The Christmas Sweater (6 page)

My hands shook with excitement. I looked up at Grandpa, and he had a wide, twelve-year-old’s
smile on his face. It was a good sign.

I tore through the final piece of tissue paper and finally uncovered the gift: Handmade
pajamas and a pair of
handmade slippers that were made with the same yarn as my sweater.

Fantastic. I’d been fooled again.

Not wanting a repeat of the sweater incident, I put on the happiest expression I could
muster. “Thanks, Grandma, these are really nice. They match my sweater perfectly.”
By now I was getting pretty good at faking excitement.

“They certainly should…your mother and I split the yarn. What a deal we got!”

“A tool belt!” I heard Grandpa bellow from across the room. “What a surprise. It’s
exactly what I needed!”

The day was turning out to be a disaster, and I didn’t want to drag it out any longer.
I reached for my last present, feeling a little bit like Charlie Bucket opening the
one Wonka bar my parents could afford, hoping to see a flash of gold but knowing the
odds were against me.

I looked down at the tag and my heart sank. It was from my great-aunt, but “great”
wasn’t a word anyone would ever use to describe her gifts. She was as insane as she
was old, and her presents were almost always something that she took directly out
of her house and wrapped
up. One year she gave me something that no one could identify. Grandpa swore it was
an ashtray that he’d seen in her kitchen, but Mom thought it was an old homemade coffee
mug. Either way, it was nothing I wanted. It now sat on top of my dresser at home,
holding a nickel, a homemade pet rock, and a safety pin.

As I opened this year’s gift, I prayed that it was something I could actually use.
I wasn’t disappointed; it was a roll of pennies.

You’ve got to be kidding me,
I thought.
At least I know where to keep them.

The rain was now beating down loudly on the roof of the farmhouse, and I could hear
every drop echo, as if they’d all been falling in slow motion. All traces of snow
and Christmas magic were now gathered in muddy brown puddles. I wished that I could
start the day over again as a completely different person.

“Eddie, Grandma invited us to sleep over!” Mom interrupted my daydream. “We can have
a big breakfast in the morning and drive home at lunchtime tomorrow.”

I felt my heart rate quicken. I always loved sleeping
over at the farm. Grandpa and I would get into all kinds of trouble once Mom and Grandma
were asleep. One time he and I spent two hours mixing up Grandma’s kitchen spices
by pouring each of them into a different bottle. Cinnamon became paprika. Parsley
became dill. Dill became nutmeg. Nutmeg became rosemary. The next day’s French toast
was disgusting, but Grandpa and I laughed through every dill-filled bite that Grandma
insisted we take.

The truth was that I really did want to stay over that night. I thought Grandpa might
be the only person on earth who could make me forget about the day I’d had. But the
twelve-year-old in me also didn’t want to make it too easy on Mom after what
she’d
put me through. A sweater? Pajamas? A roll of pennies? It was the worst Christmas
ever. I turned, gave my mother the best scowl I could muster, and said, “I really
don’t feel well. I just want to go home.”

Grandpa looked at me quizzically.

My mother rubbed her forehead. “Eddie, I didn’t sleep much last night, and you know
I’ve been working longer shifts at the store. I’m exhausted and don’t feel like driv
ing.” She cocked her head slightly and gave me a wink that spoke volumes. “Please,
for me?”

I dug my heels in.
“I really just want to get home. I’m sure some of my friends got presents that I’d
like to play with.” The look on Mom’s face told me that I’d hit my mark. Grandpa’s
eyes narrowed, and I could feel the burn of his stare on the side of my face.

“I’m sorry, Eddie,” Mom responded firmly. “We’re staying. I’m just too tired to drive.”

“It would mean a lot to us to have our two favorite people here for breakfast tomorrow,”
my grandmother interjected, trying to restore the peace.

Then Grandpa spoke up, his tone far more serious than I was used to. “I think Eddie’s
right. Maybe you two should just head home. After all, Eddie doesn’t feel well.”

I should’ve known that Grandpa would be onto my game. He thought more like a twelve-year-old
than I did.

I tried to dig my way out of the mess by thinking one step ahead of him. “Actually,
Grandpa, maybe Mom is right. Maybe we should stay. Don’t you have some errands in
town I could help out with in the morning?” I looked at
Grandpa with a wry smile, waiting for him to reciprocate. He didn’t.

