'Twas the Night Before

Criss-cross applesauce, Elisa sat on the fireplace. Her skirt snagged on the brick as she scooted away from the edge. The cotton stretched taut, letting thin slivers of light peek between the pink threads. 

Usually, her brother Marco would’ve made a fire in the fireplace by now. Back when she used to sleep curled up on the brick, the embers had kept her warm. She didn’t sleep here anymore. Slept in her bed like a big girl, like Marco said she should. But Marco still made the fire every night. Why, she wasn’t sure. Why not, he would answer, I like the sound. And Elisa did too, but they couldn’t have a fire tonight. Just milk and cookies, she explained to Marco, so Santa doesn’t skip our house.

Marco showed her how to make oatmeal cookies, the way Mama used to, helping her stir when her arm got tired. They lost track of time and burnt the edges. Santa wouldn’t mind, Elisa was sure. Santa loved everyone. Plus, she’d been good this year, even helping Papa extra when he was sad. He’d been sad since Mama left.

Mama left. That’s what Marco told Elisa late last winter, while she was licking strawberry Pop-tart frosting from her fingertips. She didn’t know, then, that Mama would be gone for such a long time. How long, she’d asked over and over, how long. A very long time, Marco said. Papa just looked away, left the room. What no one said was, forever.

Mama wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t disappear and never come back. Elisa knew, at least a little, about the sickness. How Mama was always tired, how her voice wilted. How Penny, her old babysitter, would sometimes have to tuck her in when Papa took Mama to the hospital. They always came back though, Mama and Papa both. Always. The garage would clop shut and the garage door would groan and Mama would come in and comb Elisa’s hair with her fingers. Papa would give Penny a firm handshake, Elisa a long hug.

Whenever Penny tucked her in, Elisa couldn’t sleep right. Tense but eerily still, she would lie awake until it was much later than she was allowed to stay up, even on special occasions. When morning came, it felt wrong too. The house was too sharp somehow. The corners stuck out at weird angles, the light bounced around too much. 

Elisa would drift to the pantry, feeling like an intruder with every step. On tiptoe, she could reach the Pop-tarts. The foil tore easily and it wasn’t long before the only traces of her breakfast were flaky crumbs and sticky fingertips. This was how Marco, eyes watery, found Elisa to tell her about Mama leaving.

After that, Elisa could never sleep right. The house was always too sharp, Mama’s absence jutting out like the crystallized sugar they’d made for the science fair. Saturated with hope that she would walk in the garage door. Any minute now. So Elisa guarded it, keeping watch day and night. Sitting on the ledge below the brick fireplace, she knew she’d be the first one to see Mama’s soft smile when she came back. 

It became her nest, that fireplace. She would sit for hours, criss-cross applesauce, staring hazily towards the garage door. Marco wandered into the frame, out of the frame, asked her questions, brought her toast. Never Pop-tarts. They never discussed this, but he knew. They never discussed much of anything. Their understanding just hovered, suspended in time, not too different from Elisa. Her legs got stiff from sitting for so long. Papa sometimes drifted in too. Never speaking but never crying. Sometimes holding a whiskey bottle, often an empty one. At first Elisa barely saw him, even when he was right there. Later, she’d get him water, make him toast. But she never stopped looking at the garage door. She’d feel around for the grainy cupboard knob, seeing the sliced bread in the corner of her vision. Finding the toaster the same way. Dipping up some butter from the jar with the small knife. Spreading it sloppily. Handing it to Papa, not bothering with a plate.

She never decided to sleep on the fireplace, just knew. When Mama came it would be in the morning, like after those long nights with Penny. Elisa would be there waiting. The brick was grainy, hard. Her arms were her pillow. If she tilted her head just right, the garage door was the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes. Every morning, even before fully waking, she felt a warm gem of hope glowing in her stomach. It was tiny at first, just a seed. And then it began to heat up and expand in the millisecond, the infinitely stretching wishful millisecond, before her eyelids parted. The garage door stayed shut. The gem in her stomach withered back to a seed. How long, she asked over and over, how long.

A very long time, Marco said. She kept waiting.

But Elisa knew about very long times. She had waited a very long time before. For road trips to end, for dinner to be ready. She had even waited the longest time of all. Mama, she said every December 26th, when is the next Christmas. In a very long time, sweetie. And Mama was right, she always was. It was a very long time. But without fail, the very long time always ended.

The perch, the brick fireplace became called. It was mostly a joke at first. Marco made up the name, trying to lighten the mood. I wonder where Elisa will be today, he’d say, maybe on the perch. But in time his tone got more serious. Worried, coaxing. Don’t you think you should move from the perch? Sleep in your bed, Elisa, like a big girl.

She did, eventually. Not for a while. Not for many mornings of hopeful gems and infinitely stretching wishful milliseconds. But one day, she went back to her bed. After nightfall coated the sharp corners of the house with soft padding, she stood up from the perch and went to her bed. Marco tucked her in.  

I’m proud, Marco said. You can’t keep waiting on the perch. It will be a very long time.

So Elisa slept like a big girl again, cozy all night long under her blanket. Her body heat encased her in a warm bubble. The house got less sharp too, over time. But just because she left the perch doesn’t mean she stopped waiting. She realized, after careful thought, that Christmas came faster when she didn’t think about it. Maybe Mama would too. 

Christmas did come. In its typical lackadaisical manner, indifferent to Elisa’s impatience, it rolled around just as the air outside started feeling laced with frost. A Christmas tree appeared not far from the perch. It smelled sweet, made the house softer. 

Someone hung three stockings on the mantel above the brick fireplace. Marco, probably. Mama’s was missing. Elisa considered looking for it, digging through dusty closets, but it didn’t seem right. Something else was missing too. Every day of December, Mama used to put a piece of chocolate in each stocking. Mama didn’t believe in coal. Santa doesn’t punish kids, Mama said last year, if they believe in him.

If they believe in him. Elisa turned this over in her mind like a weighty stone. It opened up an alternative, the possibility of not believing. Maybe this other option meant she shouldn’t believe. But Mama didn’t say it like that. She said it like Elisa could decide what she wanted to believe. A choice. Elisa liked this small freedom, cherished it. She never announced what she chose, but her glee when she saw the presents sprinkled under the tree the next morning gave her away.

Now she was back on the perch, criss-cross applesauce, for the first time in a while. Three stockings above her head, a plate of oatmeal cookies to her right. The snag on her stretched-out skirt broke free with a scratch, and she watched the fabric spring back to its normal ripply shape. No more gaps between the threads. She looked up, eyes fixing in on the garage door, then looked away. She wasn’t waiting for Mama now. Tonight, she would see Santa.