The Worst Gift

It was the last day of Christmas holidays. There was so much to do to get the kids ready for tomorrow. Sierra planned to wake them up in an hour. They would be grouchy, but it was better to get on to the school-time schedule a day before they actually had to do it. She bit her lip, wishing she didn’t have to be the Grinch, wishing the fire emergency was over and that Pat could be home, safe and sound—and helping corral the kids. Fire season used to be April to October, so Pat normally had time off over winter. It had been a shock when the fire brigade was called out shortly after New Year’s Day.

Sierra turned the coffee maker on. She unloaded the steamy dishwasher while the machine gurgled and dripped and pumped the welcoming aroma of coffee into the air. “I want my old life back,” she whispered. She yearned for the November feel, with Pat at home, the kids at school, and her painting things on the dining room table while she worked on her latest creation.

She patted around barefoot, tidying up toys, dishes, and discarded articles of clothing. Their little bungalow was always a mess. Tidying up was like bailing out the Titanic with a soup bowl.

Everyone was so done with Christmas, it seemed, except her. There was the tree with its decorations and lights. Plus, Sierra still had Christmas stockings, and the delicate other ornaments, wreaths and mistletoe, to pack away. She had the half-dozen containers of Christmas dinner leftovers tucked in the freezer to be reheated.

Ugh, so many things to take care of! She felt tired just thinking about it. She poured a coffee, hoping it would rev her up for the day.

There were errands she’d have to run. In one corner, she had the things to donate: Outgrown kids’ clothes, toys, and books that had been replaced with new gifts.

In another corner, she had the gifts to exchange. Modern gift-givers were conscientious about including receipts, but still it was a chore she had to do. While exchanging, say, one color of socks for another, she might see a cute hoodie on sale— and what better way to banish the post-holiday blues than a little consumer therapy? There was a risk that she’d come home with more stuff when their home was already filled to bursting.

In the third corner sat the Worst Gift. The gift from her partner Pat. A box of chocolates. Contradictory or what?

For her birthday, three months earlier, she had debated a “real” fitness program at a “real” gym versus a Fitbit. Sierra had opted for a Fitbit watch. “I want to keep track of all the steps I walk in a day.” They had argued over it, Sierra saying she was constantly moving—cleaning, tidying, refereeing between the kids. And Pat saying it was not sustained cardiovascular fitness where you elevate your heart rate for 20 minutes. The Fitbit, let's be honest, was to encourage her to walk off a few extra pounds.

She wore the Fitbit on her wrist, the black band on her arm an accusatory stripe like the grim mouth of a disapproving ogre. There was an instruction manual to set up this gadget. Although she secretly hated stuff like that, she learned enough so she could charge the device and read the number of steps she’d made in a day. She kept the Fitbit fastened on her wrist so that at least it looked like she was paying attention.

No, the worst gift was that box of chocolates from devilish Pat on the first day of Advent. Sierra had left the wrapping on, but the paper was so thin anyone could make out the name “Delectables,” a vegan fine dessert and chocolate place everyone had been talking about. Well, everyone in the neighborhood parents group talked about it, anyway. Temptation near at hand.

The box was heavy, about a pound. Imagine—a pound of smooth, delicious vegan chocolate! Was Pat trying to drive her insane? It eroded her willpower, that's for sure. She had seen this box of Satan’s Choice every day for over a month.

And every day was a struggle.

 Every day, she had to tell herself, wait until Christmas, or wait until Boxing Day, or wait until New Year's Eve.

Then Pat had been called up to fight the fire. In her sadness and anxiety, Sierra had nearly torn into the box and eaten the whole pound of chocolate. But no, she resisted. She hid it. Put it out of her mind. (Second cupboard, top shelf, pushed to the back.)

She focused on manifesting Pat's successful return. Then she would open the Delectables box—and pig out.

Sierra poured a second cup of coffee and went to wake up the two children, who rolled out of bed and came to gobble cereal while she tuned into TV news about the raging fires.

 On their final day of holidays, the three of them played Monopoly at the dining room table. The game went on for hours with a midday break for a 10-minute FaceTime with Pat, who looked tired and the smudgy, but had words of Monopoly wisdom for the kids: “Buy a block! and buy hotels! Be ruthless, even with Mom.”

 After much laughter and teasing, they lost contact with Pat. It was better that way, Sierra thought. She hated tearful farewells. Pat did, too. Plus, there were no awkward questions about the Fitbit.

By dinnertime, Raven was declared the winner of Monopoly. “The first time ever,” Sierra cheered and Raven beamed.

They cleared off the table and Brooke asked to start a jigsaw after dinner.

Sierra said, “I guess… after baths and selecting your outfits and packing your knapsacks for tomorrow.” To her surprise, the kids leapt into action.

 They worked on the jigsaw, a haunted castle, but after an hour, they barely had the outermost edge done.

 Brooke said “Hey, could we snack on that box of chocolates you got from Santa?”

“Oh, no,” Sierra said, glad to have an excuse. “Sticky fingers will ruin the jigsaw.”

