Four
Kristmas
Lindburg is small.
Like one stoplight, one grocery store, one high school small.
Like there’s a 100% chance I’ll run into one of my students while I’m wearing my obscene birthday present small.
So when Nan says she wants to go to the Christmas tree lot in Tarkington, I’m relieved. Tarkington is a largish town at the center of a handful of towns and hamlets scattered around the north-eastern corner of Connecticut.
By largish I mean they have five stoplights, two grocery stores and a Dairy Queen.
But more importantly, Tarkington has no one I give a crap about seeing me in an X-rated snowman hat.
Besides, Tarkington is only fifteen minutes north-west of Lindburg so it’s not exactly like we’re trekking across the universe. Nan fills the SUV with her incessant chatter, gossiping about her bingo friends and that Viagra-popping cad, Bill Lewinsky.
By the time we pull into a parking space outside the Christmas tree lot, I can’t decide if I want to scrub my brain with bleach or if I just want to avoid the rush and lobotomize myself. “Don’t worry, Kristmas,” she tells me tugging her beanie down over her ears. “Your Nan knows what a condom is.”
Okay.
So, lobotomy is it.
Before I can ask her for one of her knitting needles, Nan pops her door open and starts to climb out. Sighing, I snatch my purse off the backseat and palm my keys to rush around the back of the SUV to help her. When I get there she’s already out of her seat and slamming her own door closed. “I’m only seventy-one years old, ya know,” she says, shaking her head at me. “I’ve got at least another ten years before we start that shit.”
Maybe I should do the world a favor and lobotomize her.
“Sorry.” I hold up my hands and move out of the way so she can charge across the parking lot toward the giant white tent in the center of it. A festive sign above the tent’s main entrance reads:
Tompkins Family Trees
Christmas Trees by the foot
Something about the name tugs at me but I pull away from it. Push it away like I do everything else I don’t want to think about. Instead of worrying about it, I follow Nan, taking it all in. The lights strung between tent poles wrapped to look like candy canes, winking and flashing, synchronized to the holiday music floating through the air. The man in the authentic-looking Santa suit, sitting in a large, high-backed chair flanked by beautifully decorated Christmas trees. The line of parents waiting with their children to take pictures with him, each with a brightly wrapped gift. As each child approaches Santa, they place their gift in a huge velvet bag held by a pretty, dark-haired woman dressed like an elf under her puffy winter coat, before climbing onto his lap to have their pictures taken via their parent’s cell phone. When she catches me gawking, the dark-haired elf smiles at me as I pass through the tent’s entrance.
The moment I step into the space, the bright, sharp scent of pine envelops me, row after row of fresh-cut pine trees forming neat lines in front of me. Just inside the tent, set up in one of its corners is what looks like a hot chocolate bar. In the other is a table offering gift wrapping for free to anyone who spends seventy-five dollars or more or donates a toy to their Toy Soldiers toy drive. The women behind the table are doing a brisk business, cutting and folding brightly colored paper. Tying and curling mylar ribbon while laughing and chatting with customers as they collect gifts and tuck them under the table. It’s busier than it should be on Christmas Eve and I have to fight to keep myself from jerking the beanie off my head because it won’t count as an actual wear if I don’t leave it on for the entire outing.
“Let’s get this—” I say, turning away from the crowd, to focus on my grandmother. She’s gone. All I can see of her is a carrot-orange puffball, bouncing on top of her beanie as she scuttles away, on the hunt for the perfect tree. Giving up, I head for the hot chocolate bar. Expecting nothing more than hot water, instant cocoa packets and stale marshmallows, I’m surprised by the silver urns offer of an assortment of hot cocoa, everything from spicy Mexican to sugar-free. Dishes full of sprinkles. Different varieties of mini-marshmallows. Canisters of whipped cream. Looking for pricing information, or at the very least a donation box, I hesitate when I don’t find any.
“It’s free.”
I look down to find yet another pretty, dark-haired girl staring up at me. This one is about six or seven with a candy-striped scarf and bright blue eyes.
“Is it now?” I say, pulling a cup from the stack. When she nods, I smile. “In that case, can I buy you a drink?’
The girl shoots a quick look over her shoulder before giving me a long-suffering sigh. “I can’t. My dad says I can’t. He says six cups is enough.”
Laughing out loud, I fill my own cup from the urn marked dark chocolate. Thinking about the man playing Santa outside and missing my own, I sigh. “Dads are tough,” I say, giving her a commiserating nod before taking a sip from my cup. It’s delicious. Obviously homemade.
“I’m Maggie.” The little girl’s face splits in a gap-toothed grin, her gaze bouncing up and narrowing slightly. “I like your hat.”
Shit.
“I’m Kristmas,” I tell her, reaching up to pull the hat off my head. I jam it firmly into my pocket before reaching up to smooth my hair down. “And thank you.”
“You’re name is Christmas?” Maggie looks at me carefully, her head tilted slightly. “Like Christmas Eve?”
“Exactly like that,” I laugh at her expression. “Guess when my—” before I can finish what I’m saying, the little girl takes off, darting around me, her candy cane scarf trailing behind her as she flies through the open tent flap.
