What was Patrick thinking bringing up the Santa conundrum with his family? Obviously he didn’t say it by name, but we haven’teven discussed the matter yet. To speak about it so openly makes me think he’s preemptively making the decision for us. We’re supposed to be a team.
I take a cleansing breath, not wanting the anger toward Patrick to cloud my conversation with Mom.
“My break got pushed up. It’s busy as anything here today,” Mom says. I imagine her in that food court from my childhood, nursing a coffee and a donut. Maybe the donut’s even got red and green sprinkles on it. It’s a bit of Christmas spirit to get her through the shift.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I sit down at the tiny desk in the corner of our bedroom. The chair creaks like it’s protesting my weight on it, as if it weren’t designed for this exact purpose. This house, these things. I swear I could go mad here.
“Oh, don’t be sorry.” She’s talking with her mouth full, but I can still make out every word. I’ve had practice with this. “Better to be busy than bored out of my mind. People tip better on holidays anyway. I could use the money.”
I grab my planner from the corner of the desk and double-check the date I penciled Mom’s visit in on. “If you need any help with gas money to get here on Thursday, Pat and I are happy to pitch in.”
“Oh, damn, was thatthisThursday?” I wish I didn’t hear the rehearsed performativity in her question.
I nod even though she can’t see me. “Uh-huh.”
“Crap. Journee’s daughter just had a baby, and I promised her I’d cover her shifts for the rest of the week while she went to New York to visit. I can’t go back on that.”
“Of course. I understand. Another time.” It’s a refrain I know by heart. Disappointment pinwheels around my heart.
“Come visit me instead! Before you go back for the second half of the school year. It’s been ages since we’ve gone out on the town together.”
The first word to come to mind when I describe Mom isfreewheeling.Even in her midforties, Mom is still more interested in long road trips and driving too fast with the top down in a carthat has had the check engine light on for months. She still loves sipping electric-colored mixed drinks from massive plastic cups with glow-in-the-dark bendy straws while some up-and-coming DJ spins a headache-inducing set. We don’t have similar visions of what R&R look like.
“I don’t think Patrick could get off of work for us to make that happen.” It’s a flimsy excuse because Patrick is now permanently off work, but she doesn’t know that.
“Patrick doesn’t always need to be there.” Her words are clipped. I think, in her perfect world, it would still be just me and her, a ragtag team like we used to be. I don’t think she’s ever made peace with the fact that college, teaching, and a long-term relationship have changed me.
In my most private moments, I worry that she doesn’t like who I’ve become, this grown-up version of me.
When I’m too tongue-tied to think up something to say to that, she sighs. “It was just an idea. I’ll come up soon, I promise.”
She’s not coming. I add a tally to the Move to the North Pole column in my mind.
“Have you spoken to your father yet today?” Her question provokes an eye roll.
After the divorce and the move, I saw Dad one weekend a month until he moved to Nevada. I was quiet during those visits, always sticking to the outskirts of any activity. Dad was starting a new family. It was the one he’d always envisioned, where he had a brood of boys who all played and excelled at baseball—the sport of his obsession and his golden years.
The first Christmas card they sent from Nevada with all of them wearing matching sweaters despite the heat nearly broke my heart from how perfect it was. How I would never have that.
“No, I’m sure he’s busy. Maybe I’ll call in a few days.” It’s a lie. I know I won’t. Depending on how the conversation with Patrick goes later, I may be moving tonight. I doubt I’ll get good cell service in the North Pole.
“Okay.” I hear the crinkle of a wrapper on her end. “My break’s just about done. Send my love to Pat, okay? Don’t eat too many cookies.”
If only she knew how many I ingested last night alone.
“I’ll try not to. Love you.”
“Love you, too, my baby.”
After we hang up, I don’t go back down to dinner right away.
I exhale and lounge back in the chair, swiping through my phone. Other people’s picture-perfect Christmases hog my Instagram feed. I barely post these days given that parents are apt to search their kids’ teachers before a new school year. I don’t need someone outraged over me wearing a tank top in public. Heaven forbid a teacher havearms.
I open my text thread with Veronica and type:Another stellar Christmas phone call with Shelby Muller. How’s Cate Blanchett?
Veronica:Still the only mother we’ll ever need
Jk, my mom is great
