Holiday Drama

It's that time of the year again. Already, I'm filled with dread. Christmas dinner stopped being fun a thousand light years ago. What should be a season of love and cheer has become something characterized by trauma.

I know with unerring accuracy how many days left till Christmas by the profusion of pimples springing up at will. I sit before my vanity damp from the shower, my hair tied up in a knot. Now I reach for the astringent. I observe my nightly ritual in vain. The blotches on my face will exit in the same manner they appeared, silently, when the holiday season is over. Grant looks up from his reading, watching from his perch on the bed. He sighs. He has seen it before. Finally calling it a day, I turn off the bedside lamp. My whole body is tense, one twisted mass of agony. I toss and turn. My foot grazes Grant's. There's no need for words. He completely gets it. 

Any holiday histrionics is generated by someone near and dear, the usual suspect being Bess, my husband's older sister. Last year it was the petulant sulking. We had left the burden of care to her, she whined with Grant's parents well within earshot. Never mind that Jaz soldiered the same responsibility singlehandedly the previous year. There's not one of us daughters-in-law who doesn't admire Jaz. Privately I think of her as safe harbor.

Bess can rain on anyone's parade in a hurry. From snippets of my husband's childhood recollections, I piece together an image of a manipulator skilled at getting away with murder. Not much seems to have changed in the ensuing years. The family pretty much let's her have her way. Actually It would be almost funny if she weren't so maddening. I look at her and think of Narcissus, bending over the water, enthralled by his own reflection.

Certainly there are survival mechanisms. We let Bess preen knowing pampering awaits us at the spa retreats in late January. When and who started this tradition remains quite fuzzy. All I know is we young wives gather annually minus Bess. It's our belated reward for enduring such childish tyranny.

I am the latest addition to the family, quite the new bride though Grant and I have been married for 5 years. In the beginning, we had found mutual satisfaction, revelled in the comparative freedom of marriage unencumbered by kids. The family bore it long enough, Grant's idiosyncrasies had always been tolerated. He's after all the youngest son. We were left in peace for three years, exceptionally sterling behaviour, one might say. That was all in the past however. Currently the honeymoon period is over and holiday gatherings provide the perfect setting for launching barbs. I've got ducking down to a science and keep very much in the background. No point roughing up already choppy waters.

The day breaks as I'd known it surely would. Grant and I hop into our minivan, every conceivable nook and cranny laden with gifts. I remember the day we traded in our snazzy sports car for a family vehicle. The old ones nodded approvingly, sagely. Of course, we had run the gamut of youthful energy and were ready to settle down. Scrutiny of my midriff, once covert proceeded with frightening intensity. All pretense was flung aside.

Only now there's the beginning of a fragile acceptance, a resignation of some sorts. As I adjust my belt strap I think darkly that perhaps the family drama queen did provide some needed distraction. 

We make it in good time. Rex charges at us, tail wagging, barking ferociously in welcome. They're out in a moment, children squealing, everyone talking at once. I look over them, taking note of subtle changes. The years are beginning to tell on my father-in-law, his face drawn taut, hands outstretched as he shuffles towards us. A quiet man in his own way, he has perfected the balancing act between the two domineering women in his life. They now descend on us, the mother-daughter duo, each vying to be Queen Bee.

We get settled in and are swallowed up in initial joie-de-vrie. By mutual unspoken agreement, our visits have been few and far in between. Consequently, there's quite a bit of catching up. On the whole, it's turning out to be a mostly uneventful visit. Still, I'm afraid to exhale. It's just too good to be true. Bess sidles up to me, all charm, sabers temporarily sheathed. With hindsight, I realise she must've seen me as a competitor. Grant's her kid brother after all. It appears she's come to an understanding. Perhaps our extended absence was yielding results. With a few hours to go, I cross my fingers. Alas! My notion of a perfect holiday is not to be.

The perfect storm erupts over dessert. We've run out of Pink Himalayan salt, the crowning glory of the exquisite creation Bess has laboured over for hours. She's good at that, masking her need for attention under a seeming servitude. The tantrums return in full force. 'How could you forget it?', she screeches. 'Blah blah blah', the salvo continues for what seems like a lifetime. The object of her wrath this time is her husband. Like her mother, Bess has married a soft-spoken man. I look on bemused yet not really surprised. I think I detect a glint of steel in his eyes. I do a double-take. Yes, it's there. I'm definitely not imagining things. I have a feeling we're going to hear of a divorce a few years down the road. For now, we're in real time and Mama is placating, scolding and soothing the petulant daughter all at once. It's so painful to watch, even the kids look away.

Thankfully, it's time to say goodbye. In our vehicle Grant and I shake our heads. Next year we are definitely making that trip to Nevada. There are sights to behold, besides no one would find us in the desert. Even as we plot, we know with certainty the futility of our plans. By the time the earth completes her orbit round the sun, we would be seated obediently, albeit reluctantly at the large oval dining table alongside the others, bound by family tradition, captive to invisible ties that hold us together.