My kids and my sister all tried reaching out to me, but I continued to ignore their calls. Partly because I was hurt, but also because I was embarrassed. I’m not proud of the way I acted, but Iamtoo proud to admit it.
Aboom, boom, boomechoes through the quiet house. The vibrating thud of someone knocking on the front door makes me yelp—even though I know exactly who it is, and I knew it was only a matter of time before she turned up.
The key rattles in the lock. “Go away,” I mutter.
“Myra Jean!” my sister yells as the door slams shut and she stomps up the stairs with all the grace of a horse in an antique store. “Are you dead?”
“One can hope,” I say as Rose’s short frame appears in the doorway. What my sister lacks in height, she makes up for with her giant personality and being a big pain in my ass.
“Now you know you’re too old to be ignoring phone calls.” Rose crosses her arms over her chest. “We’re not forty anymore. Avoiding calls is a surefire way to get yourself a wellness check and a possible call to the coroner’s office.”
I pull the blanket over my head. “Well, I’m not dead, so will you leave me alone now, please?”
Her footsteps clack across the hardwood floor and she yanks off the covers, exposing my threadbare sleepshirt.
“Quit your bellyaching and get out of this bed,” she scolds me. “And call your children.”
“How do you know I haven’t?”
She pins me with a glare. “Because I know you. Henry always said you were a stubborn goat, and you know what? He was right.”
“I don’t want to call them.” I yank the comforter back up, only for her to pull it down again.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you want. This is a family, not a democracy.”
I huff. “I ought to take your key back.”
She plops on the bed beside me. “You do realize, you’ve been saying that for over thirty years, and you haven’t done it yet.”
“There’s still time.”
A wiry spiral of dyed auburn hair falls into her face. “Then the cops really will have to come bust down your door when you’re being a spoiled brat.”
“You’re my sister. You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“Thisisme being on your side.”
“Well, you’re doing a terrible job at it.”
“Oh shut up, you old wench.” She pokes me square in the ribs. “You love me, and you know it. And even if you don't, I'm all you’ve got left.”
I wince, and I can see her willing the words back into her mouth.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” She covers my hand with hers.
“I know.”
“Henry wouldn’t want this.”
Tears burn the corners of my eyes. She’s right, but that doesn’t mean I want to hear it.
“We’ve just always had Christmas here,” I choke out. “I can still see the kids coming down the stairs, their eyes full of wonder, as they spotted what Santa had brought them.And Henry hovering over the damn tripod trying to get the camcorder to work, and Mama drinking coffee in that ugly old La-Z-Boy recliner while Daddy nodded off on the couch.” I clasp her hand between both of mine. “And you, showing up in your pj’s to open presents with the kids. Is it really so wrong that I don’t want that to change?”
“Of course, it’s not wrong,” she says. “But it’s not wrong of Lindsey, Ben, and Lucy to want to do something different, either. You’ve hosted every holiday, birthday, every gathering this family has ever had. You knitted Christmas stockings and made all the birthday cakes, and nobody does it better than you. But for me, the time spent together is what matters most. If the kids want to host Christmas and start some new traditions, I say, let ’em. It doesn’t make a difference to me where we celebrate, as long as we’re all together.”
My bottom lip quivers.
“Myra Jean, you’ve been trying so hard to keep Henry alive that I’m afraid you’re letting the future with the family you have left die.” She takes a piece of my shoulder-length silver hair between two of her fingers. Playing with my hair was something she’d always done to comfort me any time I was upset when we were growing up. “I’m telling you this because I love you, but celebrating the holidays with you has become a real drag.”
