Page 18 of War on Christmas

When I was little, she was always fidgety, hopping around from one thing to the next, like an overly excited bird. Dancing to the radio as she scrubbed dishes at the sink, up to her elbows in bubbles. Bouncing over to the vintage Formica table where I was drawing tooohandaahover my pictures, her wet hands dripping dishwater down my neck and making me laugh. She was a cyclone. A single mom in her mid-twenties trying to hold it all together.

God, her mid-twenties? I shake my head, disbelieving. I’d had more responsibility than most at that age, being completely on my own, and there had been moments when it felt crushing. Moments when I had to talk myself down from the ledge. What if I lost my scholarships? What if I lost my position as an RA? Where would I live? Where would I go? To have that kind of pressure but with akidI was responsible for, too? It was unimaginable.

Maybe the wildest part is that those early memories, before Gary, werehappyones. Chaotic, sure. A lot of drawing or looking at books in the corner at the diner where she worked. Or frantically running errands in her rusty, cherry-red ’79 Chevy Nova. But thefeelingof those memories? It was fun. Life was an adventure, and we were in it, for better or worse, together.

Had she truly been so full of energy?I wonder now, watching my mom’s eerily still posture. Or had it been the flailing of a drowning woman? A single mom desperate for anything, anyone, to rescue her?

When the service ends, everyone drifts out, pulling on winter coats and bundling into scarves, hats, and gloves. A few pause to shake my mom’s hand and offer some final condolences, but it’s mostly quiet. Subdued. The only ones who pay any attention to me are Freya’s parents. Mrs. Nilsen folds me in a warm hug, and I lean into it.

“It’s so good to see you home,” Freya’s mom whispers, and I smile into her shoulder as I pull her close.

“Thanks, Mrs. Nilsen. It’s good to see you, too.”

She pulls back. Her eyes, furtive, slide to my mother, who’s standing across the aisle from us listening to a cousin of Gary’s.

“Please, call me Mary,” she says, then pats my hand. “I wish—” Her voice drops even lower, so I bend over to hear her, close enough that her breath tickles my ear. “I wish we could have done more. I was never sure what to do.”

I shake my head. “Mrs. Nilsen, you were…” My mouth twists to the side. Words seem inadequate for the role the Nilsens played for me. The sense of normalcy and stability they provided. It’s because of Thad and Freya’s parents that I know what a healthy marriage looks like. What a real family looks like. “…you were wonderful,” I say. “I’ve never thought anything different.”

Mr. Nilsen hugs me next. Everything about Mr. Nilsen is big. He’s only a couple inches shorter than me, and his round face, his bushy beard, his belly that pushes against his belt—all of it is big. He’s got a big heart, too. He always played father to me, right alongside Thad, whenever I needed it. Boy Scouts events. The puberty talk at school. Learning how to fix a broken bike chain. He showed up, over and over again.

“Good to see you, son.” He’s aged. Unlike Mrs. Nilsen, who I’m sure colors her hair to match Bethany’s, his salt-and-pepper has faded to almost white in our years apart. But his voice is still gruff and familiar, and I work to swallow back the lump in my throat at his words. When I nod, unable to speak, he pats me on the back. “Don’t be a stranger, ok? We expect you at supper on Sunday when Thad comes home.” His eyes flick to Freya, who’s standing to the side. “And, of course, you should visit Freya whenever you want.”

I clear my throat. Did he hear Freya and me talking in her room last night? Then I feel ridiculous because I’m thirty-four years old. Mr. Nilsen isn’t going to track me down with a shotgun for hanging out in Freya’s room. After all, Freya and I are going to be friends again. Friendly friends. Friends who have a friendly competition over whether or not she can seduce me.

Yup, friends.

“Yes, sir,” I mumble.

To my surprise, Freya doesn’t leave with her parents. Instead, she hangs back, and as the final attendees straggle out, she collects stray funeral cards and programs, then quietly directs the men who arrive to take the casket to the cemetery.

I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who sees her flip off Gary’s casket with a purple-tipped finger as they roll him away on the trolley, and I press my lips together to hide my smile.

Thirteen

FREYA

I’mlyinginmydouble bed, staring at the swirls in the ceiling plaster and plotting how to seduce Jeremy, when my phone dings.

Abi: Auntieee. I need a favor..Z

I frown as I squint at my phone, willing the letters to make more sense. For all her drama and her Gen-Z membership card, Abi usually texts with the grammar of a middle-school librarian. When her messages leave me confused, it’s usually due to some mysterious new acronym. ADIH (Another Day in Hell) or SSDD (Same Stuff Different Day) are two favorites that come to mind. At my hip, Hecate turns to look at me over her shoulder, her gold eyes flashing in the glow of the Christmas lights.

Yes, this morning my mother decorated my room with Christmas lights like she did when I was a kid. She even put up my miniature Christmas tree with the black ornaments I collected as a teenager.

Me: Who is this and what have you done with my niece?

As I wait for a reply, I mentally sift through my recent conversations with Abi, and a peculiar sinking sensation weighs down my stomach. Sad, leaking gray eyes and “Things at school have just been—ugh, theworst.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Abi: I needs ride. Please. I’ll text you address. Plese..

She’s drunk. I know it. Sweet little Abi Banana whose stomach I used to raspberry until she’d spit up is drunk. I can see it all playing out in my head like a bad movie: Bethany going goddamn ballistic, Abi spending her winter break grounded, and this incident forever being remembered in Nilsen family lore as the Christmas that fifteen-year-old Abi snuck into some unsuspecting parent’s liquor cabinet. Unless she was doing more than drinking. My stomach cramps.Fuck, I wish Thad was here.

Me: Text me the address. Are you safe?

I’d been lounging in yoga pants and a beloved Fall Out Boy T-shirt that I refuse to throw out despite the gaping hole in the right armpit. While I wait for Abi’s reply, I quickly dig through my suitcases for some extra layers. I shrug into a cozy, lined hoodie, my scarf, and black fingerless gloves, then unearth my old Sorel boots from the back of my closet. By the time Abi texts back with the address and,Yes safe. At a freinds houss,I’m ready to come to her rescue.

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