The Holiday Switch(7)

“Not upset, just disappointed,” I admit, because there’s no getting around it. While I can keep a secret, I cannot keep my emotions in check.

“Haven’t I said not to worry about work? It’s your last holiday at home. Enjoy it.”

“See?” Carm says with lifted eyebrows.

Mom loops her arms through mine and Carm’s. “I know exactly what’s going to pep you up. Decorating the tree!”

Carm and I groan at the same time, then break out into laughter. Christmas is no small feat in the Santos household. The switch from Thanksgiving to Christmas is like a slow chugging sleigh pulled by exhausted post–Christmas Eve reindeers. Decorating is the pinnacle.

I don’t resist the pull of my mother’s arm, and we three attempt to exit my bedroom door at the same time. Unsuccessful, and giggling, we try again and emerge into the hallway, where the rumble and chatter from my family below echoes up the staircase.

I let myself get swept up. Mom and Carm are right—I have to try not to worry.



* * *





We’re greeted at the great room with an explosion of red, green, and gold and “Frosty the Snowman” playing from the Wi-Fi speakers on the fireplace mantel. The normally dark brown hardwood is covered with decorations, from wreaths to garlands, to rolls of wrapping paper, stockings, and handmade parols. The pièce de résistance, our artificial family tree, stands bare and slightly crooked in the corner of the room.

Almost immediately, my younger sibs start calling out our names.

“Mom, can we eat the candy canes now?”

“Ate Lila, I can’t get this ornament on the tree!”

“Ate Carm, what do you want from Santa?”

My ten-year-old twin brothers, Grant and Graham, run up and tug at Carm, who was long ago dubbed a big sister, and bring her toward the pile of stockings to hang on the mantel. Grant’s older than Graham by two minutes and twenty-seven seconds and has curly dark hair like Dad, while Grant has feathery and flat hair like Mom’s. Carm, who doesn’t have patience for the average person, has all the time for my brothers. She’s an only child and loves the attention she gets at my house.

Irene, my fourteen-year-old sister, bum-rushes me so the pom-pom of her Santa hat pokes me in the eye. She has a sour expression on her face, a cross between an eye roll and a tongue-sticking-out emoji. Normal, basically. “Mom put me in charge of the Christmas lights. Please help me. I just can’t.”

Patience is not her virtue.

My dad, Arturo, in the eye of this tornado, is attempting to round everyone up like a Puppy Bowl referee.

    We are a brood. The Santos family consists of Mom, Dad, me, Irene, Grant, and Graham. The bottom line is that we are a lot, especially while putting up ornaments. It is not a peaceful process, with one person complaining, or a glass ball breaking, or two people fighting at any given time.

But after a couple hours, it’s only Carm and me trimming the tree—the rest have lost steam. Dad is at the stove, his back facing us. He owns That’s A Wrap, a specialty gift wrap and stationery store in town, so he comes home in spurts when he’s got coverage at the store. Mom’s on the phone, probably checking in on the nurse staffing at Holly General before her shift tonight. But Mariah Carey is on the playlist, the fire’s roaring behind the screen, and the midafternoon sun has set just below the trees.

It’s holiday perfection.

“Tinola’s ready!” Dad turns, carrying a tray of small bowls. The soothing smell of ginger wafts in the air, and the announcement of his specialty, a chicken soup with green papaya that six out of six of us love—or seven, if you count Carm—makes my mouth water.

“My stomach hurts,” Irene whines, lying prone on the carpeted floor in front of the fireplace.

“Mmm-hmm.” I eye her. “Told you that cup of hot chocolate would do that.”

She sticks her tongue out at me.

“I’ll keep trimming the tree.” Carm hangs another ornament. “Besides, if I eat here and show up at home full, Trish’ll be irritated.”

Carm calls her parents by their first names: Trish and Frank. Mom laughs, but if I did that…well, I don’t even try.

“I’ll help you decorate,” Dad decides as I grab the tray of soup from him. Dad’s biggest thing is keeping everyone happy, occupied, and entertained. He eyes the watch on his wrist. “I’ve got another half hour before I have to head into work.”

    I pass out the bowls to Mom and the twins at the kitchen table. With only half of us seated, it’s a relief to stretch out, though at the same time it’s like I’m missing half my limbs.

As Dad cajoles Irene and Carm into singing one more Christmas song, I sip my soup from a large spoon and revel in the comfort in my belly. Around the table, Mom’s, Grant’s, and Graham’s faces are turned down into their bowls. The routine is so ingrained that a pang shoots through me. In a few months, I’ll be the one missing from this table.

And yet, what accompanies this thought is a frisson of excitement. Because it means I’ll be wherever I need to be. Studying in Syracuse’s grand library. Walking through campus with new friends. Settling into a chair in a lecture hall.

“Why didn’t we mark these branches?” Dad growls from behind us, fluffing through the branches of the tree. “They’re uneven.”