Merry Christmas!” my mother calls to us before she even opens the door. You can hear the thrill in her voice. This is always the happiest day of her year. Her children are home. She gets to give us presents. We’re all on our best behavior. In general, she gets to treat us as if we are still kids.
She opens the door wide, and Rachel and I both say “Merry Christmas!” in unison. When we get inside, Grandma Lois is sitting on the couch. She goes to get up, and I tell her she doesn’t have to.
“Nonsense,” she says. “I’m not an invalid.”
She takes a look at the desserts on the table. “Oh, Rachel, they are so gorgeous. Look at the detail on those cookies. I’m sorry to say I can’t have any. I read recently that they have done studies correlating white sugar to cancer.”
“No, Mom,” my mom says. “Rachel made it all sugar-free.” She turns to Rachel for confirmation. “Right?”
“Yep,” Rachel says, suddenly proud of herself. “Even the sugar cookies!”
“So I guess they’re just cookies, then?” my mom jokes, and she is not much of a joker, so you can see her eyes start to crinkle as she holds back a smile, waiting for other people to laugh.
“Good one, Mom!” I say, and high-five her. “I tried that one earlier today.”
Everyone starts to talk about the things you talk about at Christmas. What is cooking, when it will be done, how good everything smells. Grandma usually takes over Mom’s kitchen every Christmas, making everything from scratch, but this year, my mother lets us know, she pitched in.
“I made the sweet potatoes and the green beans,” she says proudly. Something about her childlike pride reminds me of the can of snow.
“Oh!” I say, “Look, Mom! Rachel and I brought spray snow.” I pull out the cans. “Awesome, right?”
She grabs them from my hands and shakes them immediately. “Oh, this is great! Do you guys want to spray, or should I?”
“Let them do it, Leslie,” my grandmother says to my mother. The way she says it, the way it’s a suggestion that should be heeded, the way it’s laced with love and derision, makes me realize that my grandmother is sort of a bossy mom. I always think of my grandmother as my grandmother. I never think about the fact that she is my mother’s mother. My mom isn’t at the top of the totem pole, which is what it often feels like. Rather, she’s just one piece of a long line of women. Women who first see themselves as daughters and then grow to be mothers and eventually grandmothers and one day great-grandmothers and ancestors. I’m still in phase one.
My grandmother sneaks a piece of sugar cookie and eats it, but it’s not a very stealthy move, because we all see her.
“Oh, my!” she says. “These are fantastic. You’re sure you didn’t use any sugar?”
Rachel shakes her head. “Nope, none.”
“Leslie, try this,” she says to my mother.
My mother takes a bite. “Wow, Rachel.”
“Wait, are they that good?” I say. I was with her all morning; you’d think I’d have tried one. I take a bite. “Jesus, Rachel,” I say, and my grandmother slaps the back of her hand against my arm.
“Lauren! Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain on Christmas!”
“Sorry, Grandma.”
“Where is Uncle Fletcher?” Rachel asks, and my mom starts shaking her head and waving her hands behind Grandma’s back. The classic “Don’t ask” signal, signaled classically too late.
“Oh.” Grandma sighs. “He decided not to come after all. I think, maybe, you know, he needs some time to himself.”
“Oh, that makes sense,” I say, trying to ease the conversation along. This seems to have made my grandmother a little sad.
“No,” she says, nodding. “I think I’m realizing that your uncle is a little . . .” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Weird.”
She says it as if being “weird” is a thing people don’t speak about. Uncle Fletcher has never been in a relationship. He lives at home with his mother. He makes his living selling things on eBay and taking temp jobs. I’m pretty sure that if they release a computer game good enough, he will die playing it in his underwear.
“You just figured this out now, Grandma?” Rachel asks. I’m surprised she’s feeling bold enough to say that—none of us talks about Uncle Fletcher’s eccentricities—but it seems to make my grandmother laugh.
“Sweetheart, I once believed your grandfather when he told me you don’t get pregnant the first time you do it. That’s how we got Uncle Fletcher in the first place. So I’ve never been the sharpest tool in the shed.”
If we don’t talk about Uncle Fletcher’s weirdness, we definitely don’t talk about my grandparents having sex. So after the comment sits in the air a bit, waiting for us all to realize it has actually been said, it cracks us open. My mother, Rachel, and I are laughing so hard we can’t breathe. My grandmother follows suit.
“Grandma!” I say.