“No, nothing I can’t take care of next week. I really think you guys should head home.
I’m sure you can’t wait to play with all your friends’ great presents.”

Checkmate. I looked down, embarrassed and angry.

My mother sighed. “Well, I guess that’s that.” Her eyes revealed both exhaustion and
resignation. “Go upstairs and get your stuff packed up, Eddie. I need to talk to Grandma
and Grandpa. I’ll call you when I’m ready to go.”

“Sure,” I said, pretending not to be bothered by any of this.

“And put on your bread bags.”

I jogged up the stairs. Punishing my mom had escalated further than I’d planned, and
the look in her eyes hurt my heart. I washed over my guilt with anger. Anger at God,
life, and, by association, my mother.
It’s not my fault,
I told myself.

When I reached the bedroom, I took the bread bags out but didn’t put them on.
Stupid boots.
I threw them onto the floor. What a stinking, lousy, crummy day. I hated
Christmas. I just wished it was over. But it wasn’t even close to over—I still had
what was sure to be a long, painfully silent drive ahead.

I took off my Christmas sweater and clutched it tightly in my arms as I lay down on
the bed.
What a gift,
I thought sarcastically to myself.
What a perfect gift.
My eyes began to burn under the weight of my anger. I buried my head under the pillow,
hoping that my mother wouldn’t call for me until my tears had dried.

“Eddie,” my mother’s voice rang up the stairs, “it’s time to go.”

I groaned with exhaustion. I reluctantly put on my sweater, then lifted my bag and
walked downstairs. Grandma had her arm around my mother’s waist and was giving her
a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t forget to call me when you get home, Mary. I don’t want
to be up all night worrying.”

For as long as I could remember, my mother would call my grandparents as soon as we
returned home from
their house. Since long-distance calls were a luxury for us, they had, with Grandpa’s
assistance, developed a system. Mom would use the operator to make a person-to-person
call and ask for herself. Grandma would answer, claim her daughter had just left,
and then hang up, knowing that her daughter had made it home safely. It was a great
system…and, as Grandpa always stressed, “It was completely free and
almost
honest.”

My grandparents went into the kitchen to box up the food we would have eaten together
for breakfast. I could hear deliberately muffled conversation.

The stakes had just been raised, and I was going to win this mind game. No matter
what it took.

W
e were twenty minutes into our drive home before either of us spoke. “You really outdid
yourself this time, Eddie.”

I watched a seemingly endless number of farms fade away in the rearview mirror. The
clouds marking the edge of a winter storm had squeezed the sun into a sad, pale yellow
circle with a gray halo.

“What do you want me to do?” Mom asked, trying to hide her tears.

“I want to have a real life.” The words exploded from
my mouth. “Like my friends.” I couldn’t help it. A whole day of pent-up frustration
and anger poured out.

“A real life? Eddie, this is the reality of my life. I work four different jobs. I
feel like I haven’t slept for two years. I switch hours with people so I can be home
with you as much as possible. I can only do so much, Eddie. I’m tired. I’m so tired.
And you know what else? Maybe it is time you start being the man you need to grow
into, rather than acting like the eight-year-old kid you were.”

I’d never heard my mother talk to me like that before. I looked up just in time to
see her discreetly wipe a tear from her eye. When she spoke again, her tone was much
softer.

“I know that things have been hard since Dad died. But it’s been hard for both of
us. At some point you have to realize that everything happens for a reason. It is
up to you to find that reason, learn from it, and let it take you to the place you’re
supposed to be—not just where you have ended up.” Mom spoke slowly. “You can either
complain about how hard your life is, or you can realize that only you are responsible
for it. You get to choose: Am I going to
be happy or miserable? And
nothing
—not a sweater, and certainly not a bike—will ever change that.”

Something deep inside of me wanted to apologize and beg for my mother’s forgiveness.
Instead, I just sat there.

The day’s steady rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the mist kicked up by the tires
made it hard to see anything out the side window. Looking straight ahead was out of
the question—Mom’s eyes might be waiting in the mirror for another lecture—so I rolled
my window down halfway and prayed we would just get home fast.

