Page 23 of War on Christmas

“Uh-uh,friend.” I talk around a mouthful of food as I point my fork at her. “I dragged my ass out of bed at eleven o’clock last night to help rescue your precious little niece. You can pretend to be nice for an hour and have a friendly conversation over this heart-attack-on-a-plate. So talk. Why haven’t you been home in so long?”

It’s not like I don’t know the gist of Freya’s family dynamics. Freya has always been on the outside of the Nilsen crew. Misunderstood. A black sheep, even. With Thad, their opposing dispositions felt complementary. Maybe it was their twin bond. Maybe it was the nerdy hobbies they’d shared. Whatever the reason, Freya was the yin to Thad’s yang, and it worked for them.

The other Nilsens, however, have always seemed bemused by Freya. Not angry or aggressive that I ever saw. There were never any major falling outs. At least not while I was still around. Just a cautious receding to the sidelines, where they participated in her life as quiet observers, watching a game with rules they didn’t quite understand.

But four years away from home…that feels more like a full-on estrangement.

I watch her across the booth as she contemplates whether to answer the question or tell me to fuck off. It’s a 50/50 shot, I’d guess. The coin toss seems to fall in my favor, however, because she rolls her eyes and huffs.

“Fine.” Setting down her fork, she leans back and wraps her hands around her coffee cup. “You know how things have always been…”

I nod as I shovel more French toast into my mouth.

“It’s just been more of the same.” She snags a piece of my bacon, and I let her. She takes a bite before continuing. “A few years ago, my friend Leo from work didn’t have anywhere to go for the holidays, so I stayed in Chicago to celebrate with him. And the distance from my parents…and Bethany—” she shrugs. “I felt like I could breathe.”

My forehead wants to furrow into a scowl, but I pull a page out of Freya’s book and keep my expression guarded as I casually stab a forkful of her pancakes.

It’s there. The instinct to criticize her choices. The urge to resent her for not trying harder with a perfectly nice family. I would have givenanythingfor parents like the Nilsens.

But this isn’t about me. My goal is to understand Freya better. So, I push my personal judgments aside.

“And then…” I prompt, stealing another bite of her pancakes as she grabs another slice of my bacon.

She sighs. “Look. I get it. You had a truly shitty situation. I don’t expect this to make sense—”

“I didn’t say that.” I shake my forkful of pancakes at her. “I want to understand. So, tell me,friend.”

She thinks for a minute as she chews. “The theater where I work…it’s like its own little family,” she explains. “Family where we all have something in common. We love art and performance and looking at things from new angles. Sometimes creepy or uncomfortable angles. We all love pushing the limits, and every production is a chance to do that. Spending holidays with my Sphere family—” she sighs. “It’s so simple and uncomplicated. I never feel like I don’t fit in with them.”

Something a little shameful heats my chest. I get along with my coworkers. Some of them, like Wes, have even become friends. But I would never describe them as family. I’ve been without family since I was eighteen, and apparently Freya hastwo. I try to quell the sour taste of envy with more pancakes.

“So…you’re just checking out of Team Nilsen?”

Her eyes narrow. “I’m here, aren’t I? But here’s the real question: Have I everreallybeen on Team Nilsen? I don’t exactly fit with the rest of the team.”

Now it’s my turn to sigh. Despite my jealousy, I get why Freya feels that way. Mrs. Nilsen was adamant about attending every single one of Bethany’s cheer performances, even if it meant having to pay someone to watch the shop. She was equally dedicated to Thad’s track meets and math team competitions. But I never saw her at the school plays and musicals that Freya dedicated countless hours to. (I’d know. I was at all of them.) Sets, lighting, sound…Freya was the force behind the scenes, the beating heart of the theater department. I’d asked Thad once why his parents never attended the performances, and he’d shrugged. “I don’t think shewantsthem there. And they’d go if she had an actual part.”

“What about you?” Freya asks, ruthlessly redirecting the conversation. “How are things going with your mom?”

I had that coming. I was, after all, the one to bring up family drama. I set down my fork, suddenly feeling full. In the background, the music switches to the Burl Ives version of “Holly Jolly Christmas,” happy and upbeat, and it feels out of sync with this conversation. Some “Blue Christmas” would fit the moment better.

“You were at the funeral yesterday.” I watch her carefully, curious aboutherimpressions of my mother, but her face gives away nothing. As usual. “More of that, basically. Tiptoeing around each other. Being so polite it feels like an extreme sport.” I force a chuckle as I scratch at the back of my neck, even though there’s nothing funny about the situation. “I don’t know that I can expect more than that. Right?”

“It’s only been two days. After seventeen years.” Freya opens her mouth to say more, but our waitress, Wanda, returns, resting a hand on her boney hip.

“And how is everything?” she asks. She’s about my mother’s age, I’d guess, with dyed copper-red hair that doesn’t match her thin, black eyebrows. When she catches my eye and winks, I’m mortified to feel myself blush. Freya snorts.

“It’s great,” Freya says. “Could I get more coffee, please? We’re trying to unfuck his life, and it’s going to take a while. And a lot more caffeine.”

“Right on it, sugar.” Wanda winks at me again, and Freya sinks further into the booth with a throaty laugh. But she doesn’t hesitate to dig right back into my fucked-up life as soon as Wanda leaves.

“Do youwantto have a relationship with your mom?” she asks. “Nobody would judge you if you needed to move on. Or even if you just wanted to. The ball is in your court, and I bet your mom’s waiting for you to make the next move.”

I groan. That’s the problem. I have no clue what I want. I know what Iwanted. I wanted her to be a mother—a real mother—and refuse to let me go.

But now that he’s dead, she’ll never get a chance to pick me.

It’s fucked up.I’mfucked up. How can I be so pissed at a woman who spent the past almost thirty years in a shitty marriage, having her confidence undermined at every turn? I know how horrible it felt to be the target of Gary’s moods, and I had my mom doing what she could to intercede. Nudging me out of the house, either to the Nilsen’s or football or whatever escape presented itself.She’sthe one who took the brunt of it.

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