Home for Christmas

Cynthia prepared weeks ahead, sending the quilts to the dry cleaners, ordering the chocolate advent calendar from Christopher Elbow, ordering a selection of specialty teas. Not telling Todd, she bought new down pillows and a set of flannel sheets for the bunkbed in Charlie’s old room. She bought new toothbrushes for the bathrooms and went to two different drug stores to find the shampoo that Kayla had liked in high school. Cleaning from top to bottom, Cynthia organized the house. She dusted the old knickknacks that weren’t precious enough to bring into the kids’ adult lives; many, like the small stuffed woolly mammoth represented inside jokes that didn’t include her. Three weeks in advance, she had the carpets cleaned. Years ago when the kids were little she’d read about a connection between carpet cleaning and that horrible disease—the one that sounded like a motorcycle brand—that affected children Sammy’s age. Cynthia hoped that three weeks was sufficient, and looked for data online, but couldn’t get past the pages of carpet cleaning companies. Kayla told her not to worry, but Cynthia did worry, and wanted every single detail to shine. As Christmas week approached the house started to look like its old self, beds made-up, fresh towels in the linen closet, each room humming with a purpose. The house felt the right size again. 

So soon. So soon.

Cynthia bought new cookie cutters and frosting tips, planning an afternoon of gingerbread house decorating. Todd commented that maybe she was trying to start too many traditions. During a recent phone call Kayla had hinted about needing rest. 

“I’ll be doing all the work,” Cynthia had promised. “You’ll be The Mom Spa.”

Upon ending the phone call, Cynthia ordered a selection of bath bombs and body scrubs for the guest bathroom, and a few more bath toys for Sammy. 

Every seat at the dining room table would be filled. On Etsy Cynthia purchased a handmade table cloth embroidered with holly berries. 

Later that morning, Danny called and said that he might not bring his girlfriend, claiming that it was too early in their relationship for a holiday, and he might only drive down for the day. 

“Too early?” 

“We’re sort of casual, you know.”

“That doesn’t bother me. Does Sarah prefer floral or woodsy scents?”

The downstairs bathroom needed a few bath bombs too.

“I have no idea, Mom. You’re being kind of intense.”

“I’m only being a good hostess. This is fun for me.”

Of course Danny would end up bringing his girlfriend.

In the evenings Cynthia relayed her various accomplishments to Todd. “I found that maple syrup that Danny liked—at the Kroger—can you believe it?” Her husband murmured some sort of agreement while staring at his laptop. Picking up her phone, Cynthia ordered Candyland online, having unwisely given the kids’ board games away years ago. Todd often talked about downsizing, moving to a condo to avoid yardwork, in spite of the fact that they’d hired the same landscaping crew for the past two decades. 

“We have too much junk,” Todd would say sometimes. “The kids don’t want any of it.”

Cynthia loved her collections—like the cupboard of Depression glass in the dining room. A grouping of handmade wooden toys in the family room. Of course, she’d saved some the kids’ toys, too, like the large tub of Legos, imagining herself, one day, constructing things with the grandkids. She tried not to think of the way most kids preferred iPads to toys. 

“We should have a huge garage sale,” Todd said often, “and donate the rest.”

That always sent Cynthia’s heart palpitating. “You’re trying to lobotomize my memories!”

For days after the most recent garage sale comment, Cynthia brainstormed various arguments to defend the family home—memories, family togetherness, financial investment—mentally conducting long persuasive conversations with Todd. 

Three days before the arrival, Cynthia stopped at the florist’s to pick up miniature pine trees in red ceramic pots—one for each bedroom. She planned to put the kids favorite ornaments on their personal trees. She’d bought an Arizona Cardinal ornament for Kayla’s husband Rob to make him feel special. And she kept his favorite beer stocked in the garage fridge. The new girlfriend preferred seltzers, so Cynthia bought a selection of those, too, remaining hopeful. 

That afternoon, Cynthia sat in the living room with her feet up, reading the latest Tara French novel so she could pass it along to Kayla—that had been a tradition since she’d been in college. Right as she started the last chapter, her phone dinged with a text. Cynthia hoped that Kayla was finally responding to her question about breakfast foods. The text read: Don’t go to too much trouble on our account, we booked a condo with a pool—for the kids.