Ooookay.
Refilling my cup, I add a layer of vanilla-flavored marshmallows before topping it off with a generous dose of chocolate whipped cream. Adding a peppermint stick, just for the hell of it, I decide it’s time to find Nan. Before I can launch my search, I hear my name being called.
“Kristmas?”
I turn again, expecting to catch the tail end of someone wishing someone else a Merry Christmas. It happens a lot this time of year. Nope. When I turn, I come face-to-face with the last person I expected to see.
Maddox’s mother.
“Kristmas Cavanagh?”
I nod and blink, a trussed up deer caught in a particularly bright set of headlights. “Yes,” I say, relieved beyond reason that the sound coming out of my mouth is actually human.
When I confirm her suspicions, Mad’s mom scurries around the table and comes toward me. “Oh.” That’s all she says. Oh, as she throws her arms around me and hugs me like I’m her long-lost child. She squeezes me hard, tightening her grip for a moment before stepping back to hold me at arms’ length. “Kristmas…” she says my name again, beaming at me. “You’re so pretty.” She laughs at that and shakes her head. “Of course you’re pretty. You were always pretty, I just…” her eyes flood and she lets me go so she can wipe them dry. “I’m being silly. It’s been a long time and I’ve missed you is all.”
I’ve missed her too.
I had no idea how much until she was here, standing in front of me.
How’s Mad?
Have you heard from him?
Where is he?
Is he okay?
Does he hate me?
The questions fill my mouth and I have to swallow the lump of them to keep them from tumbling out. I think of the letter in my pocket. All the letters I’ve sent back unopened.
I don’t have a right to ask about Mad. I’ve held the answers to those questions every month for the last ten years. One-hundred and twenty letters and I’ve sent them back without opening them, every single time.
So I don’t ask her about Mad.
I can’t ask her.
“Hi, Mrs. McAllister.” As soon as it comes out of my mouth, I wince. She’s not Mrs. McAllister anymore. My mother is. Because my mom married her ex-husband. Look up uncomfortable in the dictionary and you’ll find this exact moment. I can feel a mortified blush erupt across my face. “I mean—”
She laughs, the sound of it sweeping away the awkwardness of the situation with its loud boom. “Kris…” She shakes her head at me, still beaming. “You know I’ve always hated that Mrs. McAllister business.”
“Right.” I feel something inside my chest loosen. Melt away. “Hi, Marcy.” Saying her name out loud, remembering the way she always insisted I call her Marcy instead of Mrs. McAllister, I’m reminded of how important she was to me, growing up. Like a second mother to me, in some ways closer to me than my own.
Like she can read my mind, she reaches out to run her fingertips across my forehead, brushing the hair out of my eyes. “How’s your mom?”
There’s no anger in her tone. No bitterness. Still I shrug reluctantly. “She’s good.” I offer her another smile. “She’s…” I don’t know what else to say so I give her another helpless shrug.
“In Italy.” Marcy gives me another smile, this one knowing. “With Mark, celebrating their anniversary.” Again, no bitterness. No anger. “You’re here with your grandmother?”
“Yeah. Yes.” I nod like an idiot, lifting a hand to gesture toward the row of trees that swallowed Nan. “It’s become sort of a tradition of ours to pick out a tree on Christmas Eve and decorate it. I think she just does it so I won’t be alone on my birthday.” Jesus, now I’m rambling. “I mean, with Mom and Mark gone, I don’t really have—”
Family.
I don’t really have family.
“Oh, Kris…”Marcy’s eyes go soft with sympathy. “I know these past few years have been con—”
“Look what I found!”
We both turn to look down one of the tree-lined aisles to see my Nan coming toward us, that bright orange puffball bouncing on top of her head, the hand-stitched carrot protruding proudly from Frosty’s crotch. Behind her a burly, flannel-wrapped lumberjack type carries what looks like an eight-foot Spruce on his shoulder like he’s the second coming of Paul Bunyan. All I can see is a pair of huge, work-roughened hands, long, denim-clad legs and a solid wall of plaid stretched across a wide, well-muscled chest. The rest of him is hidden by thick, pine boughs.
“Looks like we have a winner.” I turn to Marcy with a strange mixture of disappointment and relief. “It was nice to see you again, Marcy. Maybe after the holidays we can—”
“Not the tree, dummy,” Nan says, her words wrapped around an exasperated sigh. “The guy carrying the tree.”
My Nan—a never-ending source of mortification.
“I’m sorry. She’s always trying to fix me up.” I give Marcy an apologetic smile. “Probably in hopes of freeing up her Christmas Eve dance card.” I force myself to laugh, turning away from her just as she opens her mouth to aim my smile on my grandma, before lifting it to Mr. Tall Dark & Flannel. “I’m really sorry. As I’m sure you’ve gathered from her hat, my grandmother is insane. Please disregard anything she may—”
Paul Bunyan drops the tree away from his shoulder, revealing his face, a split second before the cup of hot chocolate slips right through my fingers to land in the dirt with a muddy splash.
Maddox.
“Heya, Kriskross,” he says, a sharp smile of his own aimed right at me. “Long time no see.”