laugh.
“And what are you talking about, Sleeveless in December guy? Are you talking about that guy who passed us upstairs? Oh my God. I was just looking. You can be so jealous sometimes.”
My laughter dies in my throat. “You don’t know anything about me,” I say, then pull my arm free.
But he latches back on to me, with both hands this time.
“Okay. I’m sorry. Come back in. I’ll buy you another soda, and a pretzel if you want.” He pouts and runs his hand up and down my arm like he did when we first started dating, when he wanted me to go somewhere I didn’t want to go or wear something I didn’t want to wear. I resist the urge to flinch. “You’re my guy. It’ll just be me and you the rest of the day. Okay? Just me and you. Nobody else. We’ll go to the bookstore and you can browse all you want. I’ll even buy you a book for Christmas.”
“I don’t want a book. I don’t want a present.”
“Then we’ll just browse . . . together.”
Later I find myself wishing he’d just let me go.
Andrew
I don’t know who’s sleepier when we get home, Kiki or me. I put on The Lion King and curl up with her on the couch. A strand of dark hair falls across her face. I brush it away with my fingers as she clutches the dog more tightly to her chest. I drift off thinking this is heaven, or the closest I’m likely to ever get to heaven. Something about that thought leaves a sad imprint on my heart.
Chapter 5
Robert
This is Dad’s last Christmas. It’s the elephant in the room. It’s the reason Aunt Whitney has pulled out all the stops—piles of presents, fresh garland wrapped around the banister and over the doorways, holiday music piped throughout the house, evergreen candles, a fire in the fireplace, and an animated Santa rocking in a chair next to it. And pies. Lots of pies.
The day is a throwback to Dad’s childhood, an annual ritual he has refused to let go of despite the awkward strain it puts on Mom and me.
Still, I have to admit, it’s all very pretty, and the house smells great. But no one thought to help us get Dad there.
He doesn’t travel well, or easily.
Getting him from the bed to the wheelchair was bad. Getting him through the front door and over the threshold with his oxygen tank was worse. I was still in their bedroom gathering up Dad’s pills when I heard Mom cry out: “I’m doing the best I can.”
When I got to the living room, Mom, flushed and on the verge of tears, had tilted the chair back and was digging in to ram him through the door and over the threshold with brute force. Aunt Whitney always pulled him through backward. Reason enough, I suppose, for Mom to take the more direct approach.
Shit. “Wait-wait-wait. Mom.” I sprinted over. “You’re going to pitch him to the concrete if you’re not careful. There’s a three-inch drop to the sidewalk.”
She shot me a look that said, Don’t tempt me.
I pulled the wheelchair back enough to get through the doorway, then grabbed the frame in front and lifted it. Together we got him through and down the drop to the sidewalk without incident. Dad winced when the wheels landed, but he didn’t say anything. I thought that was wise.
At Aunt Whitney’s, we did it all again in reverse.
“You’re here,” Olivia exclaims when we make our way into the living room. She’s sitting on the floor, supervising the kids who are rummaging through gifts, trying to locate the ones with their names on them. She jumps up to help us get Dad from the chair to the couch next to my grandmother. I give Grandma a hug. She barely touches me as she hugs me back.
Grandma—a prim, expensively coifed Southern widow of a prominent physician and the quiet matriarch of the Westfall family—still lives in Louisiana. She’s been generous with me through the years, but distant. I’m like one of her charities that she donates to. I wonder sometimes if that will change after Dad’s gone, if she’ll see me as the last link to her lost son. I wonder if she knows it’ll be about eighteen years too late.
“The kids are dying to open their gifts,” Aunt Olivia says. “But I told them they had to wait until you guys got here.” She calls out to Aunt Whitney and my uncles to join us.
Every year I dread this part of Christmas day—the gift exchange. Mom put her foot down years ago about exchanging gifts with extended family. It was just too much—the shopping, the expense. She asked that they not purchase gifts for us either. At first I resented her for that. Why shouldn’t they give us gifts? They can afford it.
I don’t see it that way anymore.
We sit awkwardly, pretending to enjoy watching our pajama-clad relatives unwrap presents. It infuriates Mom that we are subjected to this year after year, but it never changes. Aunt Whitney refuses to let anyone open a gift until we are all together. And Dad has refused to allow anything or anyone—not his wife or his child—to get in the way of his childhood tradition. They’ve fought about it for as long as I can remember. Dad always wins.
Mom’s jaw tightens when Aunt Olivia hands her a small envelope with a red bow on it. Once again, they have refused to respect her request. Mom opens the envelope. Inside is a hundred-dollar gift card to Chico’s. She never shops in that store; apparently, she should. The card is signed by both of my aunts and my grandmother.
For me there’s an emergency roadside kit and two tickets to the Iron Maiden concert at the Pavilion. Metal music is not really my thing, but I love the outdoor amphitheater, and at least it’s not The Beach Boys or Chicago or Jimmy Buffett. It’s that kind of venue. I actually like both gifts, but not nearly as much as the car stereo Mom gave me this morning. I have to install it myself, but I’m cool with that. I don’t look at Mom as I thank everyone.
Dad doesn’t open his own gifts. They are piled all around him on the couch. Aunt Whitney sits on the floor in front of him, opening them one by one, exclaiming over each like he’s a two-year-old.
“Oh, wow, a saint’s bracelet. This is beautiful.” She moves her fingers from square to square as she indentifies the saints thereon and their heavenly assignments. I can feel Mom’s smirk from across the room. When she’s done with muster, Aunt Whitney says to my dad, “Here, let me put it on your arm.”
Another gift. “Oh, look what Mom got you. This throw looks warm too.” She tosses it over Dad’s lap.
Grandma tucks it under his leg. “You’ve always loved owls,” she says thoughtfully, “even when you were a little boy.”
It’s hard for me to imagine my dad as a little boy, or my grandmother as a doting mom.
There’s a new LSU cap, which Aunt Whitney places on Dad’s head. His face is slack on one side, and when he crooks a weak smile, the look is ghoulish. There’s a marked increase in his sluggishness today, almost a catatonia. Whether it’s the cancer or the morphine, I don’t know. Probably both.
I can’t watch anymore. I head up to the media room. The cousins are playing Rock Band. I settle onto a couch in the back, behind the captain’s chairs, and pull out my cell