Grandma shrugs. “Well, it’s true! What do you want from me?” We all catch our breath, and Grandma keeps the conversation going. “So where is Ryan today? Surely he’s not working on Christmas.”
I just assumed that my mother would have done my dirty work for me and told my grandmother about what was happening. In fact, I assumed she told her months ago. I was sort of surprised that Grandma never called me to bring it up. And when I called her on Thanksgiving, I was pleasantly surprised when she didn’t mention anything. But it’s plain to see that she has no idea. Oh, the naiveté of wishful thinking.
I look to Rachel, but she starts paying more attention to the cookies than necessary, averting everyone’s gaze, especially mine. My instinct is to make something up, to avoid this conversation and put it off for another day, but my mother is giving me a look that makes it clear she’s expecting a braver version of her oldest daughter. So I try to be that daughter.
“We . . .” I start. “We split up. Temporarily. We are separated. I guess that’s the term.”
Grandma looks at me and cocks her head slightly, as if she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. She looks at my mother, her face saying, What do you have to say about this? And my mother gestures back to me, her arms saying, If you have a problem, you tell her yourself. My grandmother looks back to me and takes a breath. “OK, what does that mean?”
“It means that we reached a point where we were no longer happy, and we decided that we wanted more out of . . . marriage than that. So we split up. And I’m really hoping that after we spend this time apart, we will find a way to . . . make it work.”
“And you think being apart will do that?”
“Yes,” I say. “I do. I think we sort of pushed each other to the brink, and we both need some air.”
“Did he cheat on you? Is that what’s happened?”
“No,” I say. “Absolutely not. He wouldn’t do that.”
“Did he hit you?”
“Grandma! No!”
She throws her hands up in the air and back down on the counter. “Well, I don’t get it.”
I nod. “I thought you might not, which is why I haven’t broached it with you.” Rachel is so clearly avoiding being a part of this conversation, she might as well be whistling off to the side.
“So you just decided you weren’t ‘happy’?” She uses air quotes when she says “happy,” as if it’s mine alone, a word I made up, a word that doesn’t belong in this conversation.
“You don’t think being happy is important?”
“In a long-term marriage?”
“Yes.”
“Not only is it not the most important thing, but I would argue that it’s not even all that possible.”
“To be happy at all?”
“To be happy the whole time.”
It’s so confusing, isn’t it? I mean, why fill our minds with everlasting love and then berate us for believing in it?
“But don’t you think that it’s something to strive for? To try to be happy the whole time? To try to not just grin and bear your marriage but to thrive in it?”
“Is that what you think you’re doing?”
“I believe this to be the best way to learn how to love my husband the way I want to. Yes.”
“And is it working?”
Is it working? Is it working? I have absolutely no idea if it’s working. That’s the whole problem. “Yes,” I tell her. I say it with purpose and with confidence. I say it as if there is no other answer. Maybe I say yes because I want her approval, because I want her to back off, because I want to put her in her place. But I think I say yes because I believe, on some level, that thoughts become words, and words become actions. Because if I start saying it’s working, maybe in a few days or a few months, I’ll look back and think, Absolutely. This is absolutely working. Maybe that conviction has to start right here, with a little white lie. “Yes, I do believe it’s working.”
“How?”
“How?”
“Yes, how?”
Now my mother and Rachel are not pretending to do anything else. They are listening intently, their ears and eyes aimed toward me.
“Well, I have missed him far more than I ever realized I would. When he left, I thought I wasn’t in love with him anymore, but I didn’t realize just how much I did still love him. I do still love him. The minute he left, I felt the hole in my life that he filled. I couldn’t have done that without missing him, without losing him.”
“One might argue that you can get that kind of perspective from a long weekend away. You got anything else?”
I want to prove to her that I know what I’m doing. “I mean, I don’t know if it’s anything to talk about here,” I say.
“Oh, please, Lauren. Let’s hear it.”
I’m exasperated. “Fine. Fine. I can see now, now that he is gone, and I have real worries that he might be with someone else, I mean, I think he is with someone else. I know he is. And I’m jealous. At first, I got seethingly jealous. I realized that I had stopped seeing him as someone who, you know, was attractive, I guess. I was taking him for granted in that way. And now that I know that he is dating, it’s very clear to me what I had when I had it.”
“So what you’re saying is that you forgot your husband was desirable, and now that you can see another woman desiring him, you remember?”
