Phyllis Greer Hates Christmas

Phyllis Greer hates Christmas. From her armchair, the flashing lights of her neighbors’ ostentatious Christmas display are causing the milk from her tea to curdle inside her stomach. She reaches for an antacid and notes the ache in her rheumy fingers as she makes slow work of opening the container.

“It’s just you and me again, Tabatha, how we prefer it.” Her voice hints at sadness. She does not appreciate the the betrayal. Tabatha purrs and presses against her pant leg leaving a streak of orange fur. She reaches down to pat the old girl. She probably wants her supper, thinks Phyllis.

She counts herself in before pressing up to her feet. Her head spins as the blood drains to the floor. Her knees scream and her wrists bite and suddenly she has a dull ache in her tooth.

“Never get old,” she says to Tabatha, her cat of nearly eighteen years.

She steadies herself on the back of her armchair and waits for the swirling storm inside her mind to settle.

It takes exactly twenty-two Phyllis-sized shuffles to reach the kitchen. She has a side table, a dining chair, a door frame, a door handle, and finally, the kitchen table to cling to as she travels. On the one occasion when her busybody landlord, Maria, sent in a cleaner, she buggered up the system and Phyllis nearly fell. 

She pauses at the side table to collect her breath. The light on her voicemail flashes and she shakes her head at yet another intrusive display. Five missed messages. She could clear them, but if she’s being truthful, it’s nice to imagine someone other than that overly cheerful bank manager still cares enough to call on Christmas.

A knock at the door startles Phyllis mid-transfer to the dining chair and spooks Tabatha who scurries across her feet. Phyllis stumbles, grasps for a spindle on the dining chair, and collapses. She cries out.

“Ms. Greer? Everything okay? It’s me, Maria, I baked cookies!”

Phyllis feels a searing pain in her right hip. She’s never been happy for Maria to come calling, but today is both the cause and the exception.

Phyllis hears the clamor of keys. Maria is by her side in under three seconds with her phone pressed to her ear.

“Ms. Greer, oh my god, you poor woman. It’s so fortuitous that I came by!”

Phyllis smacks Maria’s hand as she reaches for her cheek. The movement ignites a fireworks display of pain through her pelvis.

“I had a slip, that’s all. Just help me over to that chair.”

Maria shakes her head violently. “Oh no, Ms. Greer, I cannot do that. You must wait for the ambulance. You may have broken something.”

Aggravating woman, thinks Phyllis.

Maria fetches a cushion and cradles Phyllis' head with exaggerated care as she wedges a separation between her bun and the cold floor. She clucks and prattles and Phyllis' blood pressure surges.

When the paramedics arrive, Phyllis demands once again that she be placed in her armchair.

“Can you lift your toes?” The first handsome young paramedic asks.

Phyllis rolls her eyes and attempts to lift her big toe, but her body betrays her once again. Her eyes water as she suppresses a scream.  

In the periphery, Phyllis spots Maria rummaging through her drawers ostensibly collecting items for her hospital bag. Phyllis does not appreciate the invasion, but what choice does she have?

“I’m sorry, Ms. Greer,” says the second paramedic, the one with the kind eyes and meticulously groomed moustache. “It’s Christmas and I’m sure you’ve much to do, but we believe you may have fractured your right hip. We’ll need to get you to the hospital for imaging.”

“What can they do for an old woman like me? No, I don’t want to go to the hospital. Kindly help me to that chair. I’ll be fine, I have Tabatha to watch over me.” Her voice wobbles. Phyllis is terrified of hospitals. Her late husband Don went in with a minor infection and came out in a casket.

Tabatha looks back at Phyllis from the bedroom where she is dutifully keeping a watchful eye over Maria and mewls her protest.

You stay out of this Tabatha, Phyllis thinks. I’m a grown woman who will not be told what to do, especially not by the likes of you.

“Let’s give you something for the pain and then we can transfer you to the stretcher,” says the first paramedic.

Handsome, but daft, Phyllis decides, editing her initial impression of the man. “I’m not going and that’s final.” She winces, from the sound of her petulance and the stabbing pain.

