Questions for Christmas

Snow fell onto the ground outside, covering the earth in wintry white. The chilly air outside attempted to bite its way inside, but didn’t succeed. Homemade hot chocolate was bubbling lazily on the stove, inviting and warm. Half-finished mugs were scattered throughout the house. The table was set with a bright red tablecloth, mismatched place settings, and partially cleared dishes and silverware. It was just the right kind of day for a Christmas party.

A woman with long dark hair pulled a Christmas ornament from a box labeled “Sarabeth’s Homemade Ornaments 1985-1995”.

“Oh, I’ve always loved this one, Sarabeth,” the woman said. Sarabeth looked up from another box, her short dark hair hiding half her face. She smiled.

“I think I must have made that one when I was only three or four years old,” Sarabeth said.

“Your craftsmanship hasn’t improved much,” the other woman said. They laughed.

“Oh, look! This one has your face on it!” Sarabeth held up a gaudy ornament, salmon pink, turquoise, and magenta, for shame, with the name “Martha” printed boldly underneath. It did, indeed, have a picture of Martha’s face on it.

“Sarabeth, you put that one away right now,” Martha said, trying to hold back laughter.

“Don’t you want your children to know what you looked like at their age?”

“NO!” The women fell into a fit of giggles. It wasn’t a hideous picture, not by any standard, but Martha’s braces and puffy hair were in full frame. Martha held up another with Sarabeth’s face on it, equally horrifying.

“Oh no,” Sarabeth said.

“A truce, then?” Martha suggested. Sarabeth nodded eagerly, and they both fell into laughter again.

"So..." Martha began, trying to find the right words. Her tone had changed from earlier. The laughter was gone, replaced by something more thoughtful.

"So?" Sarabeth said. She absently poked at the Christmas decorations.

"So... will this be the year?" Martha asked. It wasn't her business. She shouldn't be asking. But...

"What do you mean?" Sarabeth said, her hands pausing on an ornament.

"Well, Sabrina is almost ten years old now."

"And?"

"Well, I found out when I was eight or nine, I think."

"She's just a kid, Martha," Sarabeth said. Martha blushed. She needed to know so she could remind her children not to blab anything they shouldn’t. It was a big deal for some people.

"I'm not trying to tell you how to... I'm not trying to give you advice... I just..."

"Just what, Martha?”

“I just want to know if you’re finally going to tell her or not, so I know whether or not my boys can talk about it. I’ve never lied to them about it.”

“Martha, don’t play with me. You do this every year. You invite us into your home knowing perfectly well we won't refuse, because we don't have anything this nice at home and then--"

"That's not fair--"

"And THEN," she brought her voice to a hushed, frustrated whisper, "and then you sabotage me with questions about how I’m raising my children.” Martha didn’t answer. The two women continued decorating the tree in uneasy silence. The kids were playing in the other room, their laughter rising up from one of their rowdy games.

“I’m really not trying to pester--” Martha said.

“Don’t lie to me, Martha, and stop lying to yourself. You have opinions about how I’m raising my girls. Be honest about that, and then keep it to yourself.”

Martha bit her tongue. Sarabeth did this every year. Martha invited her and her children to stay with them for a few days around Christmas time every year. Martha cleaned and cooked, and hosted Sarabeth’s family. The least Sarabeth could do was listen to Martha and let her have her way in things. No, not her way, just the right way. What was the older sister for, if not to provide guidance and counsel, especially in a case like Sarabeth’s?

“I just want the girls to be happy,” Martha said. Sarabeth sighed.

“Martha. I love you, you know that, but you want more than that. You want to be right.” Sarabeth moved to the kitchen. She poured herself another mug of hot chocolate and let the warmth fill her body. It was almost like the feeling of happiness, she thought, but it didn’t quite reach her fingertips the way that it used to. The way that happiness had before…

Sarabeth brushed a finger against her ring. She’d never taken it off, not even for a moment. Even though it had been four years. Even though she was certainly wearing it out by twirling it around and around on her finger. But twirling it was the only way for her body to release the anxiety. The anxiety that he would have eased. Now his calm reached her only through the small diamond he’d given her fifteen years before.

Life was different without him. Christmas was still Christmas, but the lights seemed to glow at her in a mocking way. “We bring everyone else joy, but to you we bring only sadness,” they seemed to say. Even the hot chocolate tasted like something bitter in her throat, now.

