Chapter 5 - She Wanted My Christmas Without Me In It
The call came at 9:14 in the morning, five days before Christmas, while I was folding laundry at my own dining table. I saw her name on the screen and let it ring twice before I picked up. I didn't put her on speaker. I didn't want her voice filling my kitchen.
"Well, good news," Diane said, bright in that way she got when she'd already decided something. "Mark and I talked it over. We'll host. At our place. Problem solved."
I sat down on the chair with a warm towel in my lap. "Okay," I said.
She laughed a little, like I'd missed the cue. "I mean Christmas dinner. The whole thing. Here. Our dining room seats twelve if we pull the leaf. It'll be cozy."
Behind her I could hear Mark saying something low, and water running. Our brother had always let Diane do the talking when it came to plans.
"That's generous of you," I said. I kept my voice even.
"Honestly, Carol, it's not that hard," she said. I could hear her moving around. "Turkey, sides, pie. Kids don't care about the fancy stuff anyway. I just need a couple things from you."
I waited. The dryer buzzed in the laundry room.
"Your sweet potato recipe. And the caterer guy's number from last year — the one who did the rolls? And where are Mom's decoration bins? I figured they're in your garage. I can swing by tomorrow and grab them."
I looked out my window at my driveway, empty and clean for the first time in a December I could remember. I thought about those bins stacked against the back wall, labeled in my own marker. WREATHS. TABLE. NATIVITY — FRAGILE.
"I'm not giving you the bins, Diane," I said.
A pause. "What?"
"They're mine. I bought everything in them over ten years. The lights, the garlands, the tablecloths. I paid for them. I'm keeping them home this year."
"Carol, don't be petty," she said, and the brightness thinned. "It's for the family."
"Then you can buy your own," I said.
Mark came on then, his voice closer. "Come on, sis. Just send her the recipes at least. Don't make this harder."
"I've made it easy for twelve years," I said. "You can Google a sweet potato casserole."
I hung up before he could answer, and set the phone face-down on the towel. My hands were shaking a little, but not from doubt.
By noon the group text started up without me, then Jenna added me back in. I watched the bubbles come and go.
Diane: OK FAMILY Christmas at OUR house 4pm!!! Jenna can you come early help set up?
Jenna: yeah of course what do you need me to bring?
Diane: just yourself and maybe your veggie tray lol
Jenna called me that afternoon from her car. I could hear her blinker clicking.
"Mom— I mean, Carol," she corrected herself fast. My niece had called me Mom as a joke since she was little because I was always the one with snacks and Band-Aids. "She doesn't have anything. Like, she asked me if we usually do a twenty-pound turkey for fourteen people? And she thought stuffing just— comes?"
"Did you tell her?" I asked.
"I tried. She said I'm overthinking it." Jenna sighed. "She wants me there at noon on Christmas Eve to help clean her dining room. It's... it's full of like, office stuff right now. There's a printer on the sideboard."
I closed my eyes. I could picture Diane's dining room exactly, the dark blazer hanging over a chair, the table she used for folding catalogs and wrapping last-minute gift cards.
"Are you going to help her?" I asked.
"I said I would. I feel bad saying no. But I have work, and I don't know how to do the gravy thing you do, where you—" Her voice wobbled. "I don't want it to be bad, you know? For the kids."
I held the phone tight and looked at the framed photos on my own wall. "It's kind of her to try," I said finally. That was all I could give.
That evening Diane posted a photo in the group chat. Her dining table cleared off, leaf in, covered with a white paper cloth from the dollar store. Her caption: Let the hosting begin!! with three exclamation points.
Mark texted right under it: Thats my girl.
No one asked who was buying the groceries. No one asked about the chairs, the extra oven, the pies. Jenna texted me privately at ten: she asked me to get your vendor numbers from you. I told her I didn't have them. Is that ok?
May you like
I typed back: That's fine. Get some sleep.
I turned my lamp off and sat in the dark living room for a while. Five days out, Christmas had moved to Diane's house with no food ordered, no recipes, no decorations, and a twenty-year-old printer moved off the sideboard. It wasn't my problem anymore. That was what I'd asked for. I just hadn't expected it to feel so much like watching someone drive my car with no oil in it.