“Ms. Greer,” says the second paramedic, now crouching beside her. His voice is like honey. His uniformed smile reminds her of Don when he returned from the war. He covers her hand with his gloved palm and to her surprise, she doesn’t hate it. “I can see you value your independence. If you don’t get the medical attention you need, this could get a whole lot worse. You could lose your mobility indefinitely. Please, let us bring you to the hospital. I’ll be with you the whole time.”

“Nonsense!” Phyllis says, but with less conviction. “It’s Christmas. I won’t be getting in the middle of your plans this evening, Marcus,” she adds, now that he is close enough to read his name badge. She approves. Phyllis maintains a mental ledger of annoyances, and idiotic contemporary names like Forrest and Jaxston—the feral boys next door—are high up there.

Marcus smiles. “I’ve got nowhere to be but with you, Ms. Greer. I’m on duty and if I’m not accompanying you, I’m likely to get stuck with a belligerent elf with alcohol poisoning like last year.”

Phyllis hates idiotic names but she vehemently detests people who cannot hold their liquor.

Resigned, she says, “Well, alright, then, Marcus. As you wish.”

Phyllis welcomes the warm rush of pain medicine. The transfer to the stretcher is acceptable. Maria places a bag by Phyllis’ legs, “In case you stay the night, Ms. Greer.” Phyllis flushes at the thought of Maria handling her undergarments. “I’ll take care of Tabatha, don’t worry about anything, Ms. Greer,” she adds, patting Phyllis’ good leg.

Phyllis chokes out a thank you because she is nothing if not polite but secretly hopes Maria catches that stomach bug she hears has been making its rounds through the building.

—

“Are you experiencing any pain, Ms. Greer?” Marcus asks, looking up from his phone.

“I’m fine, Marcus, thank you. Please, carry on with your affairs.”

“Oh no, it’s just Candy Crush,” Marcus shrugs as he tucks his phone away. A Code Blue carries over the hospital loudspeaker and Phyllis shivers at the memory.

“What is—Candy Crush, was it?” Phyllis asks. She doesn’t care, but she finds Marcus to be decent company and a welcome distraction from her current situation.

Marcus’ face brightens. “Oh, you must try it! It’s horribly addicting though so consider this fair warning.”

Addictive, corrects Phyllis, but she’ll make the allowance this one time.

Phyllis hates Christmas, moronic names, drunks, meddlers, poor grammar, and mobile phones. No one makes eye contact anymore. To Phyllis, these tiny computers represent the end of civility. But for some reason, Phyllis finds Marcus’ enthusiasm endearing.

“How does this thing work?” She squints at the small screen of brightly colored candies. Marcus demonstrates how to play. She is a good student, and to her amazement, she finds she rather enjoys the challenge.

A message flashes on the screen and Phyllis reads it before she realizes the invasion.

“HI DADDY I LOVE YOU MERRY CHRISTMAS”

She returns the phone to Marcus and swallows hard. “My apologies for reading your private message.”

Marcus’ eyes twinkle. “It’s no problem! It’s from my son, Charlie.” He fiddles on the screen and flashes Phyllis an image of a sandy-haired boy with a toothy grin. He is wearing red-footed pajamas.

“He’s a handsome one, and what a perfect name.”

“He’s named after my grandfather. I never met him. We lost him in the war.” Marcus says this last part to the floor but Phyllis catches it.

“Ah,” Phyllis responds, unused to conversations requiring more than one side. “I’m sorry for that, Marcus. My Donny was in the war, he was one of the lucky ones.”

“I’ll bet he was a looker, to marry a woman like yourself,” Marcus teases.

Normally Phyllis would find a comment such as this distasteful, but there’s something different about Marcus. An old soul, perhaps.

“I don’t mean to pry, but you had Maria listed as your emergency contact. No children, then?”

Phyllis hasn’t uttered Sam’s name in decades. The boy died suddenly one night in his crib. They never learned the cause. After that, they chose not to try for more children. It was too painful.

