Chapter 2 - The Drive Home With Hands Shaking
I didn't answer them right away. I laid the white napkin flat on the tan tablecloth and smoothed it once with both palms, the way I'd smoothed tablecloths and wrapping paper and my daughter's hair for twenty years. Behind me, the big wooden table went quiet except for forks scraping plates.
My name is Karen Ellis. I was fifty-three that December, and I was sitting alone at a card table while my family ate Christmas lunch without me.
Mark cleared his throat from the big table. "It's just easier this year, Karen. Keep things small."
Diane nodded too quickly in her dark blazer. "We thought we'd keep it simple," she said. "No fuss. You always do too much."
I looked down at my vegetable plate and my wine glass, both half-finished. My hands weren't shaking yet. That came later.
I picked up my plate in my left hand and my wine glass in my right and stood. The chair legs scraped the wood floor. Nobody moved to help me. The wreath on the shuttered window brushed my peripheral vision, pine and red ribbon, and the framed photos watched me walk past.
In the kitchen, I set the plate by the sink. The counters were already stacked from the lunch they'd cooked — or more like assembled — while I'd brought the wine and the vegetables and the extra chairs. I rinsed my glass because my hands needed something to do. The water was too hot.
Diane followed me in with her own empty plate. She leaned against the counter and smiled that hostess smile.
"We'll handle Christmas this year," she said lightly. "You rest. You've earned it."
It sounded kind if you didn't know her. If you didn't hear what it really was: stay home.
I dried my hands on a dish towel. "Okay," I said. I didn't trust myself with more than that.
Mark appeared in the doorway in his blue button-down, sleeves pushed up. "You left your napkin out there," he said.
"I know," I said.
He waited like he expected me to explain or cry or argue the way I used to. I just folded the towel, set it down, and walked past him to get my purse from the hallway. My coat was on the hook under his. I put it on slowly.
Nobody walked me to the door. My younger niece, Jessica, in her light top, called from the dining room, "Drive safe, Aunt Karen." Her voice cracked a little at the end, and I loved her for it and hated that she'd watched it happen.
Outside, the daylight was thin and cold. My car was parked at the curb behind Mark's truck. I sat in the driver's seat for a full minute with the engine off, hands in my lap. Then the shaking started — first in my fingers, then up through my wrists. I gripped the steering wheel until it stopped.
I backed out and drove the county road toward home, past the church parking lot already strung with lights and the grocery store with trees tied on top of cars. I replayed it without meaning to. Every year. Me ordering the turkey from Miller's and picking it up the Tuesday before. Me paying for the extra groceries when Mark said money was tight. Me cooking at my house and hauling trays over. Me washing the good plates while everyone else had pie.
At the stoplight by the highway, I counted on my fingers without thinking: turkey, ham, pies, wine, paper goods, gifts for six kids, the cleaning service for Diane's house because she wanted it perfect for photos. I stopped counting because the light turned green and my eyes were blurring.
My house was quiet when I unlocked the door. No tree yet. Boxes still taped shut in the living room. The kitchen calendar hung open to December with little notes in my handwriting — pickup, deposit, bake, wrap.
I dropped my keys in the bowl and stood there in my gray cardigan, still wearing my coat. For a minute I thought about calling my sister. I thought about crying. Instead I walked to the calendar and stared at my own writing.
Then I did something I'd never done. I went to my laptop at the kitchen table and opened my email. Miller's confirmation for the holiday turkey and sides. The bakery order for rolls and two pies. The reservation for six for Christmas Eve dinner downtown because Diane had said cooking was too much this year but still expected dinner somewhere nice — on my card.
My cursor hovered. My hands were steady now.
I canceled Miller's first. Click, confirm, refund in three to five days. Then the bakery. Then I pulled up the restaurant reservation and hit cancel. A little box asked if I was sure. I typed: Plans changed.
May you like
I sat back and listened to the furnace kick on. The house felt too still, but it also felt like mine for the first time in years at Christmas. Nobody had been notified. Nobody knew yet that there would be no turkey arriving, no pies, no table paid for. I wasn't going to call and announce it. I was just going to stop.
I closed the laptop and folded my hands on top of it. The shaking was gone.