“Sure,” I say. “You can say that.”
“Do you have cocktail parties?”
“Grandma, what are you talking about?” Rachel says, finally interjecting. I know my grandmother loves me. I know she wants what’s best for me. I know she has very specific ideas of what that is. So while I do feel defensive, I don’t entirely feel attacked.
“I’m asking her a serious question. Lauren, do you have cocktail parties?”
“No.”
“Well, if you did, and you invited some young women, and you left your husband’s arm for a minute, you’d notice that he’d end up talking to a number of very pretty young ladies, who would be glad to take him off your hands. And you’d go home to have the best sex of your life.” She puts up her hand to wave us off before we ever start. “Excuse me for being vulgar. We’re all ladies here.”
“That’s what worked for you, Grandma,” I say, pushing the image of my late grandfather flirting with young women and then having sex with my grandmother out of my mind. “Don’t you respect that something else might work for me?”
My grandmother considers me. My mom looks at me, impressed. Rachel is staring at us, desperate to see what happens next. My grandmother grabs my hand. “Make no mistake, I respect you. But this is stupid. Marriage is about commitment. It’s about loyalty. It’s not about happiness. Happiness is secondary. And ultimately, marriage is about children.” She gives me a knowing look. “If you had a baby, no matter how unhappy you were together, you’d have stayed together. Children bind you. They connect you. That’s what marriage is about.”
Everyone just sort of looks at her. Not saying anything. She can see that no one is going to agree with her. So she eats a cookie and wipes the crumbs off her fingers.
“But you know, you kids these days. You do what you do. I can’t live your life for you. All I can do is love you.”
That’s as much of a victory as anyone gets from Lois Spencer. I’ll take it.
“You’re sure you still love me?” I ask, teasing. I have always, always, always already known the answer to that one.
She smiles at me and kisses my cheek. “Yes, I most certainly do. And I admire your spirit. Always have.”
I blush. I love my grandmother so much. She’s so cranky and such a know-it-all, but she loves me, and that love may be fierce and opinionated. But it is love.
“One thing,” she says. “And this goes for all of you, actually.”
“You’ve got our attention, Mom,” my mother says.
“I’m old. And maybe I’m a traditionalist. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“We know, Grandma,” Rachel says.
“What I’m saying is, I can try to respect the way you do things, but don’t forget that the old way works, too.”
“What do you mean?” I ask her.
“I mean, if you had hosted a cocktail party, and you had left him to his own devices, and you had flirted with other men and he’d seen it, or he had flirted with other women and you’d seen it, if you had spent a few weekends apart from each other sometimes, given each other some space now and again, maybe you wouldn’t need a whole year apart now. That’s all I’m saying.”
The doorbell rings, and it ends the conversation. In mere moments, Charlie will be walking through the door with the mysterious Natalie. But long after my grandmother and I are done talking, her words stay in my mind. She might very well be right.
• • •
Natalie is gorgeous. She’s not gorgeous in a hot, sultry way. Or even a skinny, supermodel sort of way. She’s gorgeous in that way where she just looks healthy and happy, with a beautiful smile, in a pretty dress. She looks like she works out, eats well, and knows what clothes look good on her. Her laugh is bright and loud. She listens to you; she really looks at you when you’re speaking. And she’s thoughtful and well mannered, judging from the poinsettia she gives my mother. I know she had sex with my little brother in the bathroom of an airplane, but it’s hard to reconcile that with the person I see in front of me. The person in front of me brought Rocky Road fudge to Christmas.
“I made it this morning,” she says.
“Is it sugar-free, sweetheart?” my grandmother says, and Natalie is understandably confused.
“Oh, no, I’m sorry,” she says. “I . . . didn’t know that that was . . .”
“It’s fine,” my mom says. “My mother is being absurd.”
“It’s not absurd to want to ward off any further cancer,” my grandmother says. “But thank you so much, dear, for bringing it. We can give it to the dog.”
Everyone stares at one another; even Charlie is at a loss for words. My mom doesn’t even have a dog.
“I was joking!” Grandma says. “You all are so thick it’s farcical. Natalie, thank you for bringing the fudge. Sorry that this family can’t take a joke.”
When Grandma turns her head, Charlie mouths “Sorry” to Natalie. It’s sweet. I think he may be trying to impress her. I’ve never seen Charlie try to impress anyone.
