Page 5 of Back Home For Christmas

“I thought you were in charge now.”

“I’m just the money and marketing guy,” he said, holding up his hands. I fell back on the bed, staring up at the Billie Eilish and Lana Del Ray posters from when I fancied myself an emo pop girlie. “Not like the other girls,” I thought to myself. But here I was, more like “the other girls” than the other girls themselves. That didn’t make any sense, but I understood what I meant—there was nothing special or unique about me. I used to cling to my weirdness like a goddamn suit of armor, only to realize in my early twenties that I only ever wanted to be liked and valued. I sighed.

“That’s a big sigh,” Darren said, standing and patting my knee. “I’ll leave you to your wallowing, but don’t be long. There’s much to do.”

When the door closed, I didn’t move for at least five minutes, taking deep breaths and dreading what would inevitably come next. I picked up a discarded crocheting project that I must have started before I left home and didn’t bother to bring with me. I smiled as I ran my fingers over the chunky red and green knit, I knew would make a coffee cozy once finished. Before leaving home, I had just picked up the hobby, with aspirations of selling my Christmasy wares in the store. I could make hats, scarves, gloves, coffee cozies, plush toys, and everything could have Cape Shore or Winter Wonderland embroidered on it. When my photography had crashed and burned, I looked for a new creative outlet.

I knew it wouldn’t make me much income, but to my stressed-out teenage brain, it sounded like a lot of fun. Of course, my parents had gently shit on the idea like they did with all things. Asking things like, “Are you sure you can make them look professional?” “Will it be worth your time?” “How much could we really charge?” Once those subtle digs kept coming, the crocheting didn’t have the same allure.

My fingers moved with muscle memory as I picked up the project now. I didn’t have to sell my coffee cozy to enjoy it. So, I let my mind wander as my hook moved in and out of the loops over and over. I thought about my photography. I had really thought there was a future there. Unlike my crochet work, I had consistently sold framed photographs at the shop. All of them beach or holiday themed that the tourists seemed to eat up. I tried not to think about it often because it broke my heart all over again every time it came to mind.

“Catherine!” My mom’s voice came up the stairs as if she stood right next to me. “How long are you staying up there?”

“Coming,” I said, finishing the little project and stuffing it into the pocket of my leggings. I pulled my oversized sweater off and put on a bra and a red and green Christmas cable knit crop on, and traded my yoga pants for jeans. Maybe if I dressed the part, my mom would forget about the smock.

Chapter Five

“Come on,” she said. “I don’t remember you always being this slow. What did college teach you?”

“That the slower I go, the less I have to see anyone?”

“Catherine,” my mother said with a warning tone. “Your father and brother are already at the shop. You know this is the busiest time of year.”

“And yet, you managed just fine for four Christmases without me,” I said as I pulled on my coat.

“Not by choice. It still hurts that you didn’t come back once during your time away at school. I really thought you were going to be home last June,” she said, her voice loaded with judgement.

“I’m sorry, mom. I wanted to, but I was so busy with my classes and working.”

“And how is all of that going?” Despite not coming back, I had talked to my mom nearly every week. She had a pretty good sense of how things were going, although for the last few months, I had stayed as vague as possible. “Your essay is due at the end of break, right?”

“Yes, that is why I should be doing that instead of working at the shop.” My mom pulled open the front door and let the biting cold sweep into the living room. I pulled a scarf down from the top of the closet and wrapped it tightly around my neck and face.

“I think snow is coming! Hopefully, it will be a white Christmas!” She said, stepping onto the front porch and ignoring my last statement. She had a unique talent for only talking about the subjects she wanted to.

“Hopefully not before we get the booth ready for the open market,” I said before stopping halfway out the door. How did she do that? Here I was making her problems my problems, talking like setting up the booth was my responsibility. I shook my head and kept walking a few steps behind my mom.

My booth design was one of the rare things that she and Dad had ever praised me for when I was younger, so inevitably it became my job every year. The open market ran for only a day, leading up to the Christmas Eve parade that traveled down Main Street and through the pedestrian shopping strip, which ended with a big town wide party in the Convention Hall. One day didn’t normally make or break our season, but it was a pretty huge part of our sales. Each shop set up their booth along the strip, so tourists felt like they were walking through an old-timey Christmas market. It was a pain in the ass and we froze our butts off, but it brought in a ton of money, so setting up the booth in an eye-catching way to draw in customers was important.

When we rounded the corner and the storefront and wooden supports of the stall out front came into view, my heart actually warmed. Traitor. I wasn’t supposed to be this happy to be back, but the store was like a second home. I had spent so much time there in my youth, and there was something magical about the warm glow spreading out from the storefront window set to “Last Christmas” by Wham! Someone had set up a little scene around a Christmas tree with a menagerie of assorted stuffed animals stringing lights, hanging ornaments and wrapping presents in the window. I was a sucker for Christmas, despite my cold, angry, bitter heart.

Mom pulled open the door, and we stepped into the evergreen and cinnamon scented store with a train chugging along a track in the ceiling, animatronic ballerinas, and blinking candy canes. It was garish and over the top, but that was exactly how I liked it. As much as I hated to admit it, I was like my mom in that way.

I walked a slow circle around the edge of the store, noting the small changes back dropped by the familiar staples from my youth. Much like the booth, I had had a hand in the decoration and design of the store. My parents appreciated my eye for the Christmas aesthetic that was just right in enticing people to buy little holiday trinkets in the high heat of August.

Now, there were a few places with bigger changes, where the uniqueness of our shop seemed to be replaced with generic standards of modern day shopping. As if we were trying to mimic bigger name brand stores with personality deficient products. I shrugged. It wasn’t my problem, right? I was sure that Darren had a hand in that after his one size fits all marketing degree tried to teach him that one size fits all marketing sold products.

“Shop looks good,” I told my mom once I had made a full circle.

“Thanks dear,” she said. “Can you grab that box, and we will bring it out to the booth? There is so much to do out there.” She pointed to a large Tupperware container that I was sure held the outside decorations, or at least some of them. I picked it up and followed her out.

Outside, the booth’s skeleton had been erected in painted wood posts and a covered ceiling. There was a table stretching directly across the front of the booth between the poles.

“Wait, mom, this isn’t set up right,” I said, pointing to the table. “We can’t have a table here.”

“You’ll have to talk to Jay about it.”

“Jay?” I asked. It was so cold, my breath fogged in front of my face. “Why would I talk to Jay?” I didn’t bother adding that I never felt the need to talk to Jay again in my lifetime. Even if I had to sit across from him at Christmas dinner, I vowed to judge him without speaking a word.

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