Page 19

On Christmas night all Christians sing / To hear the news the angels bring

Three hours of sleep, and I can feel every one of the missing ones behind my eyes. I got in at one-twenty, took a quick shower, and fell into my bed replaying a broken condom and a boy's childhood bedroom until the sky went gray.

My eyes burn, my muscles ache, and I still can't quite believe I did any of it. I would not trade a minute.

Mom is already dressed when I stumble into the kitchen. She's wearing a green bedazzled sweater with a felt Mrs. Claus, reading glasses shoved up into her silver hair, moving between the counter and the fridge like a one-woman assembly line.

"Coffee's fresh," she says. "I won't stay long. Then we can spend the rest of Christmas Day relaxing together. Maybe a walk on the beach?"

I slide three wrapped boxes across the counter to her. She hands me one flat package in return. These are small little surcies, not the main gift I got her, which is a towel warmer for her bathroom and a new robe. It's the spa Christmas.

She unwraps a scarf, a candle, and a framed photo of the two of us from a beach three summers ago. She wraps the scarf around her neck, and it goes surprisingly well with her Mrs. Claus sweater.

I open a book I mentioned wanting in October. I'm touched that she remembered.

"I'm actually thinking about coming along, if you don't mind? Maybe I can help somehow."

She stops what she's doing. "Honey, you don't have to do that. I honestly won't be there more than an hour or two at the most. You can stay here and have a quiet morning."

I pop a piece of cantaloupe in my mouth. "I want to. Can you give me five to throw something on and brush my teeth?"

"Of course."

"Please tell me it's okay if I don't wear a Christmas-themed sweater. I only have my festive pj pants, and I'm not wearing those out of this condo."

"You're fine. No dress code. Now go, I don't want to be late."

I throw on my cutest jeans and a green cropped top. It's festive enough. I brush my teeth and smooth my hair as best as possible before deciding to put it up anyway.

"Basket's by the door," she says, already reaching for it, her large canvas bag already on her shoulder.

"I've got it."

We load the laundry basket of donated presents into the trunk, and she drives.

She doesn't ask about last night. She sleeps lighter than anyone I know, so I'm certain she heard me come in and take a shower. She talks the whole drive about who has family coming and who doesn't, and whether Earl's daughter will actually show up this year.

"She said she would last year too," Mom says, signaling. "We'll see."

I spot Carson's rented Sentra already in the lot when we pull in.

The day room is quieter than Christmas Eve. There's coffee instead of that neon punch. A volunteer in a Santa hat sits at the front of the room, and families drift in and out in uneven waves.

Carson stands near Hildie's chair. He looks up while Mom is still saying hello to someone at the door, and his eyes find mine. There is no awkward morning-after pause. He smiles, and I walk over to him.

"Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas." His eyes move over my face. "You look tired."

"Funny. I was about to say you look fantastic."

"I slept like a baby."

"Bragging about it on Christmas seems tacky." That gets the dimple that I got up and dressed for.

Earl reaches for my hand, and whatever might have come next is gone. “There you are," he says."

“Here I am. You know I wouldn't miss a chance for a Christmas hug from you." He gives me a hug and pulls me over to introduce me to his niece. I glance back at Carson, and he's leaning down, saying something to Hildie.