Winter vacation was about to begin and most of my teachers were thoughtful enough to give projects, due right after the break, as Christmas presents. I couldn’t imagine why they felt the need to saddle us with assignments over the winter recess. What if someone’s family planned on going somewhere warm for the holidays or on a skiing trip? As usual, I had no plans to go anywhere except to the bleak and boring house on Juniper Drive.
The last week of school was a complete waste of time, especially the last day. No one was in the mood to be there, not even the teachers.
Mr. Winkler was feeling unusually merry and gave our class an additional week to hand in our World War II history project instead of the normal deadline he’d given to all his other students.
Erica, who sat behind me in class, tapped my shoulder. I leaned back and she whispered into my ear.
“Do you think Tessa will choose ‘Hitler and His Lovers’ as the topic for her paper?”
I didn’t respond and leaned forward in my chair. I didn’t feel it necessary to pick on Tessa at every opportunity even if it was somewhat entertaining. Plus, I felt guilty gossiping about her after going to her house, especially because I still hadn’t told Erica and Taylor that I even went or about how petrified I was when she drove me home.
I ignored Erica when she tapped me again. Just then I felt a pair of eyes burrowing into me. I scanned the room and looked for the source. From the opposite corner of the classroom, Tessa Anderson shot daggers at me.
Erica had such a big mouth! Even though I may have agreed with her, she didn’t have to say it out loud, in class, to me, with Tessa right there. Besides, Erica’s whisper was equivalent to another person’s shouting. I was beginning to think she was actually deaf.
Thankfully the bell rang. As Mr. Winkler wished us a happy holiday, I ran from the room, leaving Erica and her insults in the lurch.
I stood at my locker and grabbed books for my next class. I was just about to close my locker door when someone else slammed it shut for me, almost cutting off my thumb in the process.
Angry, I spun on my heels and came face to face with an even angrier Tessa.
“What the hell did that bitch say about me?” she spat.
I needed to do damage control. “Nothing.”
I walked away toward my biology class and Tessa followed.
“Don’t say ‘nothing.’ I heard her say my name and know she was talking shit about me.”
I stopped abruptly and looked at Tessa. “Does it really matter what she said or what anyone else says about you, for that matter?”
For once, Tessa was speechless.
“You can do one of two things,” I told her as I held up two fingers. “Either ignore what people say and let it go or, if you do care, don’t give them any ammunition to use against you.”
She thought about it, huffed and walked off. “Whatever!”
I rolled my eyes and continued on my way toward my very last class of the Old Year and another assignment, which in the spirit of giving, my science teacher was about to bestow upon me.
• • •
Christmas was going to be uneventful as my mom, brother and I were stuck all alone in Maine. The weather was too unpredictable, so my uncle didn’t want to risk driving north and getting stuck at our house, especially since it was crucial that he be at his New York restaurants during their busiest time of year. My grandparents wanted us to drive to Massachusetts and stay with them, but my mom was petrified of driving on the snowy roads. Regardless, my mother did her best to make sure it was special for James and me.
She made popcorn the old-fashioned way by heating vegetable oil on the stove, tossing in the kernels and quickly moving the kettle back and forth so it wouldn’t burn. That’s how she made popcorn when she grew up, she said, because microwaves didn’t exist back then. We melted butter and set it aside, which we would later pour over the popcorn we were going to eat. The remaining plain popcorn would be strung together in long, thin rows.
My mother was in an unusually good mood and hummed along with the Christmas carols that rang out from the old-fashioned stereo. She moved in rhythm with the music while popping the mouthwatering smelling popcorn.
She wore a pretty, flouncy red dress and took the time to style her thick, auburn hair in a French twist and fastened it at the nape of her neck with a delicate rhinestone clip. She even put on makeup. I hadn’t seen my mother make such an effort to get all gussied up since my father had died.
About once a month, when my dad was still alive, he and my mother would go on a date, taking turns picking their favorite restaurant and hiring a babysitter to stay at home with us kids.
I watched my mother as she bopped and sang along to the 1950’s hit, “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” I thought my mom was attractive for her age. She had fine wrinkles around her pretty green eyes, wrinkles that would appear only when she smiled. That was the one thing about my mom; when she was truly happy, her eyes smiled the most. Her complexion was darker than mine, like those born in the Mediterranean because her mother, my grandmother, was Italian. She was very thin compared to most of my friend’s moms and petite like me.
For some reason, my mother seemed to be radiating outwardly lately, almost glowing. I was beginning to realize that my mom’s external attitude depended on how she was feeling on the inside. I just couldn’t figure out why she was so darn happy on Christmas of all days.
Unlike my mom, I found myself getting the saddest around the holidays, especially when I started to think about my father and how much he enjoyed celebrating them, whether it was Christmas or even the Fourth of July.
Even when I was a baby, my dad would take off from work the day before the Fourth so he could travel all around the state in search of the newest and safest fireworks. He’d invite all the neighbors and their children to come over and set up folding chairs on our front lawn to watch his special, multi-colored light show. He called it the Flynn Family Extravaganza.
With the popcorn finished, my mom moved over to the counter and separated it into two separate bowls. As she poured the butter over one batch, she called to my brother who was playing a video game in the family room.
“James! Come and help Willow and me string the popcorn.”
Earlier that morning, “Santa” had brought my brother the latest and coolest video gaming system that all the neighborhood boys were wishing for, including James.
He hadn’t peeled himself away from the television set yet and I doubted that the task of sewing together pieces of popcorn, even with the tempting aroma coming from the kitchen, would entice him.
“In a minute!” he yelled back.
I had never understood why we had to wait until Christmas night to string popcorn for the Christmas tree, but my mother said that was the tradition in her family and that she felt it was important that she pass some of them along to my brother and me.
My mother sat down beside me at the kitchen table, daintily snacking on the bowl of yummy popcorn while helping me string the other.
“You’ve been rather quiet all day,” my mom said.
I shrugged. “I guess I’m just missing Daddy ’cause it’s Christmas.”
“I completely understand, Willow, but your father has been gone for over five years now,” she said as she patted the top of my hand. “Five years.”
She stared at me and kept her hand still on top of mine, as if five was the magic number, as if five years was long enough to grieve. I was confused. My mother could barely function as a human being for years after my dad had died and now she’s sitting here telling me to basically get over it.
I pulled my hand away as if her words scorched my skin. “Why would you say that? Don’t you miss him anymore?”
I could tell she was shocked by my reaction. She changed her approach and gently caressed my forearm. She chose her words carefully this time before she spoke. “Of course I do, dear, but I also know that it’s time to … to move on.”
Move on? I was
speechless. My mouth hung open as the doorbell rang, interrupting the unimaginable scene before me.
James shouted from the other room. “Mom! Someone’s at the door!”
“Coming.”
My mother jumped up and suddenly seemed anxious as she smoothed down the bottom of her festive dress. I stared at my mother who now seemed like a stranger to me.
The doorbell rang again, but she stopped herself and met my gaze before she left the room. “It might seem impossible, but all of us need to move forward, Willow. All of us.”
I turned away from my mother and wondered why she was so intent on making it the worst Christmas of my life.
CHAPTER
TWELVE