Once Upon A Christmas Eve: A Novella (8 page)

“Olivia,” he interrupts.

My eyes gravitate to his at the word. In all the days of my life, I have never heard my name spoken quite this way—so calmly and gently. I never knew my name could sound so reassuring, could sound this way coming from anyone’s lips.

“Do you
want
me to be here?” he asks.

“If you want to be here.”

“That’s not enough.”

It’s not enough that he wants to be here. He wants to know
I
want him here. That I want him at my family dinner as much as he wanted me at his. Because this can’t work any other way.

“Yes,” I answer, because it’s true. Even though I barely know him, I don’t know how I would have done this without him.

“Then I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Okay?”

“Okay.”

At this, I find the courage to open the door, to step inside.

“Olivia Jane Hall is that you?” A voice calls from another room. I flinch at the sound. My mother—trapped in the middle of an anxious frenzy—enters the foyer, spoon in hand.  “Where have you been? I thought you were getting off after five! I called the store and there was no answer. I tried your cell phone. . . .”

Even with cancer, my mom is beautiful. Bright blue eyes that match my own. Dark eyebrows just beginning to regrow. A silky red scarf—to complement her sweater—tied around her head like she is a gypsy wanderer, its fringe falling in cascades around her neck and shoulder.  

“I’m so sorry. I was actually at the Andrews’ house. This is Jonathan. Mrs. Stacey’s nephew. I invited him to hang out with us. I hope that’s okay?” I force a smile as she splits a look between the two of us, entirely unsure of what to say.

Jonathan clears his throat, steps forward. “It’s nice to meet you. Aunt Stacey sent cheesecake.” He shows her the box.

“And her love,” I add.

My mom exhales a sigh of relief, nods, scratches her head at the edge of the scarf where her hairline might be. “Okay. Jonathan, you said?” She takes the box from him.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s good to meet you. Yes, you can absolutely join us. We would love to have you.” Then, turning to me: “Where is your cell phone?”

My shoulders lift, shrugging. “My car?”

“Do not scare me like that again. Another hour and we would’ve called Kenny.”

“Kenny is our police chief,” I explain to Jonathan, as Mom closes and locks the door behind us.

“Let me take your coat, Jonathan,” she says.

“I’ll get it,” I insist, shrugging my arms out of my own. “Is everyone here?” I ask, voice low.

“Yes. We were just about to start eating, so your timing is perfect. I’m serious, though. Don’t do that to me again. Call me next time you plan to be late.”

With this, I have been forgiven. “Sorry, Mama. What can I help you with?”

“Nothing. We’re all set.”

“How is she?” I ask, voice barely a whisper—referring, of course, to Amanda.

“Lovely. So be nice,” Mom replies.

She leaves us alone in the foyer, heads for the kitchen, pie box in hand. Jonathan and I slip into the living room, where I drape our jackets over the back of Dad’s brown recliner, a bare patch on the right arm where he used to hold a drink or the remote—because even though Dad left, everything else stayed. New girlfriend. New apartment. New furniture. New life.

We got the leftovers.

The Christmas tree, standing proudly at the front of the room, has captured Jonathan’s attention. He stands before it, touches a wooden angel ornament, my six-year-old face pasted on the head, just below a pipe cleaner halo—a craft one of the moms came to school to help us make. “Has your hair always been this curly?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I reply, easing next to him. “It’s longer now, though, so it’s more wavy than curly. And ‘pain in the butt’ is the most appropriate term. It’s easier to just pull it back in a ponytail.”

He continues surveying the tree, the dim glow highlighting his every feature, reflecting in his eyes. “I think it’s gorgeous.”

I laugh. “My hair?” I ask, disbelieving.

“What’s so funny about that?”

“Nothing. It’s just that I have about a dozen school photos that prove my hair is anything
but
gorgeous.”

“Take the compliment, Olivia Hall,” he says, fingering a few strands at my ear that might have escaped on the walk home. “You have beautiful hair. And eyes,” he adds.

My pulse quickens at the words, heart beating erratically. “Thank you. They’re my mom’s.”

“I noticed.”

He noticed. Another nervous laugh. “Um, can I . . .?” I point toward the ornament box still clutched in his fingers.

“Oh,” he says, glancing at it. “Sure.”

I open the lid, remove the ornament by its ribbon, avoiding presents as I circle the tree, searching for the perfect place. I find a nearly empty spot on the right side toward the top, just beside a “Pixie Dust” ornament Sam and our grandmother made years ago—a glass ball filled with flecks of glitter in every shade of green.

It’s Jonathan who breaks the perfect quiet with a soft voice, saying: “If for some reason I forget to tell you, thank you for tonight. For everything.”

When I turn to face him he is standing nearly on top of me—so close—and something builds as I breathe him in—the crisp night air and forest and intoxicating spices that are distinctly Jonathan—as my stomach tumbles to my knees as I realize I want nothing more at this moment than to step on the tips of my toes and kiss him. To feel his lips pressed against mine. Because the truth is I have never been kissed. Not kissed in a way that mattered. Not how I imagine Jonathan would kiss me—like maybe my lips were the last he ever wanted to touch, like I was the only girl he wanted to hold.

No. A kiss from Jonathan would
mean
something.

“I don’t know. I kind of feel like I should thank
you
,” I say, voice barely a whisper.

“Livy?”

I jump to attention, never expecting we might not be alone. “Hey . . . Dad.”

He stands at the threshold, an echo of an image of my father impressed into my memories. Except tonight he’s wearing black dress pants and a crisp, white shirt—just in from a day at the office, the only thing missing is the tie—whereas before he might be in work jeans and a favorite flannel shirt, dirty after having spent an afternoon replacing broken tiles in the master bathroom.

