A Carol Christmas (15 page)

Nothing, I assured myself. I'd be getting back in time for the big meeting. Everything was cool. And sometimes texts got lost.

“I remember when this was all small farms and pastures,” Mom said as we drove to the little brick rambler where my grandma lived.

The farmland had pretty much disappeared, but the city planners had held the business park invasion at bay, making sure all new businesses in the area either set up shop in the old farmhouses or erected buildings that matched the surrounding architecture. Ancient elms and maples and chestnut trees still occupied prime real estate, and you could even find an occasional residence and small cabbage patch dotted here and there among the lawyers’ offices and the insurance companies. Gram’s house was between the Vine Building, which housed a dentist and an orthodontist (handy, huh?), and Bernie’s Berries, the one surviving berry farm. Bernie also had a tiny cafe that featured the best strawberry shortcake in three counties. Gram is good buds with Mrs. Bernie, so summers would find us visiting Gram in the afternoon a lot. In between lunch and dinner, we could be guaranteed a sample of strawberry shortcake left over from lunch.

Maybe I should have played Let’s Make a Deal with Mom and offered to come home for a week in the summer, I thought as we walked in and the smell of tuna casserole greeted us. At least in summer I would have had shortcake. No holiday stress either. Just lazy days out at Lake Carol.

“Andrea, dear,” my grandma greeted me. Gram was the only one who called me by my given name. She thought it was awful how everyone called me by a boy’s name. I hated the name Andrea, but somehow I’d never quite worked up the nerve to tell my grandmother that. Maybe because, deep down, I knew it wouldn’t do any good. She would still insist on doing exactly what she wanted.

“Hi, Gram,” I said and gave her a kiss. “Have you lost weight?”

My grandmother is normally a little on the plump side, but she wasn’t looking all that plump this day. She looked like the human equivalent of a feather pillow that had lost half its stuffing.

Gram shrugged. “Maybe. I haven’t had much appetite. I haven’t been feeling all that well lately.”

Mom looked at me as if to say, “See? I told you.” “Nothing serious, I hope,” I said.

“Heavens, no! I’ve got plenty of good years left in me,” Gram assured me.

I cocked an eyebrow at Mom, who said, “I’ll go whip this cream.” Then she turned and retreated to the kitchen.

“Well, you still look great,” I told Gram.

No lie. She was wearing gray wool slacks, a white turtleneck, and a red Christmas sweater appliqued with snowmen and Christmas trees. Unlike Mom, who was Lady Clairol’s best friend, Grandma didn’t believe in lying about things people could figure out anyway. Her hair was Mrs. Santa Claus white, and she got it styled every week. I wasn’t sure where she got it done, but now I wondered if it was at Chez Rory’s. Probably not, I decided. Brittany was still alive.

“Thank you, dear. And, I must say, you look lovely. New York seems to agree with you.”

That it did.

Gram linked her arm through mine and walked me into the living room. It was small, cozy with antiques and cluttered with knick-knacks. On the coffee table, she’d set up a tiny potted pine tree, decorated with odds and ends of Christmas ornaments, some of which I recognized from when I was a kid. The morning newspaper lay on the end-table next to the couch, open to the crossword puzzle. It looked like she had already finished the puzzle.

“We’re just waiting for your Aunt Chloe, then we can eat,” she said. “I hope she isn’t too late. Otherwise the casserole will be ruined.”

What a shame, I thought, listening to the whirr of beaters as Mom whipped cream.

“I hope you brought your appetite,” said Gram.

I glanced to where her little dining table sat and saw it set with her best china and crystal (an interesting contrast with Aunt Chloe’s thawing hamburger still-life hanging on the wall). The water glasses were already filled, and the teapot, muffled in a knitted blue tea cozy, sat next to Grandma’s place at the head of the table. I eyed the bowl of what looked like her homemade oatmeal muffins, one of the few recipes Gram had that we all liked. If they were, it would make up for the tuna casserole. Sort of.

“I’m sure I’ll have room for your oatmeal muffins,” I said, latching onto the one thing I could say truthfully.

Mom joined us just as we heard the sound of wheels slushing up the street. I looked out the window to see Aunt Chloe’s old LeBaron pulling up to the curb.

“Good,” said Grandma. “We’re all here. Now we can eat. Janelle, you can go pull out the casserole.”

