In a Holidaze

I glance at my brother and wonder what it must be like to float through life so happily oblivious. He’s got his headphones on and is mildly bopping along to something perky and optimistic.

“I didn’t want to fall apart in front of Lisa,” Mom hiccups, digging in her purse for a Kleenex. “She was so devastated, couldn’t you see it, Dan?”

“I—well, yes,” he hedges, “but she was probably also relieved to have made the hard decision.”

“No, no. This is awful.” Mom blows her nose. “Oh, my poor friend.”

I reach over and flick Miles’s ear.

He flinches away from me. “What the hell?”

I tilt my head toward our mother, as in, Give her some support, you idiot.

“Hey, Mom. It’s okay.” He blandly pats her shoulder once but doesn’t even turn down his music. He barely looks up from his phone screen to give me a look in return that says, Happy now?

I turn back to the window and let out a controlled breath, working to keep it from being audible.

Before we left, Lisa took what will probably be our last group photo on the porch—somehow managing to cut the tops off the back row of heads—and then there were tears and hugs, promises that nothing would change. But we all know that’s a lie. Even though we’ve pledged to still spend the holiday together, where will we go? To Aaron and Kyle’s two-bedroom Manhattan apartment? To Andrew’s Denver condo? To Mom and Victor’s house, which used to be Mom and Dad’s house? Awkward! Or maybe we’ll all squeeze into Benny’s camper in Portland?

My brain takes off on a hysterical tear.

So we’ll rent a house somewhere, and we’ll all arrive with suitcases and smiles but everything will feel different. There won’t be enough snow, or the yard won’t be big enough, or there won’t even be a yard. Will we decorate a tree? Will we go sledding? Will we even all sleep in the same house? I imagined my childhood would end gradually, not with this full sprint into a brick wall starkly labeled End of an Era.

Mom sucks in a breath and quickly swivels to face us, interrupting my mental spiral. She places a hand on Miles’s leg, gives him an affectionate pat. “Thank you, baby.” And then mine. Her nails are painted fuchsia; her wedding ring glints in the midmorning light. “Mae, I’m sorry. I’m fine. You don’t have to take care of me.”

I know she’s trying to be more conscious of how much of her emotional burden I tend to take on, but her vulnerability lances my chest. “I know, Mom, but it’s okay to be sad.”

“I know you’re sad, too.”

“I’m sad as well,” Dad mumbles, “in case anyone was wondering.”

The silence that follows this statement is the size of a crater on the moon.

Mom’s eyes spring fresh tears. “So many years we spent there.”

Dad echoes hollowly, “So many years.”

“To think we’ll never be back.” Mom presses a hand to her heart and looks over her shoulder at me. “Whatever happens, happens.” She reaches for my hand, and I feel like a traitor to Dad if I take it, and a traitor to Mom if I don’t. So I take it, but briefly meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Mae, I see the wheels turning up there, and I want you to know it’s not your job to make sure that we are all happy next year and the transition is smooth.”

I know she believes that, but it’s easier said than done. I’ve lived my entire life trying to keep every tenuous peace we can find.

I squeeze her hand and release it so she can turn back around.

“Life is good,” Mom reassures herself aloud. “Victor is well, his girls are grown, with kids of their own. Look at our friends.” She spreads her hands. “Thriving. My two children—thriving.” Is that what I’m doing? Thriving? Wow, a mother’s love really is blind. “And you’re doing fine, right, Dan?”

Dad shrugs, but she isn’t looking at him.

Beside me, Miles nods in time to the music.

“Maybe it’s time to try something new,” Dad says carefully. I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror again. “Change can be good.”

What? Change is never good. Change is Dad switching medical practices when I was five and never being home again during daylight. Change is my best friend moving away in eighth grade. Change is a terribly advised pixie cut sophomore year. Change is relocating to LA, realizing I couldn’t afford it, and having to move back home. Change is kissing one of my oldest friends when I was drunk.

“It’s all about perspective, right?” he says. “Yes, the holidays may look different, but the important parts will stay the same.”

The cabin is the important part, I think, and then take a deep breath.

Perspective. Right. We have our health. We have each other. We are comfortable financially. Perspective is a good thing.