After the kids went to bed, she sat at the dining room table tinkering with the jigsaw. She sighed. The kids had begged to keep doing the puzzle. “One week more, please! We'll finish it by Sunday,” they said. And foolishly, she had agreed. But now the dining room table was occupied.

Would she ever be able to work on her watercolors again?

*       *       *

 The next morning she sat with her coffee at the dining table. She had pushed the kids out the door on time, with breakfast in their tummies. But now a wave of resentment washed over her. Every Christmas she put her artwork on hold while the cataclysm that is Christmas took over the bungalow. It was hard getting back in the swing of things.

She pushed herself to do the errands—donations and exchanges—that she had lined up yesterday. The hours flew by and suddenly she was FaceTiming with Pat, who looked even tireder and smudgier.

“Raven won Monopoly yesterday,” Sierra reported. “It’s given her confidence a boost.”

 Pat grinned. Raven's confidence was one of those secret ongoing parental projects. “And how about my gift to you?” Pat said. “Have you had a chance to work on it yet?”

Sierra pulled the box from the cupboard. “You mean this? The box from Delectables? I haven't even touched it. You should be proud of my willpower!”

 “What are you waiting for? Open it!” Shouting in the background overpowered Pat's words. And the connection ended.

 Sierra stared at the box a full two minutes. Depleted by errands, dissatisfied by life, she had no resistance to those chocolates. And the love of her life was far from home. What better reason to indulge in a pound of chocolates?

She ripped open the wrapping paper.

The label said Delectables, Delectables, Delectables all over and in small print it said,  Gingerbread House. Through a translucent window on the front of the box, she saw the baked gingerbread. She slit the tape. And opened the box. Scents of ginger, cinnamon, and nutmeg rushed from the box. She pulled out one piece of gingerbread after another. Rectangles. And then two irregular pentagons. For the end pieces. And two other rectangles for the roof. Her heart fell.

“What am I going to do with these?” Under the last piece, she noticed some plastic packages. Icing. Okay, that's how she would stick the gingerbread together. She didn’t feel crafty right now, but a gingerbread house would be something to show Pat, who’d been waiting so patiently for her to open the gift.

Houses were burning. Maybe Pat needed to see a house that was not on fire.

She wished the pieces would stick together. But she was able to prop them to air-dry under the stove fume hood so that the small house held together.

Around four o’clock the children came bustling in the front door. “What's that?” said Raven.

“Is that a gingerbread house?” Brooke said. “Like the fairy tales?

“Can we stick some candies on it?” Raven said. “I have leftover gold coins…”

“And I have leftover gum drops and candy canes. Please plee-eease!”

Sierra nodded and let the kids stick on more pieces of candy with the icing left.

“Now what are we supposed to do with it?” said Raven. She looked at the bottom of the box. “Hey, look. Here's a note.”

It was in Pat's handwriting:

“Dearest Sierra, Do you ever feel too constrained in our little bungalow? You are an artist. When I watch you, I think how badly you need a space to call your own. Below this note is an envelope with instructions to build a real little shed. Now that you’ve practiced up on gingerbread, you can build a real shed in no time. Inside the garage is a kit. It won't take us long to set up. It’ll make a perfect studio. With love, Pat.”

Sure enough, under the note was a big, fat envelope stamped Tiny Sheds, Inc. Sierra's eyes brimmed.

“What's the matter, Mom?” Raven said.

“Sometimes I think no one pays attention to my pain.” Sierra wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “And then to my surprise, I find they have the perfect answer.”

Mouths gaping, the children stared in puzzlement.

“Let's go out to the garage,” Sierra said. “Apparently, there’s a package of pre-cut lumber and hardware fixtures.”

They ran out to the garage, a chilly place where they seldom ventured in winter except to store the boxes of Christmas paraphernalia. On that same shelving unit was a box marked “Sierra – Art!” It held sketchbooks, stacks of thick paper for doing watercolors, and was crammed with paints and brushes.

Lo and behold: against the opposite wall in the garage was propped a long, flat cardboard box with the Tiny Sheds logo.

Sierra, flabbergasted, studied the sticker on the Tiny Sheds box. It showed a small wooden building with a big window and a small, perfect door. The more she stared at the picture, the more it reminded her of the gingerbread house. She squeezed her fists in anticipation; she could hardly wait to move her art tools into her own special space.

“Wow,” Sierra said, “the worst gift is now suddenly the best gift!” Her joy was contagious, and the children cheered and ran circles around her.

Puffing and panting, Sierra and the kids returned from the garage. The first thing she saw was the gingerbread house on its platter on the kitchen counter. It looked blown apart. Evidently, the icing had not properly hardened. The walls had collapsed.

It seemed like an omen, and she couldn’t help but shiver.

The children’s voices fell silent.

Her phone chimed. She frowned. FaceTime? But Pat never called at this hour.

She stepped toward the phone, arm outreached. The screen flickered to life; a man she didn’t recognize appeared. But she knew the uniform, the bright colors of the fire-fighting crew. The sweaty, smudgy face, the three-day stubble.

“Mrs. Evanson?” the stranger said in a solemn voice. “You are listed as next of kin for Pat…?”

THE END