A moment later Aunt Chloe was in the room, stamping her feet. She was enveloped in a green knitted poncho today and had on a red knitted cap. She was wearing her black stretch pants and some gray moon boots leftover from the eighties. She looked like a model for a thrift store fashion show.

“That’s some outfit,” Mom observed from the table, where she was setting out the main dish.

“I just finished the hat.” said Aunt Chloe. “I’m finding knitting very satisfying.”

That didn’t bode well for the rest of us. It meant next Christmas we would all get hats to match Aunt Chloe’s. Maybe even ponchos.

Grandma was already to the table. “Come on, girls. We don’t want this to get cold.”

We don’t want this at all, I thought, but I politely followed my mom and aunt to the table.

In addition to the casserole, Grandma had prepared a molded Jell-O salad with celery and cranberries. It was shaped like a Christmas tree. I took even less of that than I did the casserole.

Aunt Chloe was talking, so I temporarily relaxed. Maybe I wouldn’t have to distract Gram with a discussion about the state of the world after all.

Aunt Chloe took a breath and Grandma rushed into the breach to ask me, “Aren’t you hungry, dear?”

“Not really,” I said.
At least not for this
. I took a muffin, something I knew I would actually like to eat. Aunt Chloe was talking again. I let down my guard, slathered the muffin with butter, and prepared to enjoy.

Sadly, Aunt Chloe now had her plate piled high and was abandoning talking for chewing. Grandma pounced. “So, I’m dying to hear how things are going in New York. Tell me who you’re dating, Andrea.”

The last of my appetite slipped away, and I set down the muffin. “I’ve been pretty busy working.” I wondered if I could just insert a distracting sentence here.
And speaking of work, you should see what my friends wear to the office
. No, that sounded too forced.

Grandma looked disapproving. “You’re not getting any younger, dear. The clock is ticking.”

If it was, I hadn’t heard it.

Mom rushed to my defense. “Girls don’t get married as young as they used to.”

Grandma nodded sagely. “And that’s why they have problems getting pregnant. They wait too long. Their eggs get old. Then they have to use fertility pills and wind up with sextuplets.”

In under a minute I’d gone from having a ticking clock to sextuplets. That had to be some sort of record.

“I think my eggs are probably fine,” I said. How about slipping in my distraction here?
And speaking of eggs, you should see
. . . Hmmm.

“There you have it,” said Aunt Chloe. “She’s got great eggs.” I was just about to feel grateful to her when she added, “Still you ought to find somebody, Andie. Restaurants in New York aren’t cheap. It’s the pits to always have to pick up the tab yourself.”

That sounded even more pitiful than having old eggs. “Don’t be ridiculous, Chloe,” Grandma said. “She ought to find someone. Period. You don’t want to go through life alone, Andrea.”

“Oh, Mother, please,” snapped Mom. “If a woman gets married too young it won’t last. Mike and I are proof of that.”

Mom’s rebuke ended the discussion of my love life. Rather awkwardly, but at least it ended.

“Well,” said Grandma in a huff. “Some men just don’t know when they’ve got a good thing. Andie, I have plenty of casserole. Eat up.”

“Yes, put some meat on your bones,” said Aunt Chloe. “I’ll have some more, Mom.”

I finished my casserole first. I sat back in my seat and tried to relax, but I couldn’t get the vision of that loaf of Nutri Bread out of my mind. I shouldn’t have taken time to come home right now. I should be back in New York, making myself indispensable.

“What are you playing, ‘Little Drummer Boy’?” Mom asked.

“What?”

She nodded at my drumming fingers.

I pulled my hand off the table. “Bad habit.”

“New habit,” Mom observed. “Is your life in New York making you stressed?”

“No, no.” My life with my family was making me stressed.

“Well, we’ll have you relaxed and enjoying yourself in no time,” Gram said. “Let’s have dessert.”

Gram agreed with Aunt Chloe that I needed more to eat, so she gave me an extra large serving of Prune Whip.

I steeled myself, then dug my spoon into the bowl.

I had just forced it into my mouth when Gram asked, “So, have you dated anyone at all since you got to New York?”

Boy, I thought, it doesn’t get any better than this.

But I was wrong. After the Prune Whip inquisition, it was time to hit the mall for fun with Mom and Aunt Chloe. And the first stop was to be Gifts ’N’ Gags, where we would admire the sight of Mom’s Christmas mugs sitting on a shelf.