Off her expression, Marcus apologizes.

“No, it’s quite alright. I just—I don’t speak of Sam often. He was my son, but he died suddenly in his crib.”  The memory tastes bitter.

Marcus’ eyes dampen. “We lost our daughter, Rose. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, they said. We’ll never truly understand why.”

Phyllis holds his gaze as she nods almost imperceptibly, wondering if it’s their collective grief that binds them. “You best write Charlie back. Poor boy must miss his father.”

Marcus smiles sadly and tap tap taps into his phone. He laughs an easy laugh at the response Phyllis imagines he has received, and slips his phone back into his front pocket.

“Tell me about Donny. When did you know you were in love?”

“I haven’t thought about this in years.” Phyllis begins the story of how Don wormed his way into her life when she was already engaged to another man. She describes how he swept her off her feet and her mother’s disapproval. She finds herself delighting in the memory. Donny’s faint comforting smells of cigarettes and spice envelop her like a warm blanket. Marcus is a good listener and asks thoughtful questions. They’re an unusual pairing, but Phyllis can tell Marcus is enjoying her company as much as she is enjoying his.

Tired of talking about herself, Phyllis shifts the conversation back to Marcus. She learns about the toy Charlie requested from Santa—a pretend animal on a screen that requires feeding. Though she doesn’t understand the world today or why on earth a child would derive pleasure from such a thing, she enjoys the way Marcus’ voice lifts when he speaks of his son.

“You are a wonderful father, Marcus. I only wish you could be spending the holiday with your family this evening instead of with a silly old lady.”

“Please don’t, Ms. Greer. I wish all of my patients were as interesting and brave as you. Besides, I’m paid time and a half for working over the holidays and I’m saving up to take Sarah and Charlie to Mexico!”

“How wonderful.” Phyllis remembers the cruise ship she and Don traveled on through Mexico for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. It was deliriously beautiful.

“Ms. Greer?” announces an orderly.

Marcus raises his hand. “Over here, Foster.”

Phyllis rolls her eyes at the abomination of a name.

“HELLO MS. GREER, MY NAME IS FOSTER,” yells Foster.

Phyllis looks to Marcus for help but he is occupied with paperwork.

“I broke my hip not my ears,” she snaps.

“MY APOLOGIES, MS. GREER, FORCE OF HABIT,” he responds, maintaining his obtuse volume.

Marcus rests a hand on Phyllis’ shoulder. “This is where we part, Ms. Greer. It has been a pleasure spending Christmas Eve with you. I only wish it were under better circumstances. You are in good hands with Foster here. He will see you to a room. I hope we meet again, in good health, of course.”

“Please, call me Phyllis. And it was a pleasure getting to know you, too, Marcus. Wish that young Charlie of yours a Merry Christmas from me.”

“ALRIGHT NOW PHYLLIS, LET’S GET YOU TO YOUR ROOM,” Foster interrupts.

“Call me Ms. Greer,” she admonishes. The corners of Foster’s mouth retract into a distasteful expression.

Phyllis steals one final glance at Marcus as she begins her journey down the corridor. Foster whistles Jingle Bells and this is the one time Phyllis regrets not owning a cane; it would make for a wonderful projectile.

As Phyllis settles into her bleak room with the peeling yellowed walls, she pictures Marcus, home after a long shift, watching Charlie open his presents by the tree, though it is now close to midnight, well past any child’s bedtime. Perhaps from the strong pain medication, or the unexpected company she found in the young man, but for the first time in years, Phyllis allows herself one indulgent moment to imagine her Sam, sitting by that tree instead of Charlie, opening his presents.

She smiles at the beautiful boy in her mind, the boy that was never meant to grow up.

“This has been quite an unusual Christmas,” she muses, then realizes she’d best cut that out before someone sees her talking to herself and decides she’s not only deaf but losing her faculties. 

As her eyelids grow heavy, Phyllis’ final thought before she surrenders to the pull of sleep is that perhaps she doesn’t hate Christmas as much as she’d led herself to believe.

Perhaps that was the loneliness talking.