Yours,
Jayda
Chapter Four
Connor
Why are there so many Christmas decorations everywhere? The lights, the fake wrapped presents, the tacky six foot tall plastic snowmen. Why? Not to mention the stupid holiday songs that no one likes, playing at full volume from every store in town. All I’m trying to do is make a quick trip into the grocery store to get a frozen pizza for dinner, and yet I’m having Christmas thrown in my face at every turn.
The overhead speakers play Jingle Bells, and every aisle of food is decorated on the ends with wreathes and fake snow and all kinds of stupid holiday crap. I’m so over the holidays. I can’t handle Christmas.
It hasn’t always been like this. But I have a feeling it’ll now be like this for the rest of my life. I used to love Christmas because my mom loved Christmas. It was kind of her thing. Everyone in town knew her as the Christmas lady. She was second in line to Mrs. Harris, who owns a Christmas store at the Christmas Tree Farm in town.
This was my mom’s favorite time of year. She’d start decorating a week before Thanksgiving, but she’d want to decorate even sooner than that. Dad and I would convince her to wait longer because celebrating in November is just silly. I don’t know how I’m supposed to get through this holiday without her.
It would have been her birthday in June, and that was hard. She missed my birthday in August, and that was pretty hard too. But Christmas might be the worst day I’ll have to deal with since her passing.
It doesn’t help that my dad just hides from it all, staying offshore at work for weeks at a time.
I straighten my shoulders and head toward the frozen food aisle, which is basically the only place I shop lately since I’m such a bad cook, and I tell myself to ignore all the Christmas stuff.
I’m not going to celebrate the holiday this year. Dad won’t be here, my family won’t be here, and Mom certainly won’t be here. So why even bother?
I’ll just ignore all of it until it’s over and then I’ll go back to my normal way of life.
Well … maybe one thing will change. Maybe I’ll find the courage to ask Jayda out.
I open the freezer door and grab a cheese pizza, thin crust—my favorite, and I realize I’m smiling at the idea of asking her out.
She’s such a cool person. She doesn’t follow lame trends, and she’s crazy smart. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than curl up and watch a movie with her. Who am I kidding? I would do anything she wanted me to do.
I make my way to the cash register, where all the employees are wearing Santa hats and necklaces that have little colorful lights on them that flicker on and off. I try not to roll my eyes. I try not to be rude to the woman who helps me check out. It’s not her fault she’s forced to celebrate the holiday.
Once I’m back in my truck, I crank my music to help drown out the memories of the grocery store’s stupid songs. The bad thing about Christmas music is that it’s catchy, the ultimate earworm, and if you hear it once in passing you’ll be singing it in your head all day.
That absolutely cannothappen.
I don’t need any more reminders of my mom. That’s why my house looks the same way it always does. Green grass, trimmed hedges, a front porch with a concrete statue of a turtle next to a potted plant, and a plain wooden front door.
If Mom were here, she’d have filled the entire yard with all of her decorations, making it into a holiday wonderland like she’s always done.
But she’s not here.
And all her decorations are still in the attic.
I park my truck and walk toward the garage, but then I notice a weird white box on my front porch. Actually, there’s three of them.
United States Postal Service is printed in blue on the side, and suddenly I know exactly what this is. My blood runs colder than the winter air outside.
My legs shake as I walk closer to the bins that are filled to the top with envelopes. Some are plain white, some are decorated or printed on fancy stationary. All of them are addressed to Santa Claus.
I take a shuddering step backward. It feels like I’ve been punched in the face with the memory of my mom. I can’t believe I forgot about this. It’s been a Christmas tradition since before I was ever born.
Our town is so small that years ago, my mom arranged to be the official Santa for all letters that get mailed to him in our town. She would spend hours every night handwriting replies to each and every kid. Our entire dining room would be filled with letters during this time of year. The local newspaper wrote an article about her once, calling her Mrs. Claus.
I guess no one told the post office that my mom passed away. And now I’m stuck with this huge pile of pain that only makes me miss her more.
I take a deep breath and grit my teeth. Sorry kids. There won’t be a reply this year. Maybe it’s better if they learn now that Santa isn’t real. It’ll help them prepare for the real world where everything sucks. Where moms die and dads disappear for months at a time.
