrong,” Mom says, with what’s left of her wispy eyebrows arched at me.
“Fair,” I say.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, baby.”
“Sorry.”
What I don’t say is that I’m actually salty that May and Thomas still have friends in the area.
What I don’t say is that Thomas and May have been talking about selling the farm.
No way I’m delivering that news to Mom myself if they haven’t already broached the subject.
Let them be the bearer of bad news. Better yet, I’ll do everything in my power to stop it from happening.
I kiss my mom on top of her bald head before finding her knit cap, and remind her I’ll be working late tonight.
Work is brisk, but not brisk enough, in my experience.
Dad and I sell a number of trees today after the reserved ones get picked up.
But I can tell that a few people are put off by the quality of the free hot cocoa, by the fact that they have to wait for the horse-drawn wagon ride through the woods, and by the lack of personalized ornaments available to make at the craft shack.
I’m too proud to explain to the customers that we’ve had to cut back on things because of Mom’s medical bills, on top of everything else.
At the end of the day, our income is not enough to cover our monthly expenses.
There was a time when the first day after Thanksgiving would cover everything for the season and turn enough of a profit that we could take a small family vacation to a cabin in the mountains. This year is not one of those years.
To the public, I maintain my smile. In private, I’m discouraged, and on top of that, I’m stewing about my siblings.
After closing the gate at 8 p.m., I trudge up to the house. There, I find Mom, Dad, May, and Thomas around the kitchen table, eating dessert and laughing about something.
I count my blessings when it becomes clear that the twins have already been put to bed.
“Oh hi, baby,” Mom says. “Come have some blueberry pie.”
I’m dirty, surly, and I don’t feel like looking at my brother and sister right now, but I give Mom and Dad a smile. “Save it for my breakfast, will you? I’m gonna shower and do a little gaming before bed.”
“You need to eat,” Dad calls after me as I trudge down the stairs to the basement apartment.
The siblings chatter about me, but I try to ignore it. The last thing I hear before I turn on the shower just off my room is May saying something about “her online boyfriend…probably a weirdo who lives in his mother’s basement.”
“If the shoe fits,” I think Thomas says.
“You two knock it off,” Mom scolds.
“She works hard,” Dad says, his gravelly voice carrying downstairs. “I don’t care what she does online. She’s a good girl. Besides, she’s the only one who will listen to my granddad’s stories about little green men…”
The rest of the family groans at yet another story about our great-grandfather supposedly having been abducted by aliens.
I smile.
Once I’m finished with my shower, I sit down and fire up my gaming computer, turn on my electric kettle to make some instant cider, and grab my favorite blanket.
I log into Deadsky: Survival and within minutes, I’m in my happy place, looking for Grak.