Page 16 of The Bright Side of Christmas
The next morning, I dig through the box of extra decorations and gasp excitedly when I spot the box of unbreakable ornaments. On my way out the door, I hang them on the small bush outside Adam’s house before heading to my car. As I reach for the driver’s side door, he steps out onto his porch, taking in my handiwork with a small smirk on his lips. I remember what he told me about his keeping the decorations up being a selfish action, and warmth fills my belly against my will. When his gaze moves to me, he lifts an eyebrow.
I give him a sassy little wave, then get in my car and drive off, grinning the whole drive to school.
Work is a bit easier than the day before, with no one biting anyone else and no parents emailing or calling me with complaints, thankfully. When I get home, I open the front door, push it open with my shoulder, and toss my bags onto the couch, but pause when I see something on the floor. Closing the door behind me, I bend to grab it before standing and unfolding the paper.
It’s a plain piece of computer paper with magazine clippings of letters writing out a message and a Polaroid picture glued to the bottom half of the paper.
A photo with a figure I instantly recognize.
My nutcracker.
Fulfill our demands or the nutcracker gets it,the paper reads. The photo is a Polaroid of my pastel-colored nutcracker with the town newspaper with today’s headlines in front of it.
I can’t help it: I giggle.
Igiggle. This man has stolen my property and is threatening to damage it, and I’m giggling. And planning what kind of decorations I can put on his lawn next.
Maybe the sleep deprivation is truly getting to me. My mind drifts to his insistence that I take care of myself, and the humor seeps out of my body.
He said I work to make everyone’s holiday magical but have no time to enjoy it myself, and for a split second, the tiniest hint of frustration I hadn’t realized had been locked away flares to life. For a moment, I question if he’s not right, if I’m doing this for everyone else at the expense of my own happiness.
But I quickly lock that thought away and throw away the key. What does he know? I take care of myself just fine andamenjoying myself. I enjoy helping out those around me, especially during a busy, stressful season like Christmas. Who cares if I’ma bit tired and have slightly less free time in December if it means everyone around me has the most magical holiday season possible?
My mind once again drifts to my grandmother and the dozens upon dozens of memories I have of her pitching in to help out around town.
“It’s important we all do what we can, especially this time of year,” I remember her telling me when we were wrapping up gifts for the toy drive late one night. I was probably twelve at the time, and I was staying at her house to help prepare the finishing touches for the holiday festival that she had been planning for as long as I could remember.
“But you’re doing all the work, Grandma,”I had said.
She shook her head and gave me a soft, patient smile. “No, sweet girl. I’m doing what I can. I’m happy to give a little extra time to those I care about. It makes me happy. It makes those around me happy. Can’t see any reason not to do it, if that’s the outcome.”
I’ve always taken that to heart, helping everyone and anyone, often before they even ask for help.
Adam wouldn’t know community and cheer if it slapped him in the face. Of course, he wouldn’t see the value in sacrificing a little sleep for that.
At eleven thirty p.m., I’m pinning together quilt blocks when I feel eyes on me and look up, catching Adam staring at me across the way. A blush burns over me, and I become self-conscious, thinking of him looking at me, so I keep my head down for a full ten minutes, refusing to let myself look up. When I finally let myself glance up, his head is down, but it lifts as if he was watching for me. He points at a piece of paper taped to the window.
Go to bed.
I can’t tell if it’s the same one from last night, but I shake my head at him and wave a hand at him before starting to sew more squares together.
The next time I look up, he’s gone, the light is off, but that note is still there. It puts a rock in my gut, though I ignore it. Soon after, my bobbin tangles, and I sigh, then decide to leave it for tomorrow and head to bed a bit early at quarter after twelve.
But it has nothing to do with Adam’s note.
Not in the least.
When I get home from work the next day, there’s another note slipped under my door, and excitement fills me as I pick it up.
No, not excited.
Being excited to read a hostage note for a nutcracker would probably denote that my mental state is crumbling.
Take down the decorations or else.
Today, the photo is of the nutcracker next to a hammer. I let out a laugh, then fold up the note and place it on my kitchen table with the other one. In retaliation, I add a couple more glittery lollipops to his yard. I spend the evening prepping cookie dough for the bake sale, cleaning the kitchen, and wrapping up schoolwork before taking a shower and slipping into some comfy clothes. I baked and set aside four cookies for myself—a little treat for making it to the end of the day—and then grabbedthe plate before heading upstairs to my office to work on some decorations for the upcoming school-wide holiday party. A co-worker was supposed to do it, but she asked if I would mind taking it over for her, and she would cover Valentine’s Day. I agreed, knowing I already have all the stuff to make some simple decorations and garlands.
When I settle in, Adam’s office light goes off across the way, the note taken down sometime between last night and now. I push away the strange jolt of disappointment before throwing myself into working on some of the decorations for the holiday party in two weeks. I’m about halfway through one of the big banners when the light flicks on.