Santa’s workshop was busy with a line of kids dressed up and squirming next to their moms as they waited to climb on his lap and pull his beard. I wished I could climb on his lap myself and ask him to clone me. Then my clone could go to Gifts ’N’ Gags with Mom and Aunt Chloe and I could buy some spa goodies. I thought of the bath packet sitting in my suitcase. A soak in a tub of hot, gardenia-scented water was exactly what I needed right now.

Maybe I could stall. “Anyone for hitting that new Starbucks over by Penney’s?” I suggested. The caffeine would fortify me. It would also get the taste of prunes out of my mouth.

“Let’s do that after we stop at the shop,” said Mom, and picked up her pace like a general leading a charge.

Aunt Chloe looked longingly in the direction of the Starbucks, but followed like a good soldier.

I didn’t want to follow like a good soldier. I made a strike for independence. “I’ll meet you there, then,” I said. “I need coffee.”

Mom surrendered. “Oh, all right,” she said, her voice slightly pouty. “We’ll do a caffeine fill-up first.”

“Good idea,” said Aunt Chloe, and I hid my gloating smile.

It seemed every store we walked past was playing a different Christmas song. Brass ensembles proclaiming “Joy to the World” blared against jazz versions of “The Christmas Song” and Elvis singing “Blue Christmas.” The cacophony echoed the feelings bouncing around inside of me. Here I was in a small town, feeling more emotionally jostled than I had ever felt in one of the fastest and busiest cities in the world. “New York, New York,” began to play in my head, making me want to scream, “Stop!” The Starbucks loomed like an oasis, and I picked up my pace.

“What’s the hurry?” Aunt Chloe puffed behind me, and I slowed down.

She was right. A simple shot of coffee wasn’t going to change my life. But it would make it more bearable.

Armed with a grande eggnog latte, I felt more able to face the gift shop expedition.

Clarice, the shop owner, was at the cash register ringing up a sale when we wandered into the store.

She bagged the purchase and sent the customer on her way, then greeted us. “Well, look who’s here. Merry Christmas, darlings.”

“Same to you,” Mom said.

“I see your girl made it home. And she’s just as pretty as you said.” She smiled at me and introduced herself. “So you’re the one who came up with the idea for the Valentine mug,” she said after we’d finished the meet and greet.

I nodded.

“Brilliant.”

“Thanks,” I said and tried to look humble.

She turned to Mom. “And speaking of mugs, yours is still selling well.”

“What did the woman who was just in here buy?” Aunt Chloe asked.

“Three of those lumps of coal for bad boys and girls.”

“Lumps of coal?” I repeated.

Clarice left the register and went to an aisle. She picked up a little red tin with Santa on it, then held it up like Vanna White, displaying a prize on
Wheel of Fortune
. “It’s got a lump of coal inside. Great gag gift or stocking stuffer. These things sell well every year. They’re a gift classic.”

“Like our mug is going to become,” Aunt Chloe predicted.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Clarice.

Two women wandered into the store. They looked about Mom’s and Aunt Chloe’s age and were dressed in Eddie Bauer casual. I could tell by their hair and nails that they didn’t lack spending money. Next to me I could almost hear the little cash register in Aunt Chloe’s head ringing.
Ka-ching
.

She broke away from us and casually wandered up an aisle. I sensed embarrassment waiting in the wings and moved in the opposite direction.

Now the two women were moving down her aisle. All three of them were out of sight, but I didn’t need to see to know what was going on.

Sure enough, “Oh, Janelle, come look at this cute mug,” called Aunt Chloe’s disembodied voice.

“Oh, yeah?” Mom gave a great impression of a casual shopper.

Meanwhile, Aunt Chloe continued her shtick. “What a great present this would make. Say, do either of you gals know anyone who’s going through a divorce? I bet this would give her a chuckle.”

How embarrassing was this? Did my aunt lie awake nights thinking of new weird things to do? Maybe I’d just stroll to the CD shop next door and see what was new.

Before I could escape, Mom came up to me. “The mugs look really great the way Clarice has them displayed.”

Here was where I was supposed to say, “Let’s go have a look.” But I really didn’t want to watch Aunt Chloe doing her routine of a Rolex knock-off salesman.

“Oh, that is clever,” said one of her victims. “I think I’ll get one for my sister. She could use a laugh.”

Mom gave me a look that said, “There you have it. We’re a success.”