“It’s so nice to meet you all,” Natalie says.
“Come,” my mom says. “Let’s put the presents down by the tree. Can I get you two anything? Charlie, I know you probably want a beer. Natalie, I have some mulled wine?”
“Oh.” Natalie shakes her head casually. “Water is fine.”
Eventually, we all sit down by the tree.
“So Natalie, tell us about yourself,” Rachel says.
And Natalie, kind, sweet, naive Natalie, tries to answer, but Charlie steps in.
“That’s such an annoying question, Rachel. What does that mean?”
“Sorry,” Rachel says, shrugging defensively, as if she’s been falsely accused of a heinous crime. “I’ll try to be more specific next time.”
The doorbell rings again, and my mother stands up to get it. She comes back in with Bill by her side.
“Merry Christmas!” Bill announces to the room. He has gifts in his hands, and he puts them down at the tree. Everyone gets up and hugs. Mom gets him a beer.
The small talk begins. People start asking one another questions. None of them is interesting. I learn that Natalie works in television casting. She’s from Idaho. In her spare time, she likes to pickle things. When she asks me if I’m married, Charlie interrupts.
“Awkward topic,” he says, immediately sipping his beer. The entire family hears, and each one of them laughs. Every one of the sons of bitches laughs. And then I laugh, too. Because it’s funny, isn’t it? And when things are funny, it means they are no longer only sad.
So Merry Christmas to me.
• • •
I’ve eaten far too much. Too much ham. Too much bread. Too many spoonfuls of sweet potatoes. When the sugar-free sugar cookies get passed around, I squeeze a few into the nooks and crannies of my stomach, and then I’m ready to pass out.
My mother has had enough glasses of mulled wine to stain her teeth a faint purple. She’s getting a bit snuggly with Bill at the table. My grandmother is on her second piece of pie, sneaking her spoon into the sugar-laden whipped cream when she thinks we aren’t looking. Charlie, meanwhile, appears stoic and sober. Natalie is smiling. Rachel is accepting compliment after compliment on her cookies, with a false modesty rivaled only by Miss Piggy. Charlie stands up.
So here we go, here it is. Oh boy oh boy oh boy.
“So . . .” he starts. “Natalie and I have some news.”
That’s all my mom needs. That’s it. She’s crying. I don’t think she even knows why she’s crying, what she thinks Charlie is going to say, or whether she’s happy or sad.
Rachel looks up at Charlie as if he’s a mental patient and she’s not sure which way he’s going to veer today.
Natalie is still smiling, but it’s starting to buckle at the corners.
“We are going to be having a baby together.”
Waterfalls. My mother’s eyes are like two waterfalls. And not the kind that trickle from a little stream, either. These are the kind that gush, the kind that were I white-water rafting, I would see up ahead and go, “Oh, shit.”
Rachel’s jaw has dropped. Bill isn’t sure which way this is all going. And then my grandmother starts clapping.
She starts clapping! And then she stands up and she walks over to Charlie and Natalie, and she gives them huge, wet kisses on their cheeks, which has to be so very weird for Natalie, and she says, “Finally! Someone’s giving me a great-grandchild!”
Charlie thanks her for being so great about it, but all attention is on Mom.
“Do you two have a plan?” she asks.
“Yep.” Charlie nods. “I’m moving back here to L.A., in with Natalie. We’re raising the baby together. I feel like the luckiest man in the world, Mom. I really do.”
“And what about a job?”
“I have a few interviews lined up next month.”
That’s all she needs to know, I guess. Because the tears that could have been from joy or sadness only a few seconds ago now only make their way to her chin if they can get past her giant smile. She runs to Charlie and hugs him. She holds on to him, clinging to him. She is sloppy in her movements, operating from gut, moving out of emotion. She hugs Natalie.
Natalie stands up, clearly overwhelmed but doing her best, and hugs my mom back, squeezing her tight. “I’m so glad you’re happy,” Natalie says.
“Are you kidding me? I’m going to be a grandmother!”
“It’s a nice club to be in,” Grandma says, and she winks at me. It’s a sweet moment. I have forgotten how special a wink can make you feel.
When the commotion has died down, attention falls to Rachel. “I’M GONNA BE A FUCKING AUNT?” she yells, running toward them and hugging them so hard that she rocks them from side to side.
“Rachel!” Grandma says.
