Skipping Christmas

“Nash? Nash, sweetheart, is that you?”

“No, mom, I’m the utilities auditor. Have a second to talk about your energy efficiency?”

My mom came into the hallway and came up to within two inches of me. She stopped and looked me up and down, a full scan from head to toe, and then she wiped her hands on the rag she held in her hands.

“You’ve lost weight but your smart ass has gotten bigger. Put your bag down and take off your jacket and come into the kitchen. I’ve just put on some coffee.”

I said thanks and set my bag down. She said, “Oh, it’s not that it’s for you, sweetheart. I don’t want to deal with you without any coffee.”

I laughed, then frowned, and I went after her. “That’s not that funny.”

“I know. The truth often isn’t, my dear.” She turned the corner sharply into the kitchen. I rolled my eyes several paces behind her. From the middle of the kitchen she said, “Don’t roll your eyes like that.”

I made a noise and said, “I’m not.”

She went straight to the sink and the whole chicken she was rinsing.

“You know, my mom used to spank us the second we even started thinking of rolling our eyes. She knew it and she wouldn’t have it. That’s how I know truth hits so hard.”

I poured some coffee and said, “What are you talking about?”

She scrubbed and scrubbed. “She hit us even harder than the truth.”

I said, “You’re joking. Grandma didn’t hit you. Did you want some coffee?”

“You think I joke?”

I nodded and said, “Right. Sorry.”

She rotated the chicken and kept at it. I knew she’d scrub that thing for another twenty minutes even though I had no idea what it was for. She said, “No coffee. You can have my jitters and my stomach ulcers instead.”

I sipped and said I would take them, gladly, and looked around the kitchen.

“You painted. Looks good.”

“Painted? Honey, what are you talking about? These walls have been this color for years.”

I looked at the backsplash over the oven. “Is it a new backsplash?”

She said, “New backsplash? Whose kitchen are you looking at?”

“Something looks different. Did you remodel?”

She set the chicken down, turned off the water, and washed her hands in the opposite sink. She dried her hands and set the towel down and then came to me at the island. She stopped and stood right in front of me again, close enough that I could smell the soap on her skin, and then she put her hands on my shoulders and regarded me.

“Nash, you haven’t been home. Of course this place is going to look different.”

I started to say something, but she had a finger to my lips before I could get the first sound out.

“Nope.”

“Mom, I—”

“Sweetie. No need.”

I parted my lips again, but she said “The important thing is, you’re here. You’re way too skinny, but we can talk about that and all the rest of it later. Now. It’s a big weekend, and your grandmother doesn’t know about her dinner tonight, so you—”

I said, “Wait. Talk about all the rest of what?”

 She closed her eyes very briefly, not much longer than a blink, but I knew my mom.

“So you have to fully be here these next few days. I’ve given you a few assignments, too, so you can’t run away.”

I said, “Run away? From what?”

“Nash, please don’t. There’s a lot of preparing to do, and no time for you to argue.”

I said, “Argue? Who’s arguing?”

“No one, because there’s no time for it. You’ll be reading the first reading at mass this evening, and you’ll be in charge of taking grandma to Giuseppe’s afterwards. Now. It’s very important she doesn’t get to the restaurant too soon, because the rest of the family is coming as a surprise. You’re to take her elsewhere first, and then—”

I held up a hand. “Whoa, whoa. Giueseppe’s? I thought we were just having mass tonight for her birthday.”

“You didn’t read the email.”

“Email?” I took a sip of coffee as if that might slow things down.

“Nash, this isn’t a joke. I sent the itinerary for the weekend two weeks ago.”

I looked at my mom and then down at the coffee in my hand. It had started to cool, and lighter spots of oil oozed across the top like mini tectonic plates.

“The toast instructions were in there, too.”

“Toast?”

Mom’s eyes closed again, and this time there was a barely audible movement of breath through her nose. “You’ve got precisely five hours before mass. Go read your emails, and take your bag upstairs. I want you working so hard I can hear you think from down here.”

I stood still. “Mom, this isn’t—”

“What did I say two minutes ago?”

“Two minutes ago? You said a lot of things. You’re always saying lots of things.”

“Specifically regarding arguing.”

“I’m not—”

“Dear child, your smart ass may be blocking your ears and preventing you from listening correctly. I said we are not arguing. Now go. You have a bit less than five hours to prepare your toast, by my most recent calculation. And you’ll practice your reading for mass because you know how well your grandmother tolerates mistakes made in church.”

Mom took her hands from my shoulders and took three steps back to the sink and her chicken.

“And I’ve got chicken broth to make. Scram.”

I stared at her from the back. She seemed skinnier herself since I last saw her, a tad bit more diminutive. The skin on the backs of her arms was just a touch looser, the flesh sagging the tiniest bit, but that was all. Everything else about her seemed as tight and controlled and ageless as ever.

