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“Thanks, Mom.” I lift a hefty slice off the serving plate, nearly spraining my wrist. It easily weighs five pounds. “I’ve been waiting for this all night.”
Okay, so I’ve actually beenanxiouslyawaiting it like a dental patient thumbing through a tattered copy ofHighlightsmagazinebefore their root canal, but I don’t expound on that detail.
Her face brightens. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
I follow her into the living room where my dad reclines in his wingback chair in front of the fire, both feet propped on a matching brocade ottoman. An unlit cigar dangles from between his lips. He claims he enjoys the smell and mouthfeel, but I’ve long suspected it’s simply an excuse to avoid eating Mom’s fruitcake.
I settle in the middle of the emerald Edwardian-style velvet sofa, which I honestly don’t think was ever intended to be used as furniture, and Matt and Veronica plop down on either side of me.
Mom sets the fruitcake on the coffee table and offers me another slice. Her expression is so innocently expectant, I can’t refuse even though my stomach is still trying to figure out what to do with the first one.
Veronica snickers under her breath, but I ignore her, happy to see the glow on Mom’s face as she serves everyone eggnog before joining Dad in the twin armchair by the hearth.
The comforting sound of crackling logs mingles with the soft, melodic notes of “White Christmas” emanating from the custom built-in speakers hidden in the mantelpiece. The entire scene, from the tasteful decorations to everyone’s designer Christmas sweaters, is worthy of a greeting card. Yet, my chest constricts with a familiar foreboding, full of dread for what comes next.
“As we draw near the end of another year,” Dad says, raising his crystal-etched punch glass, “I couldn’t be prouder of all we’ve accomplished. The Carmichaels are a force to be reckoned with.”
“Hear! Hear!” Matt chants, lifting his own glass in solidarity.
As my father’s appraising gaze sweeps over us, I shrink back into the rock-hard cushions, wishing I could sink into the crevices and disappear. My dad, Charles Carmichael III, tends to have that effect on people. He expects nothing less than excellence. Of everyone. Which is probably why his advertising firm, Carmichael Creatives, has achieved such an impressive level of success. But no one feels the spine-crushing pressure more than his offspring.
“Deidre,” he says, turning to my mother, “the chest, please.”
She ceremoniously hands him an antique writing box of brass-bound mahogany, the sort of box I imagine British soldiers used to send love letters to their betrothed back home. Five scrolls lie inside, along with five gold-plated Montblanc pens.
Matt and Veronica scoot toward the edge of the couch in eager anticipation, while I retreat farther back, craning my neck in search of an escape. Am I too young to fake a convincing stroke? I glance at the fruitcake. What if I nibble another bite and it conveniently lodges in my throat? Would choking to death extricate me from this unbearable situation? Or will I still be expected to participate as the paramedics wheel away my lifeless body on a gurney?
Probably the latter.
While I resign myself to the inevitable, Mom passes out the scrolls.
“Matthew,” Dad says, “as the eldest, you go first.”
Matt sits up straighter, pulling his shoulders so far back I can’t help but wonder if they popped out of socket. If so, he doesn’t seem to notice. “Last year,” he says with a self-gratified grin, “my Christmas Commitment was to learn Japanese.Ninmu kanryo.” He presses his palms together and bows at the waist as Mom and Veronica applaud and Dad voices his approval.
Since before I was born, my family has carried out a tradition called Christmas Commitments. Because we can’t simply make New Year’s resolutions like normal people. It’s essentially the same thing except a week earlier. And we write them down and report back each year, which is apparently all part of the “fun.”
“Veronica?” Dad prompts, beaming at her proudly.
She tosses her hair over her shoulder, whipping me in the face. Fortunately, she had her hair professionally blow-dried for the occasion, so the icy-blond strands are silky soft and emit her trademark scent—strawberries and superiority.
“My Christmas Commitment was to get my master’s degree in business communications.” She pauses for dramatic effect, then draws a large swish in the air with her finger and says, “Check!”
“Well done!” This time, Dad starts the round of applause.
After she’s been duly praised, the room turns eerily silent save for the melancholy rendition of “A Change at Christmas” by the Flaming Lips and the aforementioned crackling logs. I can feel the pitying glances, although I keep my eyes glued to the festive Nordic print on my fuzzy socks. The alternating pattern of tree, snowflake, tree, snowflake is quite hypnotic if you stare at it hard enough.
“Quincy?” I can hear the hesitation in my father’s voice. And something even sadder—hope. After all these years, he still thinks there’s a chance I won’t completely disappoint him.
My throat tightens. “I, uh…”
“It’s okay, honey,” Mom coos in her coddling way. The way that saysAll my babies are perfect, no matter what.Even you, Quincy.“You can tell us.”
“Come on.” Veronica nudges my arm. “How bad can it be?”
What she means to say isIt can’t be any worse than every year prior. And she’s right. I take a deep breath, but I can’t form the words.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she groans in exasperation. “I’ll do it.” Leaning over my shoulder, she reads off my scroll. “Last year, you wrotetake a dance class.” She looks up, baffled. “That’s it? That’s your easiest Christmas Commitment ever. What were you so worried about? You didn’t even specify that you had to be anygoodat it.”
