Page 9 of Back Home For Christmas

“Yes, a feeling that they want to own the items on display. A feeling like the things littering my table are the things that will fill the hole in their lives. Our job as the designers of this space, Cat Scratch,” he said in his condescending tone as I quietly raged over the use of my old nickname. “Is to answer the question of what is missing? Create that Instagram perfect image that will draw them in and make them buy.”

Frustratingly, I didn’t disagree with him entirely, which made me want to ball up my fists and punch him. But the way he described it was so cold and austere. I had a different way of getting approaching customers to spend their hard-earned money. I wanted to provide something for them that they wouldn’t get otherwise.

“I think it is really tacky to turn my parent’s store into a consumerist money grab,” I said.

“It is a store, Kitty. Of course, it is about consumerism,” he said. “I may be in the finance industry now, but I got my undergrad in marketing and spent enough time in that world to know. It’s all about the four P’s of marketing; product, price, placement, promotion. The feelings come in only to satisfy those four things.”

“No, it isn’t. If you think that this store is just about making money, then you don’t know my parents at all, and you shouldn’t be anywhere near this booth,” I said.

He lifted his eyebrows and looked at me with pity.

“Don’t,” I said, holding up a finger and waving it threateningly in his face. He had several inches, if not a full foot, of height on me, so I had to stretch my arm a bit. I watched as he almost smiled, which only made my own lips dip further into a frown. I let out a little growl. “Do not pity me. Do not patronize me and absolutely do not laugh at me.”

His full lips formed a line with great effort on his part as he nodded. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “But…”

“Nope!” I waved my finger again, but he enclosed my hand in his large fist and pushed it back down between us without releasing my gaze. He didn’t let go of my hand until it was firmly at my side. What the fuck is going on? I thought.

I needed to walk.

I turned on my heels without a word to Jay and headed out of the booth, but then I wasn’t sure where I wanted to go. The chill in the air did feel like the precursor to snow and my fingers, which had burned where Jay held them, were starting to feel numb without gloves. So, I turned into the shop. Maybe I would find some inspiration there.

The warmth hit me like a wall, and I let myself relax just a little. I walked the shop and thought about nostalgia, joy and what made Christmas so special to me. Some people would say family, but for me, that wasn’t the whole picture. There was an innocence to it, an anticipation. If I had answered that question four years ago, it would involve magic and creativity and my photography, but I worked hard to wall off that whole part of myself. If Jay could hear my inner dialogue at that moment, he would laugh and tell me I was over thinking it, or at least thinking about it in the wrong way.

Ugh! Why was I letting him get to me? I hated that he had that power over me. How the hell would I get through the next few days? I was supposed to be focused on my essay. It was my one and only ticket to a real life, a life away from the crazy of my family or the shop or the mediocrity that everyone expected of me. I had worked so hard just to come to the end and find myself unable to finish. Before settling on a predictable and stable life of psychology, I had all kinds of dreams that I followed with ardent dedication. No matter how much my parents had told me there was no money or future or safety in photography, I ignored them. There was rarely a moment without a camera in front of my face. I took pictures of everything, but my biggest inspiration was the beach with my parent’s shop being a close second. It was the last time I had felt like myself.

When my entries for the scholarship contest had been defaced, a little piece of me died. My chance at a scholarship vanished instantly, but more than that, my ability to withstand my parent’s constant brow beatings around my ambitions and a practical future crumbled. I put my camera away and never took it out again. I tried to get excited about the prospects of going off to college, getting a degree, and finding independence, but that high didn’t last long as the grueling reality of paying my way through school set in.

Somewhere along the way, my ticket to freedom felt more like a prison. Self-doubt and imposter syndrome became my constant companions as I found myself shying away from challenges and struggling to complete assignments.

I had to face the possibility that shutting down and giving up was just my M.O. Because now, I had that same knot of doubt in my stomach as I thought about the booth, something that had come so easily and carefree only four years ago, felt like a monumental task. Was this what it meant to be an adult? Crippling self-doubt and an inability to get anything done? If so, I didn’t think it was for me.

“You seem pretty mad at those Christmas ducks,” Jay said, making me jump out of my skin with a shriek.

“Jesus Christ!” I shouted. Somewhere in my depressive self-pity spiral, I had stopped in front of a display of Christmas rubber ducks. I must have been scowling at them as I thought through all of my issues.

“Shhhh, he’ll hear you,” Jay said, pointing to little baby Jesus in a manger display. My lips threatened to pull into a smile before I put a stop to it. Alright, that was kind of funny, but I wouldn’t give Jay the satisfaction!

“Why are you following me?” I asked.

“I’m not following you. I am working on my display, and I was worried you might murder some ducks, so I thought I should step in.”

“No, not ducks. Just you,” I said with a scowl, but it only seemed to amuse him more. Why was he always laughing at me? I shook my head. “I’m taking a break.”

Chapter Nine

My break turned into taking the rest of the evening off. I walked the shops from one end to the other, trying to recapture the feeling I always got as a kid at that time of year. Letting the lights, music, and joyful shoppers fill my soul with a little hope and happiness. When I was younger, it had been so much easier to let go. The stars seemed to align, giving me a sense of both self and purpose that I hadn’t been able to reclaim since.

I felt better by the time I had finished my walk, as I made a silent promise to myself to reconnect with whatever spark remained inside of me that guided my passions, although I was nowhere near ready to take pictures again, I would finish my essay, design the booth, impress my family and show up Jay. I had visions of Jay standing dumbfounded, his mouth hanging open in shock and awe at the pure genius of my booth design. It was silly, but it made my steps a little lighter, and left me feeling like maybe, just maybe, I could pull it all off. There was still hope.

When I got home, the smell of burning pine and cedar met me before I even walked up the front steps as smoke plumed from the chimney. The familiar warmth of home and Christmas bolstered the hope I had fostered on my walk. Inside, I unwound my scarf, hung up my coat, and pulled off my boots. “Santa Claus is Coming to Town,” by Bruce Springsteen played over the ancient speaker system in the living room. A fire crackled, the tree lights twinkled, and the smell of something comforting and delicious drifted from the kitchen. I teleported back to the best moments of my upbringing as I curled up on the couch, letting all of my problems melt away.

I turned on the TV, flipping through the channels like I used to do. My parents had most of the streaming services but hadn’t been able to cut the cord with cable. So, I could still turn on the Hallmark Channel and watch a sappy Christmas movie, which played twenty-four seven so close to Christmas. They were playing Serendipity, which was one of my favorites. It brought me instantly back to my childhood when my mom would watch it with teary eyes on repeat along with Love Actually, The Holiday and a couple of classics like It’s a Wonderful Life and Miracle on 34th Street. Mom, like me, had a tendency to prefer sappy romances. John Cusack wasn’t my favorite love interest. I normally got weak in the knees for Collin Firth, but likely that was because of my love of the 1995 Pride and Prejudice.

“What I don’t get,” Jay’s voice broke through my peace like a rock through a windowpane.

“Everything,” I grumbled. He stood behind the couch with his hands in his pockets, stripped off his heavy coat, so his tight t-shirt could show off his muscles again, equipped with those sexy veins guys sometimes had. Before answering, he came around the front of the couch and sat down on the far end, where I had stretched out my feet, so I could lie down. I had to pull them up tight against me before he put his whole-body weight on them.

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug.

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