It was only the first of December. How was I possibly going to live through twenty-four more days of enforced jolliness without cracking? Twenty-four days of being called a grinch, of trying not to buckle under the spoken and unspoken pressure to not ruin Christmas for the girls by letting the cheerful façade slip.
That pressure wasn’t just from my husband. My best friend, Penny, who lived right next door, was almost as bad. Though she and her wife, Louise, called themselves tree-hugging, earth-goddess-loving pagans, she was right up there with Mark with the holiday cheer. The two of them were thick as thieves this time of year. I loved them both, but I couldn’t wait for our household’s Yuletide spirit to wane. And, to add insult to injury, I received a nice royalty check twice a year from my most successful project as an artist: the children’s book I’d done three years ago,Moxie Saves Christmas. It was a simple but cheerful story about a homeless black Lab—modeled after our own Moxie, of course—who showed a stressed-out, busy family the true meaning of Christmas. I’d illustrated it with my woodcuts, simple black-and-white prints I thenhand-colored in places. The book, which I’d printed myself in a limited number for family and friends, took off. People shared it. Word got out. Orders poured in. I had more copies printed, and before I knew it, I was approached by a publisher who offered me more money than I would have believed possible—exponentially more than I’d ever made selling cards and prints at local shops and galleries. At the urging of my more successful artist friends, I found an agent and soon had a two-book contract:Moxie Saves Christmasand the follow-up I’d promised,Moxie Saves Halloween. And just like that, with one simple picture book that was only supposed to be a last-minute gift for family and friends, I was permanently linked to the holiday I couldn’t stand.
Holidays in general had not been cause for celebration when I was growing up; they filled me with anxiety and dread, which had sunk their roots down deep. At least the second book under contract featured a holiday I did like. And our older daughter, Izzy, a fan of anything even remotely ghoulish, was excited by the Halloween book. At sixteen, my young goth wasn’t especially easy to impress, so anything that brought us closer was something to celebrate. Now all I had to do was finish the project.
TheBoston Globehad come to do a feature on me two years ago, taking lots of photos of me and Moxie in my studio and, of course, in front of the Christmas tree. Mark had gone all-out decorating before they’d arrived. I cringed when I read the article—the way the reporter had described our house asa magical winter wonderland complete with dancing sugarplums, antique glass ornaments, and pine garlands filling the house with the scent of the forest.
“You must love Christmas,” the reporter had said.
And I had clenched my teeth and given a big smile. “Why, yes,” I lied. “Yes, I do.”
I’m a gifted liar.
Mark had started a goofy tradition of buying one special ornament each year that was supposed to symbolize our lives in some way. Thatfirst year, it was a graduation cap. Each year it was something new: baby’s first Christmas when Izzy was born, a little house to celebrate when we bought the farmhouse, a stork when I was pregnant with Olivia, a black Lab the year we adopted Moxie. He was always on the lookout at craft fairs or when we went on vacation, always searching for new ornaments and trinkets to add to the ever-growing collection.
Now our entire attic was stuffed with boxes of them, and a corner of the basement as well. When Mark asked if we could store some of the bigger pieces in my studio, I’d put my foot down. The small barn out back wasn’t only my printmaking studio—it was the one place that was mine and mine alone. Penny was one of the few people I let visit without permission. The house rule was that no one was allowed to come disturb me there when I was working. The barn was a chaotic jumble of tables, the antique printing press I used, all my tools, tubes of ink, and drawing supplies. The walls were covered with tacked-up sketches and prints. The barn was my refuge. No Christmas decorations allowed.
“What happened?” Mark asked now as he eyed the broken angel. His tone was slightly accusatory, as if I might have thrown the poor unsuspecting angel onto the floor and stomped on it. His gaze moved from the ornament’s head in my hand to the shards scattered across the floor like bits of crushed ice.
He had not once fallen for the ruse of me being the Christmas Queen. He saw me for who I truly was and somehow loved me in spite of it.
“I was up on the ladder and it just slipped out of my hand.” I gave him an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry I’m such a klutz.”
The angel had been from his childhood. When his parents died, Mark inherited all of their Christmas decorations (as if we really needed more), and he delighted in opening the boxes each year, regaling me and the girls with the story behind each one.
“That angel came from a trip my parents took to Germany,” he reminded me, looking like he might actually cry, blinking his long brown lashes.