After a few minutes Grandma’s church came into view through the mist. I say “Grandma’s
church” because she was, by far, the most religious person in the family. Mom was
in second place, but there was really no contest after that; Grandpa and I were tied
for last.

When I was a little kid, I used to get dressed up and go to church with Mom every
Sunday. I hated it. She made me sit up straight and “listen” for a whole hour. Dad
never came with us; he usually just stayed at home or went golfing instead. He used
to say he was a big believer in
all
of the Ten Commandments, especially the one that man
dated “rest on the Sabbath.” Mom often reminded him that golf was probably not what
the Lord had in mind, but Dad would just laugh and say, “God doesn’t take attendance
on Sunday.” A part of me thought he was just saying that to make himself feel better
about not going with us, but when I saw the way Dad treated others and cared for those
in need, I understood what he really meant: God takes attendance
every
day.

During the summer, when I’d stay over at my grandparents’ house a lot, we would go
to Grandma’s church every Sunday. It was the only time I ever actually looked forward
to going, because Grandpa and I used to make up games to pass the time. We came up
with a whole bunch of them over the years, but my favorite was a game we called Stand
for God. (Grandpa originally tried to call it Jump for Jesus, but even he knew that
was over the line, so we settled on the safer name.)

The rules were simple: Each time the service called for the congregation to sit, stand,
kneel, or sing, you had to be first. It probably sounds easy, but to win you had to
guess really early. If you guessed wrong, you not only lost but
you also looked like an idiot—and got a full dose of Grandma’s evil eye. Now that
I think back, it’s pretty obvious where Mom learned her uncanny ability to lecture
with her eyes.

The more we played Stand for God, the better Grandpa and I got at it, and the earlier
you had to guess if you wanted to win. One time Grandpa started singing “On Eagle’s
Wings” so early that Father Sullivan actually stopped reading the scripture and glared
at him from the pulpit. Not coincidentally, that was also the last time Grandpa and
I ever got to sit next to each other.

After Grandma started sitting between us, the masses seemed to take forever, but,
over time, something strange began to happen: I started to actually enjoy them. I
think part of it was that I felt closest to Dad when I was there. It’s hard to describe,
but there were times when I’d feel him sitting right there next to me. Sometimes I
even heard his horrible voice singing right along with mine.

As I looked out the back windshield, Grandma’s church, the place where I felt the
most connected to my father, was now just a dot in the fog. I thought how strange
it was that a person sitting just two feet away from me felt more distant than someone
who wasn’t even alive.

With the church now beyond the horizon, I turned back around and risked a quick glance
up front. Mom’s eyes were waiting for me in the mirror—but they weren’t angry or hurt
anymore, they were just tired. I knew that she was giving me an opening to apologize
and all would be forgotten. But I still wasn’t ready. I was tired too.

About ten minutes later, I fell asleep.

So did Mom.

I woke to the ticking sound the Ford’s engine made while it cooled. I looked up and
saw the seat I’d just been sitting in. A mix of twisted metal and wires came at me
from all angles, like angry, bony fingers. Shredded fabric from Mom’s headrest hung
down. Something on the dashboard was blinking and lighting up a tiny spot on the floor
every few seconds.

A pair of strong, weathered hands reached in and
pulled me through the partially opened, upside-down back door. I didn’t see the man’s
face, but as he held me tight I noticed how filthy his hands were.

“Mom!” I tried to scream but nothing came out of my mouth. I was shivering inside
my sweater.

I must have drifted off again, because when I awoke I was on the pavement about twenty
yards from the now-burning car. Brilliant red and orange fingers reached up high into
the eternal night sky. The heat was overwhelming. I heard the ominous echo of sirens
and saw flashing lights reflect off of distant clouds.

I fell asleep again.

I opened my eyes to excruciatingly bright lights. Doctors and nurses buzzed all around,
but none of them seemed to be paying much attention to me.

“Where’s my mother?” I screamed. “How’s my mother? I want to see my mother!”

The doctors only answered my questions with an
other question, just like Grandpa did whenever he was trying to avoid the truth: “How
do we get in touch with your father?”

“My father is…dead,” I remember whispering. Then I drifted off to sleep again.