“Sorry, Grams. Sorry.” She turns to Natalie, putting her hands on Natalie’s upper arms. “Natalie, welcome to the Spencer family! We are so, so, so excited to have you!”
When everyone looks at me, I realize that I’m supposed to react, too. “Oh!” I say, “AHHHHHH!” and then hug them both. We all stand there, around them, suffocating them, overwhelming them, wanting to take part in their joy. It’s then that I realize this is really happening. Our lives are changing. One of us is growing up. Everyone thought it would be me. And it’s not. It’s Charlie.
The truth is, it makes me feel like a failure, in some small way. It makes me feel as if I’ve veered off the path, as if I’ve been treading water while Charlie swam the race. But that’s a tiny piece of me. The rest of me can’t believe my baby brother is growing up to be a strong, solid man. The rest of me can’t believe I’m going to have a little baby in my life to shower with presents. The rest of me can’t believe that my grandmother is finally going to get that great-grandchild she’s been asking for, that she has gotten news so great it has silenced her usual judgments.
It’s a good day. And it’s a wonderful Christmas. And I wish Ryan were here to see it. I wish he and I were going home to the same place. I wish we were going to get into bed tonight and gossip about the rest of them, the way we used to. It’s at moments like this that I remember how much a part of all this he was.
The five of us—Rachel, Mom, Grandma, Natalie, and myself—surround Charlie, and maybe he’s looking for an escape. Maybe he needs a breath of fresh air. He looks at Bill, and Bill stands up and puts out his hand. Charlie breaks away from us to shake it.
“Congratulations, young man,” Bill says. “Best decision you’ll ever make.”
Charlie looks down at the floor, ever so briefly, and then he looks Bill in the eye and says, “Thanks.” I think maybe every man wants to get a pat on the back when he shares the news that he’s becoming a father. I’m just glad Bill is here to give it to him.
• • •
“So when are you getting married?” Grandma asks, as Natalie helps Mom and me with the dishes. Rachel, Charlie, and Bill are still at the table. Natalie and I are stacking plates. Grandma and Mom are loading the dishwasher.
“Oh,” my mom says. “Lay off her, Mom. They don’t have to get married just because they are having a baby.”
“Well,” Natalie says, “probably July, actually.”
“July? I thought you said the baby was due in June,” my mom says.
“For the wedding,” Natalie says. “The baby will be born by then. It seems easier than trying to fit into a wedding dress.”
“After the baby is born?” my grandmother asks.
But at the same time, my mother is using the exact same tone and inflection to say, “Wait, you’re getting married?”
“Yeah.” Natalie catches herself. “Wait, did we not say that?”
“You said nothing about a wedding,” I say, as Rachel comes into the kitchen with a few empty serving bowls.
“Whose wedding?” Rachel asks.
“You said you were living together,” my mom says. She says it slowly, approaching the sentence as if it’s a bomb that might detonate at any second.
“We are getting married,” Natalie says. “I’m sorry we didn’t mention that part! Charlie!” she calls out. She’s right to call in the reserves.
Charlie pops in through the door, and we all stare at him. All five of us. His sisters. His mother. His grandmother. His . . . fiancée?
“You’re getting married?” I ask him.
“Yeah,” says Charlie, as if I asked him if he likes chicken. “Of course. We’re having a baby.”
“Finally, someone makes sense in this family!” my grandmother says.
“Mom, will you go into the dining room and keep Bill company?” my mom asks her.
Grandma must be feeling charitable, because she puts down the dish in her hand and walks out.
“Having a baby doesn’t mean you have to get married,” Mom says.
Natalie inches toward Charlie. I think, perhaps, we are no longer doing a very good job of making her feel welcome. My mom notices the shift in her body language.
“I mean, it’s great news,” my mom says. “We’re just surprised is all.”
“How is marrying the mother of my child a surprise?” Charlie asks. Charlie really should learn to leave well enough alone.
“No, you’re right,” my mother says, backing off. This backing off is entirely for Natalie’s benefit. Once Natalie is out of earshot, she’ll say how she really feels. That’s how you know that Natalie isn’t really family just yet. “It shouldn’t have been a surprise. You’re absolutely right.”
“It will be an awesome wedding,” Rachel adds lamely.
But she’s trying, so I try, too. “Congratulations, new sister!” I say. It comes out so forced and unnatural that I resolve to shut up.
“Thanks,” Natalie says, clearly very uncomfortable. “I think I’ll go see if there is anything else to bring in.”
