Chapter 25 Christmas
Skipping into our little office at Columbia, I make a beeline to the calendar on the wall, joyfully flipping over the page to December.
Stepping back, I stare at the bright red cardinal on a branch in a snowy pine tree.
Perfect! While the day looks like the prior November days, cold and dreary, I feel the difference.
December means magic where everything is possible.
I’ve always loved December. It is the one month of the year that hope spills out of me despite myself.
I turn, smiling at him. Hmm, I guess he doesn’t feel the Christmas magic in the air.
“Seriously, are you smiling at me?” His brow furrows. “I’m used to tears or anger or both, but not a smile. You’re the most confounding assistant I’ve ever had.” Shaking his head, he tries to hide his smile.
Professor Montgomery replies calmly, “Okay, no problem. Just check it out.”
Shuffling through the field notes, I find the knockdown and my chest swells with pride. I knew it! That explains why it isn’t showing up on the report.
What is even better than being good at my job is being good at Jake.
A picture of Jake in bed flashes through my head suddenly.
I understand him more and more every day and can decipher his moods.
When stressed, he fidgets distractedly, running his hand through his hair with a furrow in his brow.
The stress is normally from an altercation with a student or, more likely, a discussion with his mother.
Typically, a good meal or a funny story distracts him from such worries.
If that doesn’t work, I’ve learned that a few touches of his arm and tosses of my hair, or a simple worried biting of my lip can get his focus on something else altogether.
While I haven’t had the nerve to initiate something overtly, I’ve learned it doesn’t have to be anything obvious to do the trick.
I can’t believe it, but I think he enjoys this side of our relationship almost as much as I do.
The awful memory of the morning after our first time has faded little by little, and the look of disgust on Jake’s face and the stained sheet rears its ugly head less and less, in these past weeks.
Even though those images are permanently etched in my memory, I can cope with them.
The only thing marring the perfectness of the approaching Christmas is that we are attending the Christmas Eve service with my parents and then spending Christmas day with Jake’s parents and Sandy and Glen.
Ugh! I’ve tried everything I can think of to get out of either or both.
I suggested another Vee visit, but she is going home for a few days over Christmas, so that didn’t pan out.
I told Jake that I may come down with the flu, but he is standing firm, that everything will be fine.
He just doesn’t understand all the landmines that are out there waiting for me to step on.
My stomach cramps in protest every time I picture us back in his family’s cold dining room.
Jake and I finish work for the semester in mid-December and even though I love my job, I’m thrilled to have a month off for winter break. Jake immerses himself even further into his thesis work; I go to yoga, watch the winter birds in the park, and visit my parents.
My father is home today when I drop by for a visit, and I’m happy as he is talking to me again. When I’m getting ready to leave, he gruffly says, “You look happy, Emma.”
I stand still, letting the warmth of his words spread through my body.
I guess I was pretty sad in the past. I didn’t think anyone really noticed.
“I can work at the bakery during my winter break to help during the Christmas rush,” I offer.
A rare smile breaks out on Papa’s face, “Oh, Emma.”
I explain quickly, “I can’t do four a.m. but I can get there at nine or ten and work until two or three.”
“Of course, of course you can’t do four a.m.,” he says quickly. “Ten will be fine. We need you, the new girl can’t add two plus two.”
My cheeks pinken with pleasure. That is as close to a compliment I’ve ever received from my father. Maybe Christmas Eve won’t be a complete nightmare after all.
Jake isn’t happy about me going back to the bakery, but he doesn’t get it, family obligations are family obligations. When I come home from my first shift, I hand him a bag of powdered paczki. “A peace offering.”
He begrudgingly takes the bag and sticks his nose into it, taking a deep sniff, “Mmmm, smells like heaven.” He lifts out one of the heavy donuts and takes a bite.
“Oh, my god! This is so good. What are they?”
“They’re a Polish donut called paczki. I grabbed the leftover paczki, which doesn’t happen often.”
Taking another bite, he murmurs, “You must bring these home every day.”
I tease, “Wait a minute, what about this being slave labor and that I shouldn’t do it?”
