Page 26 of The Christmas Box

“Hmm.” He plants one elbow on the counter and props his chin on top. “That the Christmas Box lady would quit trying to make me wish for silly things when I choose to live in reality? Or that my dad would bite the dust already so I can get back to my real life?”

I flinch at that last part—it’s impossible not to.

“See?” he says. “I can still be a jerk.”

I almost protest—maybe because I just don’t want it to be true. He took in Marley, after all. I’ve seen the good in him. There’s got to be more to this story. So instead I ask, “Why do you feel that way? About your dad.”

He takes a drink of his hot chocolate while narrowing a suspicious gaze on me. “What, are you gonna psychoanalyze me now? Pursuing therapy as a fallback position?”

“I’m just curious,” I explain. “I mean…I’d have given anything to grow up with a dad.”

“But you’re forgetting something,” he says, pointing a finger my way. “Not all dads are created equal. If you’d had mine, you might wish you had none at all.There’sa wish for you—I could putthatone in the box.”

Despite the harsh answer, I counter, “If he’s so awful, why are you at the manor every day? I mean, surely you could be here doing your duty without goingthatoften.”

He takes a moment before telling me, “He’s…a different guy now. Closer to how I remember him being when I was a little kid. I’m guessing it’s the brain cancer mixing things up. But just a little while ago, he was all over the place—didn’t even recognize me. And I guess it just reminded me of the bad old days.”

“What was so bad about him?” I ask softly. “Back then.”

At first I think he’s not going to answer. I’m prying, after all, and I know it. And he doesn’t seem like a guy who opens up to just anyone—and maybe, in fact, no one.

But after a minute, he says, “Okay, here’s a for instance. I’m thirteen years old, the grandparents and cousins are over, and we’re hosting Christmas dinner. My grandfather on my dad’s side, who could also be kind of an ass, says, ‘This turkey’s too little. Ain’t gonna have no leftovers.’ My mother says she got the biggest one we could afford this year with dad out of work. And that insults my dad, so much that he stands up, starts raving about how he’s doing the best he can but she’s never satisfied, and he keeps right on going until he’s picking up the gravy boat and sending it flying across the room to shatter into pieces against the kitchen wall.

“Everybody freezes—except me. I go start cleaning up the mess—just trying to somehow fix the situation. But then he yells atme—tells me to sit back down, thatshe’llclean it up. And then he and I end up in each other’s faces—until Uncle Wally gets between us and calms things down.

“The upshot was—everyone left and I locked myself in my room the rest of the night. The mess was still there the next morning—I knew she wasn’t gonna clean it up, on principle. So I did—but I caught hell for it later, frombothof them if you can believe that.”

I tilt my head as understanding dawns. “Oh. I get it now. That’s why you hate Christmas.”

But he only shoots me an annoyed look. “Of course you’d bring it around to that, but no, that’s notwhy I hate Christmas.” He mimics me.

I’m wholly unconvinced, though, and slant him a look right back. “Are you sure? I mean, if that happened to me, who knows, maybeI’deven hate Christmas.”

“Well,” he admits, thinking it through, “itwasalways worse then. The fighting. There were money troubles, like I said, and the holidays shine a light on that. And Christmas puts people on edge—so many expectations—so when you’re already in a tense situation, the holidays just amplify it.

“After she was gone, we kind of just quit having Christmas altogether. Wally and Edie would invite us over, and Dad would go, but I refused. I didn’t want anything to do with it.”

I’m pretty horrified by all he’s just said—he’s right that not everyone’s home lives growing up are the same. But I’m afraid if I tell him how sorry I am he went through that, he’ll realize how much he just confided in me. So instead I move on to, “So you’re telling me you don’t think any of this is connected to your feelings about Christmas?” I slant him a knowing look.

Yet rather than answer, he turns it around and says, “Can I ask you something personal?”

Given everything he’s just shared, I reply, “Sure.”

“I know your memories of Christmas with your family are good ones. But…isn’t it hard without them? To keep enjoying it so much? I mean, I lost my dad—in a way—when I was twelve and the construction outfit he worked for went belly up. This was back before he started his own business—he was out of a job with no warning. Money was tight, he took to drinking, it eventually drove my mom away—and nothing was ever the same after that, Christmas or anything else. You lostyourdad, and then your mom and grandma, so I’m sureyourChristmases aren’t what they used to be, either. How do you keep loving it the way you do?”

For some reason, the question makes me feel vulnerable, an emotion I thought I’d long ago outgrown. Maybe because I’m about to tell him something I haven’t told many people. I do it almost bashfully, from beneath lowered eyelids. “The holidayswerehard for me afterward. But sometimes ‘fake it ’til you make it’ is good advice. You just pretend to feel a certain way until you really feel it.”

He looks confused. “Are you telling me youdon’treally love Christmas?”

“Of course not!” I object as if he’s suggested something preposterous.

“Thank God,” he says, “because you were about to blow my entire worldview to bits.”

“What I’m telling you is that it took a while,” I explain. “It took remembering the good times, but accepting that those days were over and figuring out how to makenewgood times. It took finding my way. And it’s not perfect. Believe it or not, evenIhave moments during the holidays when I feel a little down. You’re right—thereisa lot of expectation and buildup.

“But what I came to realize is that Christmas is…whatever you make it. You can dwell on hard memories and things that aren’t what you want them to be—or you can focus on everything good and warm and uplifting about the season. For me, it’s become about things like hope. And giving. And wishing. Like all the wishes in the box. Wishing keeps hope alive. And Christmas keeps wishing alive. And wishes are prayers. So even if Christmastime isn’t perfect, I still think it’s the most wonderful time of the year—not just because a song says so.”

Travis

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