The chicken came out of the sink onto a cutting board and my mom went to get a pot.

“Chicken broth? I thought we were going to Giuseppe’s tonight.”

“I already explained everything in the email. Now upstairs with you. And turn off the coffee pot if you’re done with it. The only thing worse than you with no coffee is you with burnt coffee.”

I stood still as she began to fill the giant pot with water. I might have laughed at that if anyone else had said it, but coming from my mom I felt huffy, like I needed to defend myself.

“Nash, your toast won’t write itself. She’s turning 90. This isn’t something you can just make up on the spot.”

“Mom, what did you mean talk about all the rest of it? Just a bit ago?”

She didn’t respond, long enough for me to be certain she had heard. The water ran and ran and ran, filling the silence in the kitchen with a steady stream.

“Ninety years, Nash. I don’t know how you’re going to say anything meaningful about the ninety years of her life with only a few hours of yours to think about it. That’s why I sent that email out so long ago.”

“I’ll get to it. What did you mean, talk about all the rest of it. All of what?”

Her sigh was just a little bit louder than before. “Honey, all I said was you’re too skinny. I’m concerned you’re not eating. Or that you're just running from something.”

“I’m fine. I eat. I’ve just got my marathon coming up. What is it you wanted to talk about?”

She gave a sharp look. “So that’s what this is. You're running too much. You can’t possibly be healthy enough to run a whole marathon.”

I shifted and sipped my coffee. “I’m fine. I’m following a really good training program.”

She had a cutting board out and was having at the chicken. “Who’s that girlfriend of yours up there? Marley? Meghan? Doesn’t she cook for you?”

I said, “Wow, mom, thanks for the flashback to the fifties. And it’s Elliot, by the way.”

I needed to change the subject.

“She’s not a housewife. She’s my friend. What’s been going on here, mom?”

“Uh huh. Does she make sure you eat? Better yet, you give me her number. I’ll have her make sure you’re fed.” She turned off the water and moved the pot to the oven.

“Mom, I’m fine. I told you. What did you mean earlier? Can we just talk about whatever’s going on please?”

"All I said was you shouldn’t be running so much. Take care of yourself. You look like you’ll split in half or shatter any moment. Or worse. No mom wants to see that.”

“You said ‘all the rest of it.’ What is ‘the rest of it’?”

She stood facing the stove but had gone still, and when she spoke it was much slower than usual. “Nash, you’ve been gone for nearly two years. It’s a while, that’s all.”

I considered this. “You’re mad I didn’t come home for the holidays.”

“Christmas?” She still hadn’t turned on the stove. “Nash, I’m not going to talk about this right now.”

I said, “So you are still mad.”

She was as quiet and still as the water in the pot in front of her. I matched her silence, waiting.

Her voice had slowed even more. “I’ve told you now multiple times to go upstairs and get to work. This is serious.” She turned with precision and went back to the chicken on its board at the island in between us. The stove remained unlit.

“So is whatever you wanted to talk about, apparently.”

I heard the silence thicken before she spoke again. “Your grandmother deserves a whole lot more thought than what you’ve decided to devote to her by ignoring my email and choosing to remain in this kitchen long past what you know is good for you. I won’t tell you again.”

“Just be honest with me, Mom. You’re still upset about the holidays.”

“I’m upset that you’re still in this kitchen. Go.”

“You said it was fine that I didn’t come home this year.”

“Don’t you push me.”

She spoke quickly again, so curtly I knew before long she was going to use my full name. I needed to stop before she did.

“I’m not pushing. I’m asking you to be honest with me. Why didn’t you tell me it was a big deal? Why didn't you tell me don't go to the cabin?”

“Don’t you talk to your mother like that.”

I groaned and set my coffee cup down in exasperation. “I’m not talking to you like anything. I’m asking you to tell me what’s wrong. So I didn’t come home for Christmas. But we’re always doing this. There’s this thing in the air, all this stuff we don’t talk about, and then you say something like we’ll talk about it later, but we never do even though we really need to and—”

“God damn it, Nashville.”

Both of her palms came up and slammed back down against the edge of the countertop so hard the chicken in between her hands jiggled. My own hand jerked, and warm black liquid from my coffee mug jumped up out onto my hand, my wrist, the counter.

With steel she said, “I told you, now is not the time.”

I’d done it. I’d gone too far, and who knew what was going to happen next between the two of us.

But I couldn’t go right now.

“You always say now is not the time. So there’s never a time. And we definitely won’t have time if we go to Giuseppe’s.”