We all know there isn’t a single thing to bring into this kitchen. But none of us says anything. When Natalie is finally gone, my mother starts speaking very gently.
“You don’t have to do this,” she says. “It’s not the nineteen fifties.”
“I want to do it,” Charlie says.
“Yeah, but why not take your time to think about it?” Rachel says.
“Why are you assuming I haven’t?”
“How long have you two even known each other?” my mom asks.
“Three months.”
“And she’s three months pregnant?” my mom asks.
“Yes.”
“Got it,” my mom says, starting to wash dishes. She’s frustrated, and she’s taking it out on the pots and pans.
“Don’t judge me, Mom.”
“Who’s judging?” she says, moving the plates into the sink and running the water over them. “I’m just saying, take your time. You have your whole life to decide whom to marry.”
“What are you talking about? Natalie is pregnant. We are moving in together. She is going to be my wife.”
“But moving in together doesn’t mean she has to be your wife. You can raise a child together and see how the relationship goes,” I say.
“Lauren, you’re supposed to be on my side here,” Charlie says, and it makes me feel . . . included somehow. As if I am in possession of something extra that makes Charlie and me a team. Charlie isn’t on a team with anyone. So the fact that he thinks I’m on his side, well, it makes me want to be on his side.
“I am on your side,” I say. “I’m just saying that you have never been married before, Charlie. You don’t know what it really entails.”
“Neither do you!” Charlie says. His tone is uncontrolled and defensive, as if we’ve cornered a rat. “I just mean that everyone is figuring it out, right? Mom, you tried it your way, and that didn’t work for you. Lauren, you’re not sure how to do it. Who’s to say mine won’t work just because it doesn’t look like yours?”
Rachel chimes in. “I guess I’m not needed in this conversation.”
“Of course you’re needed,” Charlie says. “I want you all to be on board with this. I really like this woman. I think I can make this work for us.”
“You can’t just make a marriage work because you want it to work, Charlie.” My mom says it, but I might as well have said it myself.
“But you had no problem when I said we were raising a baby?” he asks.
“They are two totally different things,” she says. “If you two don’t work out, you can co-parent.”
“I don’t want to co-parent!” Charlie says. “I want a family.”
“Co-parenting is a family. Single-parent homes are families.” My mom is starting to take this as an indictment of her, and I can understand why. I think it’s about to become one.
“No, Mom. That’s not the kind of family I want. I don’t want to live across town from my kid. I don’t want to meet Natalie in the parking lot of a Wendy’s on Sunday afternoons to drop him off, OK?”
This is something that Charlie learned from television. Our dad never took us for the weekend. He didn’t live across town. He just left.
“OK,” my mom says, trying to keep herself calm. “You have to do what you think is right for your children.”
“Thank you,” Charlie says.
“But I have to do what is right for my children,” she says. “And so I’m going to tell you that marriage is hard work. No matter how hard I tried, I could not succeed. It was impossible for me. Can you think of another thing that I have ever told you was impossible?”
Charlie listens and then shakes his head. “No,” he says quietly.
“And your sister,” my mom says, as she gestures toward me, “is a very smart woman, a loving woman, who means well and almost always does the right thing.” I stole a Capri Sun from the grocery store when I was eleven. I swear she’s never forgiven me.
“I know,” says Charlie.
“And even she isn’t sure how to make one work.”
“I know,” Charlie says.
“So listen to us when we say that marriage is not to be taken lightly.”
“Once again, no one cares about my opinion!” Rachel says bitterly. How quickly we all regress when we’re in the same room.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Rachel,” my mom says, losing her temper. “So you don’t have a boyfriend. Big deal. No one’s treating you like a leper.”
“When every conversation is about someone’s boyfriend or husband, then I do think—” Rachel shuts herself up. “Whatever. It’s not about me. Sorry.”
My mom puts her arm around her and squeezes her into the crook of her body. Rachel resigns into it. My mom keeps going, looking directly at Charlie. “You don’t have to marry Natalie to prove you’re not your father. Do you get that? You couldn’t be your father in a million years.”
Charlie doesn’t say anything. He looks at the floor. It must be so different being a boy without a dad instead of a girl without a dad. I should stop assuming they are the same thing.
“You have a lot of options,” Mom says. “And all we want you to do is think about them.”
“Fine,” Charlie says.
“Are you going to think about them?” she asks him.
