Page 31 of Check the Halls
Chanda steps up to the podium in her baby blue pantsuit and she welcomes our hosts, distinguished donors, and the dedicated organizers.
For the next twenty minutes, she speaks about the foundation’s roots, the work we do, and the families we strive to aid. She then shifts to the history of the Festive Fellowship, a tradition born from something deeply personal.
“My cousin, Kiara, was my best friend growing up. We were born seventeen days apart. Growing up she cared about three things: soccer, Christmas, and family—in that order. As a child, Kiara would start her Christmas countdown in October. It drove our parents crazy! When she started singing carols before Halloween, everyone would say ‘It’s too soon!’ And she would reply, ‘Why wait?’ Chanda pauses for a breath, her expression softening. “She was diagnosed with leukemia when we were twelve. Even during her long hospital stays, she insisted on decorating her room for the holidays, determined to enjoy every moment of the season she loved so much. She passed away just after her fourteenth birthday. The Festive Fellowship was created in her memory, a way to spread that same warmth and wonder to children everywhere.”
Chanda moves on to discuss the childrens’ charities we’re supporting this year and the entire room hangs onher every word. She gestures toward the screen as the slideshow Keely put together begins, images flickering to life—smiling children on soccer fields, young athletes in adapted sports programs, kids finding confidence and community through the opportunities this fundraiser will help provide.
Throughout all of this, Alyssa sits too close to Ben, frequently sending him looks that imply she would like an invitation to crawl into his lap.
I tell myself that I’m being ridiculous. I shouldn’t feel this pang of jealousy watching another woman flirt with him. I delude myself that it’s because it’s Alyssa, someone who’s gone out of her way this last month to make me feel inadequate and unwanted. That I would be fine if it was another woman—literally any other woman—giving him that kind of attention.
But would I be?
Chanda’s presentation ends and lunch is brought in, but before I can take a bite of my meal, Selena from reception pulls me away. She hands me a phone and says it’s a representative from Event Central, the City of Ottawa's office that handles permits for all outdoor events. With no preamble, the man on the phone tells me that their office has received reports that the fun run we have planned for this weekend, that they approved months ago, may not be meeting all their regulations.
Who on Earth would report us for this?
What follows is a tense conversation where I assure him we’ve done everything they’ve asked and promise to send him any and all contracts and receipts for the event. In the end, he seems reluctantly appeased, and I need another shower.
After I cleared things up with Deputy Do-Right, I returned to my inbox only to find more emails piling up; each one another fire to put out. How do these mistakes keep happening? Am I missing something? No matter how careful I am, it feels like the details keep slipping through my fingers.
Frustration curls in my stomach, heavy and unshakable. Feeling defeated and overwhelmed, I decide to skip the rest of the luncheon and retreat to my office. Maybe if I bury myself in work, I can regain some control and find the source of the problem.
Nearly an hour later, after a full review of all event correspondences, spreadsheets, and contracts, I’m still at a loss. I don’t come up for air until a soft knock sounds at my door.
Please don’t be another emergency.
“Come in.”
The door opens and Ben hesitantly leans inside. “You okay, Madness?”
I deflate in my seat from relief and exhaustion. Am I okay? I’m not sure. Somedays I feel like I’ve got this. Others? It feels like it will only take one more straw to bring the camel to its knees.
“Of course. There’s just a lot to do for the event.” I’m not going to burden Ben with my problems.
Despite my reassurance, concern is written all over his face as he steps inside and shuts the door behind him. Is it possible he can still tell when I’m being less than honest after all these years?
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You’ve done so much already. Thank you for today. You definitely dazzled the donors.”
“I told you I would.” He grins down at me before placing a takeout container on my desk. “Since you didn’t get to eat anything.”
“You had them package up my lunch?”
Ben shakes his head as he collapses in the chair across from my desk. “Nah. The sandwiches were kind of dry. I just ran down the street and grabbed you a shawarma.”
The moment the strong garlic scent hits my nose, I’m almost lightheaded. “Thank you so much. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until this moment.” I waste no time tearing open the container and peeling back the wrapping on my favourite Lebanese food. I unroll the sandwich, looking for the pickle and pickled turnip so I can extract them before I inhale everything else.
“What are you doing?” Ben regards me quizzically.
“Looking for the pickles,” I say, still digging under a piece of chicken. Where are they?
“I ordered it without them,” he answers.
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out; I just stare at him.
“You always hated them,” he explains.