“You will not talk to me like that.” Just one hand came up this time and slapped back down with the word not, with twice the force as before, so that the entire chicken trembled and shifted on its board. “And you will not mock my plans for your grandmother’s birthday.”

“I’m not mocking you. Or anyone. I’m just trying to—”

“You most certainly are, and it will not be tolerated. Go.”

“I’m not mocking you.” For no reason other than to make some sound of my own, I set my coffee cup down on the counter beside me, loudly, and took a forceful step to the island.

“You can’t leave for nearly two years and then come back and do this, Nash.”

“Do what? You said it was fine for me to come later, after the new year. You said not a problem. Just come for grandma's birthday.” I was really pushing it, and several places inside of me lit up with warning—stop! Stop! Stop!—but I didn’t.

“You know damn well what you’re doing, Nash, and I won’t have it. You come waltzing in after close to twenty-four months, and within ten minutes you’re talking to me like that. You think it’s all fun and games while you were away having fun with your friends for the holidays, and that’s fine, I’m not upset about that. You’re young. You’re free. But your grandmother was sick, Nash, and how many times did you call?”

I took a step away from the island as if she’d hit me.

“Whoa. Sick? You told me it wasn’t too bad and…” I stopped. “Wait. What do you mean, fun and games with my friend?”

“Your friend. That friend of yours. Nick. Nathan.”

“Nico, mom, it’s Nico, and he’s—”

“His name is not important.” She ignited the gas with a quick twist of the knob, a sharp snap that coincided with the second to last word, and I watched her return to the sink and snap the faucet on again. She started scrubbing a lid vigorously, hard enough I winced at the sound.

Quietly I said, “I really didn’t know. I would have called if I could, you know that. There wasn’t any reception at Nico’s place. It’s way up in the mountains, and then we got snowed in on Christmas. I’m sor—”

“You will apologize to your grandmother while you’re taking her to Giuseppe’s.”

“I didn’t realize it was that bad. Is she in the—”

“She’s out now, Nash.”

“She was in the hospital? For how long?” I took another step away from the island, just because I didn’t know what else to do. I felt like things were going too fast and they weren't quite in control, like I was in a bus without a driver or any pedals. Images of our week together jolted through my mind, of Christmas dinner with his parents and how relaxed everything was, how simple. How much laughter there'd been around the table, and how warm the fire was afterwards. Images of Nico on the couch next to me, snow still falling through the window behind him, laughter filling the room with the same soft brightness as the fire. The cabin felt so magical, a true winter wonderland, and all the snow only made it that much more so even though none of us knew if we'd ever get out. That night, it didn't matter. All that mattered was the warmth, the coziness, the togetherness. At one point I'd come close to telling Nico this was the first holiday I felt like I was actually home.

An image of him and me sitting side by side on the couch, his legs tucked under a blanket, the blanket haphazardly over me as well, and his leg against mine. Barely, just barely, but there it was, and I couldn't think of anything else.

Nothing else mattered except his leg, his warmth, his closeness.

The sound of the sponge against the lid, rough, harsh, a constant shkkkssssshhh like the distant grating of a snow plow on city streets. I swallowed. I couldn’t think of Nico or the cabin, or us by the fire after his parents went to bed. Not now, not with my mom here.

Not ever again, after this.

“As I said. You will talk to your grandmother tonight when you take her to Giuseppe’s.”

“Is she okay? I mean, I didn’t know it was that serious or I really would have found a way to call. We could have managed to come down at least after Christmas. The snow wasn't—”

She rinsed the lid and returned to the stove with a towel. She started drying it. “Nash, stop.”

“I’m serious. Is she all right?”

 “I said stop it.”

“I couldn’t call. I would have, but the power was out because we had like two and a half feet of snow and there was no way to charge my phone and we were too far up the mountain anyway for—”

“God damn it I said stop it!” This time she had the lid in her hand and she slammed it down on top of the pot, with such vehemence the chicken wobbled behind her on the island. I saw it teeter on the edge of its cutting board once, so clearly, so pointedly, it was almost like it was making up its mind, and then the cutting board started to slip because the weight of the chicken was too far over the edge, and then the poultry took the plunge. It happened in slow motion, of course in slow motion, but that just gave the poultry a gleeful look as it flipped and began to tumble, almost gracefully, an arc of such magnificence it should have been captured on film.

A perfect ten.

Everything went still. Mom froze right next to the pot of water, my hand froze with the mug halfway up to my lips, and the chicken eventually froze too. The only sound was the soft ticking of water molecules heating in the pot.

“Go.”

“Mom, I’m ­ ”

She held up a hand. Nothing else moved except that hand.

“Not. Another. Word.”

I opened my mouth, started my sentence again. “I’m—”

Her finger pointed at the kitchen door.

I took my coffee cup, and I left the kitchen without another word.