“You had your mother worried,” he says, frowning. The part of me that hates he’s even at this house is overshadowed by the realization I have not seen my father since Thanksgiving, and the longing I feel for one of his giant bear hugs—which, just on this side of last year, he wouldn’t have hesitated in giving. Like it wasn’t his sleeping around and cheating on Mom that divided us, but her cancer—his not knowing what to do or how to act around us after the fact.

“I know. I’m sorry. I got tied up at The Christmas Room and then my friend Jonathan invited me to spend some time with his family. You remember Stacey Andrews? She’s his aunt.”

“I remember Stacey. Good family. Nice to meet you, Jonathan,” my dad says, closing the distance between them, shaking his hand.

“You too, Mr. Hall.”

“We should, um, go find everyone else?” I say to Jonathan, words emerging as more of a question than a statement. More concerned than confident.

We stumble upon Sam in the hallway—the two of us nearly the same height; same black hair, though she keeps hers smooth and straight, eyes a lighter shade of blue. “Where were you? I totally thought you were going to bail on me,” she hiss-whispers.

“You know I wouldn’t leave you and Mom hanging,” I reply. “Anyway, I was at the Andrews’. This is Jonathan.”

“Hi, Jonathan,” she says. Then, to me: “If I would’ve known you were gathering reinforcements, I would’ve assembled my own army.”

“She’s not
that
bad, is she?”

“I don’t know. I’m kind of avoiding her,” my older sister admits. She looks at Jonathan. “I don’t know how much Livy told you,” she begins.

“It’s fine. He knows everything. But we can’t ruin this for Mom. It’s just a couple of hours,” I remind her.

My sister’s arms cross her chest. “Yeah, except she insisted they
stay the night
.”

“Oh my God.” I groan, feeling my forehead, searching for signs of fever, a headache, expecting my temples to start pounding at any moment. “You’re
kidding
me!”

“I wish.”

“Jesus,” I mutter. “Okay. Whatever. We can do this. We’ve handled worse.”

My mom stands on the third rung of our step stool in the kitchen, removing the good china from the cabinet above the refrigerator. “Sam? Livy?” she calls, holding out a plate. “Some help, please?”

“I can take them.” Amanda sets a glass of red wine on the counter behind her—wine that I’m sure arrived with Dad, since Mom emptied the house of all its alcohol immediately after her diagnosis—as if the two were somehow connected. I’m not sure if the current bottle is a friendly gesture, a peace offering, or something to help Amanda get through this night.

Mom passes Amanda the plates, one by one. “Sam? Can you wash and dry these for me? I’m not sure the last time we used them, and Livy? Set a place for Jonathan, okay?”

The contrast between my mother and my dad’s girlfriend is startling. Mom’s thin frame. Scarf hiding her bald head, the patches of dark hair just starting to regrow. Paler than before, face slightly swollen from medication. Amanda’s ivory pantsuit and gold jewelry, blonde hair pulled back into a neat bun at the base of her neck.
Together
—if such a thing even exists—if not overdressed and uncomfortable in this house.

“Hi, Olivia,” she says, smiling brightly, baring all of her straight, white teeth. “It’s so good to see you again.”

I force my own smile. “Yeah. Um, glad you and Dad could make it.”

There is something behind those perfectly lined eyes that I don’t see until they meet mine for the first time. Something like fear. Uncertainty. As if in her glorified imagination this is as far as the evening went—greeting everyone—and now that this part is over she doesn’t know what to do next.

“So . . . how was the drive?” I manage to ask.

“Oh, traffic was unbelievable.”

“Did you take ninety-five?” Jonathan asks.

“We did. It was bumper to bumper.”

“This is my friend, Jonathan. He’s from Hamilton, too,” I explain, sending a lifeline that relaxes her features, washes her in relief—something to have in common with someone else. 

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I’m at school there, but my family and I aren’t too far outside the city. I left after lunch. It took me about an hour longer to get here than it should have.”

I leave the two of them chatting about idiotic Hamilton drivers and road expansions to set a place for Jonathan at the dining room table. The dining room is known colloquially as “the blue room”—one of the rooms Mom and Dad never found time to renovate—the baseboards and moldings around windows and doors a smoky blue, walls painted a lighter shade of the same hue.

My dad is already seated at the head of the table—slipping easily into the chair he claimed when I was growing up. Already his presence commands this room, takes up too much space, leaves too little air for the rest of us. He fidgets with his smartphone, glances up when he sees me.

“How is school, Livy?” he asks.

“Fine. You know, more of the same.” I open the buffet drawer, searching for the rest of the pearl-colored placemats Mom uses for the holiday.

“Grades still okay?”

“They’re fine.”

“Have you given any more thought to what I said about Northwestern?”

Back in November—Thanksgiving—when the conversation shifted to senior year and graduation, then college plans, Dad reminded me that NSU is a great school, and still taking applications. If I wanted to attend, I could always live in the guest bedroom at the townhouse. The offer was given to both Sam and me—Sam, because she wants to transfer, and me, because, well, NSU is the most logical option. State school. Not too far from home.

“Sort of,” I admit. “I don’t know. I was kind of thinking that maybe I should take some classes here, first. Let Sam finish her last two years.”

“You can both come,” he says. “We have plenty of space. The two of you could have the entire third floor to yourselves.”

I set the placemat at the other end of the table—the only empty chair—and grab another cloth napkin from the drawer.

“You know I can’t leave Mom here,” I remind him.

“What does she think about this?”

“She doesn’t
know
about this. She’d freak out. Start ranting about how we’re not her babysitters.”

“She’s right.”

“I’m not making a decision right now. She has another appointment in January. We’ll go from there.”

“These are supposed to be some of the best years of your life, kid.”