Chapter 3 - The Notebook I Kept in the Junk Drawer
I didn't turn the kitchen light on when I got home. I stood in the daylight coming through the blinds and listened to the refrigerator hum, my coat still on, my purse hanging heavy on my shoulder. The house smelled like coffee from that morning and lemon cleaner. It felt too quiet after all those plates clinking at my brother's place.
I set my purse on the counter and saw the edge of it sticking out of the junk drawer that wouldn't quite close. The green spiral notebook. The corner was bent and there was a gravy stain on the cover from two years ago. I'd shoved it in there last January and told myself I wouldn't need it until next December.
I pulled it out. My handwriting was on the first page in black ink. Christmas 2024 - To Do. Under it, three columns.
The second scene was just me at the counter, flipping. Page after page of lists. Buy wrapping paper at Target. Pick up Doug's prescription before drive. Call choir about Christmas Eve service time. Order ham - confirm pickup Dec 23. Venmo Jenna $200 for gas to get here. It went on. Every year got its own rubber-banded stack of receipts tucked between pages. I sat down on the stool because my knees felt loose.
I hadn't added it up before. I never wanted to know. But that afternoon with the taste of microwaved vegetables still in my mouth, I wanted the number. I got a pen from the mug by the stove and a blank envelope from the mail pile and started writing.
Deposit for catering trays from Roselli's, $350, nonrefundable after Dec 15. Fresh tree plus stand and delivery from Hank's lot, $240 last year. Gifts for the grandkids, the nieces, the teachers, the mailman, $680 on my card. Airline help for my daughter when her hours got cut, $300 toward her ticket. Hotel for my parents when the spare room got too cold, $180 for two nights. Groceries, wine, paper goods, batteries no one thinks about. I stopped counting at $2,140 and stared at it. That didn't include the time. Two days cooking. One day cleaning his house before everyone came. Three trips to the store.
I'd always covered it. Mark handled the mortgage and the electric and called that even. My sister-in-law Karen brought one pie and posted the photo like she'd hosted. My daughter Jenna ate free and said thanks, Mom, love you. No one had ever asked what it cost.
My phone buzzed on the counter and made me jump. The screen lit up. Jenna.
It was the third scene, just that small vibration filling the whole kitchen. I wiped my hands on my cardigan and picked it up.
Hey Mom. You okay? You got quiet after lunch. Dad didn't mean it like that.
I read it twice. She'd typed, erased, typed again — I could tell because the three dots had come and gone before the message landed. I sat there with the notebook open, the envelope with the total under my elbow.
I typed back: I'm home. I'm okay.
She answered fast. Karen's been texting about plans. Are you still doing the trays?
I looked at the wreath I'd hung on my own front door, the one I'd made from clearance greens that were already browning at the edges. My throat got tight. She hadn't said it was wrong, what they did. She hadn't said, you shouldn't have been at that little table. Just checking if I was still doing the work.
I set the phone down and walked into the living room. The afternoon light was thin across the wood floor. The tree box was still in the corner where Mark had left it last weekend, unopened. The stockings were in a tote with the lights tangled. I didn't touch any of it. I just stood and breathed and let my eyes blur for a minute. Then I went back to the kitchen.
Fourth scene. I tore a clean sheet from the back of the notebook and made a new list. Not tasks. Proof. I wrote DECEMBER COSTS in block letters and copied the numbers underneath, neat this time. I paper-clipped the Roselli's receipt to it — pale pink, Dec 10 date circled. I didn't write CANCELLED across anything. I didn't call anyone. My hand hovered over the phone book with Roselli's number in it, and I closed it.
My phone buzzed again. Jenna: Let me know you're coming for Christmas, okay? Please?
I held it a long time. I could hear the clock over the stove ticking. I thought about her face at the table in her light top, looking down at her plate when Karen talked over me. She was torn. I knew that. But torn wasn't the same as standing up.
I typed: I need some rest. We'll see.
May you like
I hit send before I could soften it. No promise. No yes. Just that.
I put the notebook and the envelope on top of the microwave where Mark wouldn't move them, where I'd see them every morning when I made coffee. The numbers looked back at me, solid and plain. I wasn't angry in a loud way. I was just done pretending I didn't know what I knew.