Jake replies with his mouth full of a donut, “Completely changed my mind on that front. You need to work there for the rest of your days so you can supply me with Polish delights forever.”
Smiling wistfully, I think, Forever, that would be nice . . . but the days, weeks and months are ticking away. I keep marking them off on the calendar.
Watching Jake devour the rest of the donut, an idea of a Christmas gift for Jake’s family materializes.
I’ve been worried about what to get on my limited budget, but now I have the answer.
I’ll make them ko?aczki, a favorite Polish Christmas cookie.
Everyone loves homemade treats, and these are special.
On Christmas Eve, we close the bakery at 2:00 p.m., and I take the dough I made earlier today out of the refrigerator. I’m ready to put together the kolaczki.
Rolling out the dough into an even sheet, I then cut pieces with a pastry cutter, scalloping the edges.
I have two fillings, a tangy apricot preserve, and a sweet nut filling.
Humming jingle bells, I place a dot of the apricot filling in the center of the first cookie and carefully roll the corners using a drop of water to help seal the edges.
Nothing is worse than when your sweet little rolls unseal and bloom in the oven.
The cookies don’t take long to bake. When they’re done, I remove the pans from the oven, dusting the cookies with powdered sugar.
The sweet dust settles on my arms and hands as I pass the sifter back and forth over the pans.
I place ten cookies in each of the four boxes I lined with fancy red tissue paper. The cookies nestle into the boxes looking delicate, fancy and oh so perfect. Placing the boxes carefully in a large bag I brought, I head out to get ready for Christmas Eve with my parents.
Jake and I walk to my parents and, as planned, we stay outside to hail a taxi, so my mother and father don’t need to wait outside in the cold. This also ensures we won’t run into Jake’s family.
The wind is biting, and after a few quick hellos and Merry Christmases, we pile into the taxi. Jake is in the front seat, and my parents and I settle in the back.
The church is crowded as it always is on Christmas Eve for the 5:00 p.m. mass. We settle into a pew a few rows behind our normal one, my father stares stonily at the backs of the heads of the family that took our spot.
He leans toward me and Jake, stating gruffly, “Chreasters, should be relegated to the balcony or at the very least the back, eh?”
Jake leans toward my father and asks solemnly, “What is a Chreaster, sir?”
My father almost smirks as he stage-whispers, “It’s pretty much all these folks. You know, the ones who only show up on Christmas and Easter . . . . Chreasters.”
Jake laughs, “Oh, I get it. That’s funny.”
My father replies, “Careful there, I’m pretty sure you’re a Chreaster.”
“Guilty as charged. But who knows, this one”—he glances at me—“has been changing me in more ways than I ever imagined. Anything’s possible.”
My father harrumphs but not in a bad way, and we all turn to face the front as the priest makes his way down the aisle to the altar.
We get right to the business of singing and genuflecting and I almost relax, with Jake’s baritone ringing in my ear.
I never imagined I would have someone to come to Christmas Eve mass with my family.
It’s not that I didn’t have dreams. I did.
I dreamed of holding hands on my bench and walking through Central Park with my Ceyx.
But the idea that I would sit on this hard pew with my parents and someone special—I never dared to dream something like this could ever happen. Some things are impossible to imagine.
I’m not worrying about tomorrow or the next day or the next, I’m just in the moment, singing hymns, being told of the miracle of miracles. It is all beautiful and something resonates deep within me. The next hour and a half went by quickly.
After church, we hail another taxi and ride back to my parents. When we get to their apartment, I rush into my old bedroom and grab the bag I hid there last week.
While my parents and Jake get ready for a light dinner of pierogis, I head into Babcia’s room. Leaning over her bed, I hand her the Metropolitan Museum’s Masterpiece Paintings book I bought for her. “Merry Christmas, Babcia.”
She takes the enormous book and slowly starts flipping through the pages, touching some pictures with her hands gnarled with arthritis.
“Remember when I first came to live here, you pushed me to explore the city, especially the museums? I know I never was good at describing what I saw. I didn’t have the words or the soul of an artist like you do, and I know I was not a good stand-in.
So, I thought for Christmas I would bring the paintings to you, and you could feel them again like you wanted me to. ”