Not staying at here? 

Cynthia blinked.

Not coming home?

No one needs to swim in December. 

The initial disappointment swelled into anger, swamping her with a hot flash. Cynthia fanned herself with the Tara French novel, lifting up her shirt, and spreading her arms wide.

I’ve spent hours. Weeks. 

The house is ready.

The big empty house is ready to be filled with children and laughter. 

Another text dings: a link to a map showing the condo.

The same condo complex Todd mentioned, the one overlooking to the golf course, the restaurants on the river walk. The ones with boxy white rooms and tiny kitchen islands. Itty bitty basement storage units, the kind that would necessitate giving away most of their worldly possessions. Everyone wants me to abandon my home, Cynthia fumed, moving through the house, shutting doors, so she didn’t have to see the guestroom with the soft new throw in Kayla’s favorite shade of blue. Didn't have to see the bunk beds where Danny used to host so many noisy sleepovers. Cynthia closed the door to her own room, the room where the Kayla was conceived. Not counting the bedrooms, the house was still much larger than the condo. 

I will not lose my treasures. 

Cynthia loathed Rob for his wishy-washy immaturity, loathed the girlfriend she hadn’t yet met. Had she not made everyone welcome—to the best of her ability? 

Nothing in her life had turned out as she’d hoped. 

The big happy family that she’d attempted to have thwarted by her own body after Danny’s difficult delivery. Now she pinned her hopes on expanding her family through her children’s partners. But Danny now approaching his mid-thirties couldn’t settle down. He treated yoga studious like his own personal Tinder, even though he’d never been particularly athletic or flexible, as far as she knew. Maybe she merely extended his mental inflexibility to his limbs— The new girlfriend would likely be replaced by another yoga instructor before they’d even met, maybe the new one would even have the same name, like the year of two Julies. 

I cannot believe that Kayla is keeping me from pancake smiles with my grandchild! 

Rob turned out to be a big phony, all his talk about family being numero uno. I bought new down pillows, but he’d rather sleep on a cheap used mattress in a rental unit. She’d even binged watched that sci-fi show about the silos—so they could have a good discussion. 

Maybe she could talk Todd into putting in a pool, even though she didn’t enjoy getting wet, and the chlorine would mess with her hair color, and the boys across the street would probably sneak over the fence and drown, or maybe an animal would drown—

Cynthia realized that she hadn’t responded to Kayla’s texts. But what could she say in the face of such rejection? 

Fine. I hope you realize that you’ve cost me my home?

Fine. Dad and I are moving there anyway. See you in the hot tub.

Fine. Don’t expect Christmas next year. I’m done. Done!

Not answering the text, Cynthia walked over the Christmas tree centered precisely in the middle of the picture window facing the street. The glass pear, an ornament from her own childhood, sparkled in the setting sun, sprinkling rainbows on the walls. Cynthia used to make wishes on those rainbows, and taught the kids to do it too. 

Kayla used to shout out, “Mom! It’s wish time!”

The three of them—Todd would still be at work—would race to the window, close their eyes, and make wishes. She used to wish for practical things, safety-related, primarily. Since the kids moved out, and she started sharing Kayla with Rob’s family, Cynthia always wished for a family Christmas filled with laughter and traditions, long lazy days of togetherness. 

Now Danny planned to drive down for the day, half the day, realistically.

Kayla, Rob and Sammy would eat breakfast at the condo, swim, nap—the day would be essentially gone before they’d come over at all. The tears filling Cynthia’s eyes stung. 

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way!” 

Cynthia listened to her voice fill the too big, too empty house. 

We don’t matter anymore. 

I don’t matter anymore.

You don’t matter anymore.

Cynthia plucked the pear off the Christmas tree. No more wishes. Pulling her arm back, like a baseball pitcher, she thought about hurling it against the wall. As she held the ornament behind her head, tiny rainbows danced on the white wall. Maybe Cynthia should make one last wish, and maybe she could make a wish just for herself.

If only she could think about what that wish might be—