Martha, in the other room, continued brushing through the ornaments, but she wasn’t seeing them anymore. The vision of Charles’ funeral hummed in her mind again and again and again. Sarabeth was different somehow, now that she didn’t have Charles. Martha replayed the conversations with Sarabeth. Martha did just want to help her, but somewhere along the way… somewhere along the way, I lost my focus, she thought.

She wanted Sarabeth and the girls to be happy. She couldn’t understand why Sarabeth would lie to the girls for so long about something so silly, but it was common enough of a Christmas tradition. It brought the girls a lot of joy. Martha didn’t understand it, but it was important to Sarabeth. Maybe it was time for Martha to let go a little.

Sarabeth watched Martha through the doorway. Martha’s body was tired, that much she could tell. Martha carried herself differently than the confident young woman she used to be. A marriage of twelve years had given Martha four beautiful sons and an instinct for scolding, but it had left her feeling nearly as alone as Sarabeth felt each Christmas. I shouldn’t be so hard on her. It was difficult when Martha had her ideas about… well, everything. But…

Martha looked up to see Sarabeth watching her from the doorway. Sarabeth gave her a sad sort of smile. The smile you give to someone when your heart is aching. Aching in places you know they will understand. Martha smiled back, the kind of smile you give to someone when you wish with all your heart you could take all injuries and sorrows from them.

Sarabeth rejoined Martha beside the tree. She held out a mug of hot chocolate for Martha.

“Thank you,” Sarabeth said with a quiet smile. The women bussied themselves with decorating the tree. An ornament here, a statuette there. A dark red poinsettia blooms on this side, and a silver disco ball from Vegas on that side, until it was nearly finished.

“Sara, I’m sorry,” Martha said. Sarabeth nodded slightly.

“It’s ok.”

“No, no, it’s not. I really am sorry. I shouldn’t pester you with questions. It’s none of my business how you raise your girls.”

“Martha, do you know why I haven’t told Sabrina yet?” Sarabeth asked. Martha thought for a moment.

“No, actually. I don’t know why.”

“I never meant for her to get this old. I never meant for her to be a believer for such a long time. But you know what I see when I look in her eyes? I see Charles. I see Charles, and each time I think to tell her, I just can’t. I can’t because if I do, she will never have a magical Christmas again. It will mean… “ Sarabeth’s voice hitched in her throat. She swallowed, trying to regain composure. “It will mean…” Don’t cry.

“Oh, Sarabeth,” Martha said. She pulled her into a hug. The kind of hug where your hearts are somehow reaching each other through your ribs, and you feel like your blood will mix and boil until you are one and the same, a single creature sharing all pains. The kind of embrace you share when everything hurts and nothing is right, but somehow you feel a little better afterwards, just because you know you’re not alone.

“If I tell her… it means the magic is over. Her childhood is over. I never…” She let out a quiet sob into Martha’s shoulder. “I never thought I’d have to tell her by myself,” Sarabeth said. Martha held her, stroking her back in little looping circles. She wasn’t sure what to do. Martha had thought that it was just stubbornness or oversight on Sarabeth’s part. But now…

Martha pulled away to look into Sarabeth’s eyes.

“Sara, oh my baby.”

“I just wish he were here.” Sarabeth buried her face in Martha’s shoulder again.

One of Sarabeth’s girls came into the room and asked for more hot chocolate. Martha nodded, trying to shield Sarabeth from the inquisition. The girl--Suzie--ran to the kitchen with excitement. All the other children followed soon after, each asking politely for more. When they’d all come and gone, Martha turned her attention back to Sarabeth.

“I will be here if you want to tell her. But if you don’t, I will support you and stop asking questions or expecting you to do it my way. I’m sorry I’ve tried to put my ideas and opinions on you,” Martha said. Sarabeth stepped back a little to get a better look at Martha, unsure of how serious she was. She seemed earnest.

“Thank you, Martha,” Sarabeth said. Martha nodded and smiled.

“You don’t have to be alone anymore. I’m here,” Martha said. Sarabeth smiled as fresh tears washed her face again. Maybe it would be a better Christmas than she had been expecting.

The women finished decorating the tree, finding camaraderie in the efforts--unifying and comforting. Sabrina didn’t find out that year, but by the next, she was old enough to guess. Martha didn’t bother Sarabeth with questions again, instead learning to give her support and steadiness where she should have before. Sarabeth’s ring continued to twirl and twirl on her finger, relieving the anxiety that nothing else could. Martha and Sarabeth grew to trust and depend upon each other, and Sarabeth was the first person Martha told when Jefferoy filed for divorce. When the next Christmas rolled around and Sabrina started guessing, Sarabeth didn’t have to answer her daughter’s questions alone.