“Already have,” he says. “I’ve made up my mind. I want to marry Natalie.”
“Do you love her?” Rachel asks.
“I know I will,” Charlie says. “I know I want to.”
His tone makes it clear that we have reached the end of the conversation. A part of me feels like saying, You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink, and the other part of me thinks that if anyone can out-stubborn marriage, it’s Charlie. If anyone can trip and fall into a happy marriage, it’s my baby brother. And also, in the deepest part of my heart, I think he’s right. I may be married, but I don’t know a damn thing about marriage. So who’s to say Charlie’s way is any worse than anyone else’s?
“July it is, then,” my mom says, smiling. She gestures for Charlie and me to come toward her and Rachel. Charlie looks at me, and I cock my head to say, “Come on, a hug won’t kill you.”
The four of us bear-hug. “The rest of them out there, they’re fine and all. But this . . .” My mom squeezes the three of us tight. It’s more of a metaphorical gesture now; we’re too old to fit anymore. “This is my family. You guys are my meaning of life.”
We’re so squished together that now I’m having trouble breathing. I figure Charlie will be the first one to break the huddle, but he doesn’t.
“I love you guys,” he says.
From deep inside the belly of the pack comes Rachel’s muffled voice, “We love you, too, Charlie.”
When it gets late and Grandma starts complaining that she’s tired, we all start packing our things. I gather my own pile of new sweaters and socks. Rachel grabs her new slow cooker. We throw all the wrapping paper away. Charlie and Natalie start saying good-bye to everyone.
“Welcome to the family,” my mom says to Natalie, as they make their way to the front door. She hugs her. “We couldn’t be happier to have you.” She hugs Charlie for a long time, holding him tight. “So you’re flying out tomorrow?” she asks. “And then when do we have you back for good?”
“I’m packing up my stuff over the next few weeks, and then I should be moved into Natalie’s place by mid-January.”
My mom laughs. “Oh, Natalie, I think you’re going to be my favorite kid. You’re giving me a grandchild and bringing my son home!” She puts her hand on her heart and frowns the way people do when they are really, really happy.
They head to their car. I know they are going to talk about us. I know Natalie is going to ask how things went. I know Charlie is going to tell her that everyone loved her. He’s not going to tell her what we said, but she’s going to know the gist of it anyway. I know at some point, Natalie is going to ask Charlie if Grandma really has cancer. And Charlie is going to have to explain how all of this works.
When Rachel and I start to head out, I offer to drive. Rachel hands me the keys, and when she does, Grandma asks us for a ride. “Oh,” I say. “I thought you were staying here.”
“No, dear. I’m staying at the Standard.”
Rachel starts laughing.
“Again?” I say.
“They have a lady who sits in a glass box behind the check-in desk. It’s a riot!” Grandma says.
Rachel, Grandma, and I give Mom a kiss good-bye amid cheers of “Merry Christmas!” and “Thanks for the socks.” We leave the house to her and Bill. From the look on Bill’s face, I get the distinct impression he’s got some weird Santa sex costume waiting for her or something. Gross.
We get into the car, and before I even turn on the ignition, Grandma starts in. “What do we think about this Bill guy?” she says.
Rachel turns her head and then her shoulders toward Grandma in the backseat. “I like him,” she says. “You don’t like him?”
“I’m just asking what you think,” Grandma says diplomatically.
I keep my eyes on the road, but I join the conversation. “I think he seems really taken with Mom. I think that’s nice.”
“You two are a far cry from when you were little. You used to hate every man she dated.”
“No, we didn’t,” Rachel says.
“We didn’t even meet that many of them,” I say.
“She stopped introducing you,” Grandma says. “Because you used to get so upset.”
I don’t remember any of this.
“Are you sure? You’re not thinking of Charlie or something?” Rachel asks.
“Honey, I remember it like it was yesterday. You hated every man who walked in that house. Both of you did. I remember she used to call me up and say, ‘Mom, what do I do? They can’t stand any of them.’ ”
“And what did you say?” I ask.
“I said, ‘Stop introducing them, then.’”
“Huh,” Rachel says, turning forward.
Huh.
“Sweetheart, don’t take Sunset,” my grandmother says when I get over the hill into the city.
“Grandma, you don’t even live here!” Rachel says.
“Yeah, but I pay attention to the way your mother goes. Take Fountain, and then cut up Sweetzer. It’s better.”