“Let’s make her day then, dude.”
Little does he know he’s already made mine a million times over.
Chapter 26
FaceTime from Momblinks on my phone screen.
It’s late afternoon and I’m reading over my to-do list. Hector went out on some rides, noticing his dwindling bank account thanks to the time off from the bookstore. Gala prep has been pushed back to the evening. With the stage dressing set, the tables placed, and the lights in progress, we need to make headway on my special exhibitions.
I press Ignore. It’s not like me to avoid Mom, but Hector and I promised we’d keep our focus squarely on us and the gala. No family drama. I’m sticking to that.
Grandma rolls in, a blustery wind whipping at her backside. She slams the door to keep the draft from invading the snug warmth of the house. She looks swept. Her hair is pointing out in all different, funny angles and her tote bags are stuffed to the point of overflowing.
“Do you need some help?” I ask. It’s early for her to be home.
“Winter up here is always so persnickety. You’re walking a hiking trail midspring and it’s like your mind wipes the slate of all the chilly winter memories and then you’re hit with a snow squall in December and it all comes rushing back to you,” she says. I take her multitude of tote bags and bring them over to an empty chair at the table.
“What is all of this?”
“Take a look,” she says knowingly. Inside is a plethora of old photo albums, pharmacy one-hour photo envelopes, CDs, and flash drives. “Jessica at the library helped me. Jack had some at his place too. I collected them for you.”
“You didn’t have to do all that,” I say, touched.
She pats my back with such tenderness. “Least I could do for how hard you’re working.”
When I sprawl the contents across the table, I’m faced with a multitude of photographs from galas past. What I assumed was some sad town affair turns out to be an elegant celebration. You can tell the decade by the haircuts and outfit choices—colors, dress cuts, tie-and-cummerbund combos. One of the photos, dated from the nineties, even has the look and feel of my masquerade fantasy. Everyone is wearing a red or green mask.
“That year’s theme was a literal Secret Santa,” Grandma says with a laugh. “Hard to keep up the mystique when you know all your neighbors.” She plucks a weighty scrapbook from the bottom of a bunch. “Thought you might be interested in this one.”
On one of the back pages is a photo of Mom at twelve years old standing on a stage in front of a microphone and holding a small spiral-bound notebook in her hands. “She’d written a story about a Christmas heist. A jolly, Grinch-like thief was stealing all the Christmas decorations around town.”
“I didn’t peg Mom for a plagiarist,” I say. Her books may be full of well-loved fantasy tropes, but they always have original twists. Creativity is the one trait Mom possesses in droves.
“Oh no. The thief didn’t steal them to cancel Christmas,” Grandma clarifies. “The thief felt the townsfolk had become disconnected, so they took it upon themselves to create a massive Christmas celebration for everyone as a surprise. The decorations had been repurposed for the good of the many.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Sounds almost prophetic, doesn’t it?” Grandma asks, pinching the cheek closest to her. I don’t pull away. The pain is worth the closeness curling up inside me. “Your help has been a blessing.”
Who am I right now? If I’d had a LinkedIn before coming here,helpingwould not have been on my list of special skills. Now, it seems like it’s all I want to do. Maybe the indestructible self I thought I’d cultivated back in Manhattan was just as breakable as every other person’s.
I glance back down at the photo, take in Mom’s short stature and dark-blond hair. “Do you miss her?” I ask Grandma.
“Haven’t seen her in ages, but she calls on occasion.” It’s obvious from her answer that she’s not understanding me.
“No.” I point to the girl in the picture. “Do you missher?” I realize I was right. When I arrived and saw Mom’s faces in the dusty photo frames, I couldn’t reconcile her with the woman I know from New York. The woman who raised me. That’s because they’re two halves of a whole person, one whom I’ve never met.
Grandma’s mouth is immobile, but her eyes are cast downward. “Sometimes, but that’s what being a parent is—watching a person grow and learning to accept them for who they become.” She grabs my hands over the book, squeezing them. “When your mother asked if she could send you here, I felt hope for the first time that a door—no, maybe not even a door—maybe a window into our life was reopening.” She swipes away the tears before they fall. “Here,” she says, reaching for another book and changing the subject.
The next photo she produces is one from a dirty paper envelope. She shuffles until she sees the image that erases any evidence of upset. Upon peeking, I spot an unforgettable face. It’s young me—probably eight or so, pre–Mom’s books—wearing a wrinkled white robe, holding a folder of sheet music.
“I convinced your mother to come home for one Christmas before her book was published. She’d signed her deal, and I had this inkling that everything was about to change. Call it mother’s intuition or what have you.” She hands the photo to me. “Gramps and I would never miss a gala, so we got the three of you tickets and when we arrived early, you bawled when you saw the children’s choir rehearsing. You wanted so badly to take part. You were sensitive, and it was sweet, so I convinced the director to lend you an extra robe and stick you in the back. You joined the rest of the kiddos for ‘Jingle Bells.’”
A hazy memory blooms in my brain.
“You only knew the Ella Fitzgerald version of the song, and since you didn’t have time to look over the sheet music with the group before the big performance, at the end you shouted, ‘I’m just crazy about horses!’ Like she does in her rendition,” Grandma says with utter joy. “The whole place was roaring with laughter. You got so red and slipped right off the risers. Your mother nearly had a heart attack thinking you’d hurt yourself. It was the very last Christmas you and your parents spent up here.”
The heat of embarrassment is outweighed by the burden of an uncovered past.
