Father Christmas

Gran smooths her palms together. “Once Astrid’s finished breakfast, we’ll get started on the walnut snowballs. Finn, you’re in charge of chopping the nuts.”

“You always make me chop the nuts. I’m starting to think that’s all you think I’m good for.”

“That’s not true. You’re also good at washing up.”

He snickers. “Okay, you got me. I may not be the best baker, but I know a good cookie when I eat one.”

I nearly choke on my oatmeal.

“Are you all right, Astrid?” Gran shoots me a worried look.

Finn slaps the center of my back.

“Sorry about that,” he says, in a tone that doesn’t sound entirely apologetic. I cough to clear my throat.

“I’m fine.” I wash my bowl in the sink and then get to work helping Gran measure the ingredients for the first batch of treats.

It’s harder than I thought it would be, standing close to Finn, pretending we didn’t make a lot more than promises last night. But after the first couple of batches, the nerves begin to wear off, and it’s like we’re playing house.

“That’s your dad’s old sweater you have on, isn’t it?” Gran asks me.

“Yeah, it is.” I sprinkle two teaspoons of cinnamon into the bowl of ginger cookie batter between us.

“I thought I recognized it. You know, your dad loved these ginger cookies. I used to have to hide them in my bedroom so he wouldn’t eat them all.”

“He’d still find ‘em though.” Finn pulls a pan of chocolate-chip cookies from the oven.

“Yes, he would.” Gran laughs fondly. “Christmas was Jamie’s favorite holiday. He was always the last to go to bed on Christmas Eve, and the first to wake up the next morning.”

I’ve heard all these stories about my dad before, but the telling and re-telling is part of our tradition. I like to think that by remembering him, we call him back to us. I know I always feel closest to him at Christmas.

“You boys were a handful,” Gran says, scooping a chunk of dough from the bowl and rolling it in her palm. “But you could always make me laugh.”

I toss the dough balls she hands me into a mixture of cinnamon and granulated sugar, then place them on a nearby cookie sheet. Finn joins in on the rolling and sugaring. I watch him work. He may not be the best baker in the family, but he wears domesticity like a tailored suit.

“Your dad would be so proud of you, Astrid,” Gran says, seemingly out of nowhere.

“I don’t know about that,” I tell her. “I haven’t done anything special with my life yet.”

“Don’t say that,” Finn says. My heart clenches at the look of admiration he throws my way. “You’re extraordinary, Astrid. Everyone can see that. Wherever your dad is, he can see it, too.”

“Finnegan’s right,” Gran says. “You’ve grown into a beautiful, intelligent, compassionate young woman. I don’t know how I would’ve made it through treatment without you by my side at all those appointments.”

Her voice trembles, and it’s then that I note the tears filling her eyes.

“What’s wrong, Gran?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”

Finn wipes his hands on a dish towel and gives her shoulders a light squeeze. “You can tell us, Dory.”

Gran shakes her head again and then sighs. “I was so afraid I wouldn’t get to spend Christmas with all of you.”

I hold her sticky, cinnamon-stained hands. Leena’s the only one who knows the true extent to which Gran’s illness affected me. I felt fragile every day until the doctors said she was cancer free. But I refused to be anything but helpful and optimistic in her presence, because I figured she didn’t need to add my worries to her own.

“Oh, Gran. I can’t begin to imagine how scared you must’ve been. I was there, but witnessing your fight isn’t the same as living through it. I know you fought hard to stay with us. You must be exhausted. Why don’t you go take a nap and let Finn and me finish the cookies?”

She waves her hand as if to dismiss the question, then says, “Maybe I’ll go rest my eyes for a bit.”