Christmas Shopaholic(83)

Stupid real life. Why isn’t it like a Christmas movie?

I had thought Minnie’s Nativity play might be a nice meeting point…but my parents can’t even come, because Dad has a foot appointment. So much for that bright idea. Hmph.

I’m sitting in the kitchen, finishing my breakfast coffee, while Minnie sings “Hark dah Herald Angel King,” at the top of her voice. (I’ve tried correcting her, but she’s adamant it’s “king.” She’s quite stubborn, my daughter.) She woke up at five o’clock this morning and came running into our room, yelling, “Nativity! Nativiteeee!”

“Are you excited?” I give her a hug. “I’m so excited! I can’t wait till this afternoon.”

I can’t stop admiring her costume, all ready on its hanger. It nearly killed me making it, and I don’t want to boast—but it’s fantastic. The silk hangs down in gorgeous ripples and the sequins are sumptuous, and if Minnie doesn’t get Best King, then there’s something wrong with the world. (OK, I know there isn’t really Best King. But in my head.)

“Well,” says Luke, striding in. “The house looks great, Christmas tree up, we’re all set.”

“Except no one’s talking to each other,” I point out.

“Oh, that’ll blow over,” says Luke dismissively, and I feel a prickle of resentment. He doesn’t ever go on WhatsApp, so what does he know?

“What if it doesn’t?” I object.

“It will.”

“But what if it doesn’t? God, I wish life were like a Christmas movie, don’t you?” I add with a gusty sigh.

“Hmm,” says Luke carefully. “In what sense?”

“In every sense!” I say in astonishment.

In what possible sense could you not want life to be like a Christmas movie?

“Every sense?” Luke barks with laughter. “In the saccharine, manufactured, and totally unrealistic sense?”

I glare at him. He needs to watch more Hallmark Channel, that’s his problem. If he was in a Christmas movie, he wouldn’t laugh; he’d say, “Oh, honey, let me pour you some hot apple cider.”

“OK,” Luke relents. “What would happen in a Christmas movie?”

“Everyone would get together at some lovely festive event, and they’d all wear Christmas sweaters, and they’d hug each other, suddenly realizing that the Christmas spirit is more important than—” I break off, inspired. “Wait! That’s it! Luke, we need a festive event!”

“We have a festive event,” he says, looking baffled. “It’s called ‘Christmas.’?”

“A pre-Christmas event! Where everyone can come together and wear Christmas sweaters and feel the Christmas spirit and make up. I’m organizing one,” I add firmly. “And we won’t ask Flo.”

I can see Luke opening his mouth to make some objection, but I ignore him, because whatever he’s going to say, I’m right. This is the answer. Not a caroling party, because none of us can sing. Not log-splitting, because…really? Not a sleigh ride, because we’re not in Vermont.

Then, as I’m arriving at school with Minnie, the answer comes to me. We’ll make gingerbread houses! It’ll be fun, and it doesn’t matter if they’re crap, because everyone can just eat the gingerbread.

“Minnie,” I say, “shall we have a gingerbread-house-making party?”

“Yes!” says Minnie enthusiastically, and I beam down at her. At last I feel as though I’m taking control. I have a plan.

When we get to the classroom, there’s a buzzy group of parents bringing in costumes, and their children are saying, “Look at mine, look at mine!” to Miss Lucas.

“Yes!” she’s saying, beaming round at the faces. “Marvelous! Oh, Zack, look at your donkey mask!”

Ha. Midnight-blue silk and sequins beats a donkey mask any day. For the first time ever, I feel like I’m the one with the really great craft project. I’m the one who went the extra mile. I can see Wilfie’s and Clemmie’s coats on their pegs, which means Suze has already been and gone—a shame, because I was looking forward to showing off my handiwork to her. But she’ll see the costume in the play. In fact, it’s better if she sees it for the first time in the performance. I can’t wait.

Through my happy reverie, I suddenly spot Steph walking along the pavement toward school, and my stomach drops in horror. She looks terrible. Her skin has a gray tinge and her hair is greasy and her gaze is distant. Harvey keeps pulling at her arm and trying to get her attention, but she obviously can’t hear him. She’s lost in a place in her head. A bad place.

I need to talk to her—but not here in front of everyone. I hurry back out with Minnie, into the playground, and meet Steph coming in through the gates.

“Steph!” I greet her. “I haven’t seen you for a while. Are you OK?”

Steph’s eyes jolt with shock as though I’ve woken her from a nightmare.

“Oh, hi, Becky,” she says, her voice dry and scratchy. “Hi. Sorry I haven’t been around much. I’ve been dashing in and out.”

“Don’t apologize!” I say. “I just wanted to, you know, check in. See how you’re doing.”

“Yeah.” Her voice descends to a whisper and she takes a deep, shuddery breath as though fending off tears. “Yeah. Not great.”