Christmas Is A Family Affair

Shepherd’s pie and yams were her little Lawrence’s favourite. She bustled around the kitchen, checking on the casserole in the oven and the yams on the stove. He would be here soon, along with the rest of the family, to celebrate Christmas as a family. She glanced at the clock: 5:46 p.m. They usually gathered for dinner at 6:30 sharp, so there was still time. Her daughter Summer was always getting into trouble, so who knew what she was even doing at this minute, and her son Lawrence was probably helping his young son with homework, or something else. She paused, spatula in hand. What was her grandson’s name again?

Rolling her eyes towards the heavens, she sighed. Her memory wasn’t quite what it used to be; it ran in the family, with each one cursed with age forgetting more and more- childhood memories, plans, birthdays, anniversaries, when to take medications…“the usual old people things,” they would reassure themselves, while every uncursed one laughed uncomfortably.

Her stomach growled, but she told it to be patient because a Christmas meal was not something that could be rushed- especially when it was for family. “Oh no,” she muttered as she opened the fridge, “We’re out of parmesan? Good Lord, since when?” She felt a tinge of annoyance but shoved it aside. Family Christmases had to be perfect, but it was the family, not the food, that made it perfect, after all. Good families set aside their differences on Christmas and celebrated (together, always together). A parmesan-less dinner wouldn’t be the end of the world.

6:12 p.m. Her eyes clouded with worry, taking in the blackness of the night. The sun had set long ago; would her beloved little Lawrence be okay driving her grandson in the dark? A blurry image probed her mind: her son (her favourite child, she would always unashamedly disclose), that whore of his wife, and two other little figures...did she have one or two grandchildren now? It bothered her more than she would admit that she couldn’t recall her grandbabies’ faces or names, or anything else about them. This bit had always puzzled her; as feeble as her memory was, she could usually remember a thing or two about people she had met before.

6:37 p.m. Set extravagantly, the table boasted various dishes and goodies, candlelight and silverware, and a crown of empty chairs. Why was everyone late? Were they purposely attacking her pet peeve of tardiness? That little devil Summer she could understand, but her son Lawrence? No way. Sure, there had been some bumps in the road with even her son, especially when that gold-digging whore of his wife stole him away from her, but she had just been trying to help. God bless her beloved son’s heart- he hadn’t been able to see her that evil woman for who she was.

7:04 p.m. In the rocking chair beside the Christmas tree she sat, rhythmically rocking a tempo of distress. She had already checked the calendar- today was indeed the twenty-fifth of December, and a look towards the unblinking phone confirmed that there were no voicemails, no last-minute issues. To distract herself, she leaned back and surveyed the cheery, albeit empty, room. The twinkling Christmas tree served a double purpose, standing guard over a pyramid of beautifully wrapped presents for Lawrence and his grandchildren. Simultaneously, it blocked the lacquered cabinet which housed a number of unimportant odds and ends: unopened diagnoses, unfilled prescriptions, Summer’s childhood trinkets (they were all purple, her favourite colour), and the like.

8:41 p.m. She awoke with a start; she must have dozed off for a minute. She was agitated. Images from her sleep were already fading, but she thought she had been dreaming about Summer. A series of memories suddenly flashed before her eyes without warning: Summer cheating on school tests, Summer talking back, Summer messing up again and again...it was hard not to lose her temper with that one, and lose her temper she did freely. She frequently lost herself in a rage that ended with broken furniture and broken body. The last time that happened she vaguely remembered Summer ending up in the hospital, and that’s where the memories of her abruptly ceased.

9:03 p.m. Reaching for her winter jacket, she hastily blew out the candles on the dining table and blundered towards the door. Did she turn off the stove? She didn’t really remember; she couldn’t really remember anything at the moment. Gasping, she put an arm on the wall to steady herself. She had gotten up too fast again and lightheadedness plagued her; but lightheadedness be damned, she had to go find Lawrence. What if something had happened to her precious only son? It was her duty as his mother to protect him, after all. She struggled to catch her breath as she made her way to the door, but in the darkness she tripped over the hazardous pile of mail stacked knee-height. There was nothing and nobody to catch her save for a little shelf inhabiting the corner, and so her shoulder hit the shelf painfully; a purple ceramic urn simply engraved with an “S” fell to the ground and shattered on impact, spilling forth dusty white ash.

The car refused to turn on, giving the impression of a car that hadn’t been driven in a long time. She won the battle with it today, though, she would not be dissuaded from having a good family Christmas like a good family, goddamnit. On the roads slick with ice she drove recklessly, her mind filled to capacity with concern for her son.

Breaking down, tears appeared out of nowhere and formed rivulets on her weathered face. All she had ever wanted was to give the best to the ones she loved, especially her child. How did she end up alone on what was supposed to be a joyful night? Why had she cooked a feast no one bothered to show up to? What had she done to deserve this? Of course, her fragmented memories never helped, and they always taunted her with potential answers out of reach to unsolvable questions.

She was on a busier road now. The presence of other cars faintly registered somewhere in her foggy state. Headlights and streetlights alike reflected off the frosty pavement and bounced annoyingly around her car- where was she? It was so hard to tell. In the corner of her glazed eyes she saw a light brighter than the others and veered towards it at a breakneck speed. The warm glow reminded her of the tantalizing brilliance that spilled forth from the windows of comforting homes. It was enslaving. She couldn’t look away, not that she was trying to. And this window, her brain decided, framed a pretty little family of four: two little children and a (whore of a) mommy and daddy who had one day eloped and never spoke to her again.

“Lawrence!” she wailed. It was only in the silence following this outburst that she became aware of an increasingly deafening noise, not unlike a car horn, and that would be the last coherent thought her mind ever formed before the lights went out.

The end.