Page 8 of Her Counterfeit Christmas
Talking about work is kind of a downer anyway. “Do you have fun plans for Christmas?”
“My roommates and I don’t have family nearby to spendChristmas with this year, so we’re spending it together.” She pauses. “I’m excited, but sad. It will be a different kind of Christmas. My grandpa was from Germany, and we have a bunch of traditions that won’t happen. With my nana’s memory issues, my celebration with her will be complicated.”
I didn’t expect talking about Christmas to make her sad, and I try to lighten her expression.
“Do your traditions include hiding a pickle ornament? I had a college roommate who said it was a German thing.”
She laughs as she leans her head against the headrest and looks past me, her eyes distant as if she’s remembering the past. “The first Christmas my grandparents were married, my nana found a glass pickle ornament at some store that claimed it was a German tradition to hide the pickle on the tree on Christmas Eve. Whoever found it first had good luck the following year. She brought the pickle home but Opa had never heard of such a silly thing and swore it wasn’t German. Nana didn’t care. Every Christmas Eve, she hid the pickle, and every year while I searched the tree, he sat in the corner looking grumpy. Yet he’s the one who always gave me an extra gift for finding it.”
Her grandparents sound quite different from mine—approachable and warm.
“Are you going to hide the Christmas pickle this year with your roommates?”
She shrugs, a smile dancing across her lips. “I hadn’t planned on it, but I should. It would be nice to have some serious competition. It’s difficult to find a green pickle in a green tree, but when I’m the only one looking, there’s no sense of urgency.”
Our fries arrive with a dozen little tubs of ketchup on a tray. He took Layla seriously when she asked for lots of ketchup, but this is overkill.
I put the tray on the console between us. The second it’s down, Greta tries to reach it, her nose quivering like she’s tracking prey.
I raise my elbow to keep her back. “Sorry. I meant to give her a bone before the fries arrived and got distracted.”
Easy to do when Layla’s talking to me. I could listen to her for hours. It isn’t just her singing voice that’s lyrical. Except now I need to get into the glove compartment to grab Greta’s bone. A little awkward to get that close to Layla’s legs during our first conversation.
I point. “Will you grab the marrow bone from the glove compartment?”
“Oh, sure.”
Greta forgets all about the fries when Layla gives her the bone. She takes it to the back of the car and hunches over it like she’s afraid I’ll steal it back.
Layla takes a fry and scoops the ketchup like it’s salsa. Odd. To each their own, I guess.
“What else do you do for Christmas?” I ask. “I’m not familiar with German traditions.”
“We celebrate Christmas on Christmas Eve, not Christmas day. On Christmas Eve, we decorated the tree with candles, bird ornaments, and glass balls Opa brought from Germany. I spent the rest of the day looking for the pickle Nana hid. Dinner was always blutwurst sausages, hard rolls, sauerkraut, and mashed potatoes with curry gravy over everything. Then we read the nativity from the Bible, sang Christmas songs, and opened our presents.”
She dips her next fry and licks the ketchup off her fingers. It draws my attention to her lips. I make myself look away.
“You open gifts on Christmas Eve?” I clarify. “Isn’t that a letdown for Christmas day?”
She laughs. “Never. It was weird to me as a kid when I found out my friends at school waited until Christmas morning for their gifts.”
“Then what did you do on Christmas day?”
“Stay in our pajamas, watch movies, and make stollen, which is the best holiday cake.” She sighs and slowly chews her ketchup with a side of fry. “I haven’t had proper stollen since my nana moved to Brock Pine Home. I can never get the texture quite right.” Then she turns to look at me. “Sorry, I love Christmas and could keep going for hours. How do you celebrate?”
“The normal stuff. Presents Christmasmorning,” I say pointedly. “When my brother was a kid, our dad dressed up like Santa on Christmas Eve and brought us one gift we could open that night.”
“Didn’t Santa visit when you were a kid?” she asks.
“Santa freaked me out until I was at least twelve. My parents knew to avoid him.”
Her smile grows. I’ve always loved how happy Layla is when I’ve seen her at Brock Pine. She has an infectious joy about her.
“The tree goes up on Thanksgiving weekend,” I continue. “We drive through neighborhoods to check out Christmas lights. My mom loves caroling to the neighbors. Me, not so much.”
She puts a hand to her chest and pretends to be offended. “Caroling is one of the best parts of Christmas.”
“Your objection is noted, but not sustained.”