He was wearing his day-off uniform: Levi’s and a flannel button-down—red and green, for Decorating Day. His face was a little flushed from his many trips up and down the stairs. He was nearly forty-five years old, and I’d known him since he was nineteen—over half our lives. Sometimes I still saw traces of that skinny, wide-eyed boy I’d met at a party freshman year at UVM who had books of poetry stuffed in his coat pockets.
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
And I was. Sorry I’d destroyed a memory of his happy childhood. That I was ruining Christmas already.
My cell phone rang in the other room. It was plugged into the charger in the kitchen. “I’d better grab that,” I said, relieved to have an excuse to walk away. I hurried to answer it. Probably Penny, calling to borrow something.
When I grabbed my phone and glanced down at the screen, I wished I hadn’t run to answer it. Consoling Mark about the broken German angel was a thousand times better than this. I contemplated not picking up, but I knew he’d call back, so it was best to get it over with.
“Hi, Paul,” I said, trying to sound as chipper as possible. “How are you?”
“Hi, Alison. I’m… okay.” He didn’t sound okay, though. He sounded tired. “And you? I hope you and Mark and the girls are well?”
Paul had been my mother’s assistant for over fifteen years now, handling every aspect of her business and personal life. He arranged her travel, interviews, gallery and museum events, and all sales of her artwork. Paul even sent me and my brother cards on Christmas and our birthdays, signedLove, Momin handwriting that was clearly not hers. He lived in the carriage house on her property in Woodstock and was always by her side, regardless of which city or exhibition.
She would be lost without him. And he, I knew, would be lost without her. In fact, he had been in a pretty bad way before she took him in. They’d first met at an AA meeting, where Paul, who’d come from nothing and sunk himself into heavy drinking at a young age, ended up after losing his hundredth contract job as a construction worker after onetoo many benders. I was concerned when my mother informed me she’d hired a complete stranger as a spare hand around her home and studio, but she laughed at my worries, said I didn’t understand AA culture, the bond they shared.
She’d eventually helped Paul to get his GED and associate’s degree, mentoring him with care to become her full-time assistant. I’d enjoyed watching his transformation over the years, from a guy in a ripped Carhartt jacket who wouldn’t meet your eyes when you talked to him to a self-assured, worldly man who ran my mother’s life and business and wore custom-tailored suits. He spoke of my mother like she was his hero, his savior. Her world had become his life.
“We’re all fine,” I said to Paul now, dreading whatever was coming next. From time to time, he called to extend an olive branch (something I was sure was entirely his doing and had not come directly from my mother), inviting me to a party or event, telling me my mother would be thrilled if I could attend. I never did these days; I always managed to come up with a perfectly reasonable excuse: sick kids, work deadlines, other obligations. “I wish I could,” I’d say. “Please send Mother my regrets.”
I used to go. Back when I let myself believe my mother might genuinely want me there. Back when I let myself hope that it might be possible for us to have a more normal mother-daughter relationship.
I remembered the last event of hers I’d attended—an opening at a gallery in New York about five years ago. Paul had insisted that I come, telling me it would “mean the world” to my mother if I did. So I’d bought a nice dress, new shoes, even had my hair cut. I took the train down to the city, and when I got to the gallery and caught my mother’s eye, she’d looked mystified. “Alison? What on earth are you doing here?” she’d asked. I stammered out an explanation, that Paul had invited me. “I see,” she’d said, angry eyes searching the room for him. “Well, you might as well help yourself to some wine.” Then she’d scooted off to talk with a small group of sleek, sophisticated art appreciators who, within seconds, were all laughing at some charming thing she’d said.
I ended up sullenly drinking three glasses of wine while I watched her work her way through the crowd, seemingly doing all she could to keep as much distance as possible between us. I’d studied her paintings: an unsettling series of landscapes with anatomical parts tucked in here and there—a tree with lungs, a lake with a terrifying mouth and stomach, a mountain covered in eyes. I’d felt like an idiot, in my frumpy outfit that seemed so fancy when I’d gotten dressed at home in Vermont. Paul had made himself scarce and didn’t reply to my furious texts. I slipped out of the gallery without saying good-bye to either of them.
“Alison, the reason I’m calling…” He paused. “It’s your mother.”
Well, obviously. Christ. What was he going to invite me to now? A cruise? A mother-daughter spa day in Saratoga?
