As Christmas carols piped through the speakers, I worked my tables with a smile and a red bow pinned to my vest. From a distance, I watched other families celebrating, sharing and experiencing a special day together. I tucked the notion in the back of my mind that this was how families were supposed to be—spending time together, tossing back champagne and clinking their glasses, then tossing back some more. Little boys and girls clanked mugs of hot cocoa filled with marshmallows, high on their own drug—sugar.
Festivity cloaked the room like a heavy winter parka; there was no escaping it. Although the alcohol-infused orange juice in the room didn’t bother me, I was rattled by the sentimentality of it all. I couldn’t escape the pinch of pain in my chest while bearing witness to something I’d never had nor probably ever would. The occasional children’s laughter that rang out was the only salve to my pain. After all, how could anyone deny a child the experience of Christmas Day?
After cleaning up and resetting the room from brunch, I was able to take a short break. I hid in the kitchen, having a bite to eat before dinner service began. Ernesto went home after the last pan of French toast made its way out. Before he left, he kissed me on the cheek and wished me a merry Christmas. It was one of the nicest gestures I’d ever experienced.
It wasn’t like we didn’t celebrate as I was growing up; we did. After mom left, Dad would send his current secretary out to buy me a few “girl things” for Christmas. There were nameless Barbies, cardigans with tiny crystals sewn on the collars, and vanity sets. After Christmas, I would throw them all in the corner. I didn’t really know what to do with any of that junk since I didn’t have a mom. But I always pretended to be excited and sought comfort in my dad’s hug following my attempt at a heartfelt reaction. After all, it was my one chance at affection all year long.
Dad didn’t cook, so we always were invited over to that secretary’s house for dinner. Every year it was someone different; he’d go through a few of them from one holiday to the next. We would eat, and then I would watch my dad and his secretary celebrate under the mistletoe.
At some point in my mid-teens, I opted to work holidays for time-and-a-half at the local drugstore, which ironically, was how I funded my first bad habit—booze—a much better way to forget my lack of a mother than work. And an easy way to lure a fumbling yet warm teenage boy into my arms to give me the affection I craved.
Caffeinated and nourished, I made my way out to the restaurant for the dinner service. The buffet had been taken away and the elaborately set tables arranged for us to serve a five-course holiday meal. More families dressed in their Christmas outfits filed in, different from the ones we’d served breakfast to. But like the breakfast crowd, they oohed and aahed at the festive decor and ambience.
After wishing each and every table a happy holiday and taking beverage orders, I went to collect drinks from the bar. This was the reason why I tried not to work too many dinners. The back and forth to the bar, the anxiety over the smells and seduction of the many burgundy and amber-hued liquids, and the guilt of being an innocent participant in someone else’s problem, all of it meant I normally stuck to serving breakfast and lunch. But I made an exception for a holiday.
Sidling up to the bar where the drinks for the restaurant came out, I pulled out my tablet to take a quick peek at the menu. Without looking up, I said, “Hey, Robbie. What’s up?” The bar area was quiet; after all, who opted to spend Christmas alone other than me?
I heard, “Happy holidays, Bess. Not much. Nice to see you on a dinner shift,” over the clinking of glasses.
Yeah, I guess.
Then I had the strangest feeling as an indescribable warmth coated me. It started in the center of my chest, radiating its way outward until I was fully covered in a fine sheen of sweat.
And then I heard it.
“Hi, Bess. Merry Christmas.”
The heat source had come closer. It was now sitting on the end stool, its breath so close, I could feel it on my skin, singeing me. But it wasn’t anit. It was a he.
I looked up and my eyes met his. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Wrigley.”
“Lane,” he quickly corrected me.
“Merry Christmas, Lane. What are you doing here?” I asked rudely with no regard for his feelings, or the fact that I was at work and he did business with my employer.
“Well, that’s a bit complicated,” he said right before Robbie interrupted him, shoving a large tray of drinks my way.
God bless Robbie.
“Oh well, happy holidays again,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry, but I have to get back to work.” Averting my eyes, I picked up my tray and walked away as his heated gaze burned my back. I didn’t dare turn and look, but with every step, I felt like I was running away from home.
And then the smell of whiskey raced up my nose, chasing any warm and fuzzy feelings I might have away. Desperate to get away from the temptation—of both kinds—I hurried to deliver the beverages.
