The Christmas Orphans Club(73)
?After we begin making calls, word must spread around town because by two o’clock, the house is full of visitors. An army of older women in pastel slacks and floral blouses descend on the house bearing casseroles and baked goods. I wonder if they have freezers full of them, ready and waiting in case anyone dies, or if they had to drop everything this morning to bake a consolation coffee cake. Or, in the case of the lady bearing a lime Jell-O mold with raspberries and marshmallows suspended inside of it, if we’re being subjected to the worst of their Christmas leftovers.
When I offer to make what must be the tenth pot of coffee of the day, my mother shoos me away. “You’ll mess it up,” she protests, and I realize she still thinks of me as the nineteen-year-old who last lived under this roof.
“Mom, I’ve been making my own coffee for a decade. Trust me, I can do it.” My tone telegraphs my annoyance. I take the coffee filter out of her hand before she can object, but immediately feel guilty for snapping at her. “Why don’t you go sit down for a bit.”
By late afternoon, the stream of visitors slows to a trickle, and by dinner we pack Aunt Carolyn and Aunt Ruthie into their cars, too. My mother collapses onto a stool at the kitchen island like an animatronic toy that’s run out of batteries while the rest of us pick at slices of Partners Pizza that Theo ordered.
“I’m bone tired, but I doubt I’ll be able to sleep tonight,” she says as she blots a piece of pepperoni pizza with a napkin. When she finishes, she pushes it away without taking a bite.
“Do you want me to make some sleepytime tea?” Amanda offers.
“That won’t do anything.” My mother waves her off.
Theo goes into the hallway and returns with an orange pill bottle and offers it to my mom. “These might help.”
“What kind of pills are you giving my mother?!” I ask. The last time Theo offered someone pills Hannah and I didn’t speak for a year. We still haven’t addressed that, just slipped back into our old groove.
“It’s Ambien, but maybe only take half.”
I don’t expect her to accept them, but she pockets the pill bottle in her black linen pants. “Can’t hurt,” she concedes.
After Mom retires upstairs, the rest of us clean the kitchen. “Do you need anything before we go to the hotel?” Priya asks as she finishes wiping down the counters. She’s still wearing the silver sweater threaded with tinsel she wore at the escape room. It was only yesterday, but it feels like a lifetime ago. Her hair is slicked back in a limp, greasy ponytail.
“Unless you want us to stay?” Theo offers.
I should let them go. They’ve already gone above and beyond. First the flights, which reminds me I owe Theo money for my ticket, then the car, and then spending the day making polite conversation with a house full of strangers. It would be unfair to ask them to stay.
“Because we’re happy to stay,” Hannah offers.
“You are?” I ask, trying to leave them an out if they want it.
“Of course we are,” Hannah confirms. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
* * *
? ? ?
?“It’s pretty uncomfortable,” I apologize as I make up the pullout couch with spare sheets. “Whoever gets stuck sleeping on it is going to wake up with a sore back. The air mattress is probably more comfortable, but it tends to deflate overnight.” I keep up a constant narration of the less ideal points of their sleeping arrangements as I set up beds for them in the basement. The last time I had friends stay the night was for a track team sleepover I hosted junior year of high school. I should have let them go to the hotel.
“We don’t care,” Theo says with a hand on my back. “We’re here for you, not the amenities. We won’t be leaving a Tripadvisor review.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m tossing and turning in bed. I should be exhausted after the past twenty-four hours, but sleep won’t come. It’s strange to be back in my childhood bedroom after all this time.
Just as I find a comfortable position and begin to drift off, footsteps on the stairs jolt me awake. It’s probably Mom. I’ve heard stories about people sleepwalking and doing all sorts of regrettable things after taking Ambien. I should make sure she doesn’t go wandering our subdevelopment in her nightgown or get on the desktop computer in the den and buy the entire Neiman Marcus website.
Before I can rouse myself from bed there’s a light knock at the door. Then the doorknob turns. “Mom?” I ask, sitting up to see what she needs.
“Sorry, it’s me.” Me turns out to be Hannah. She’s wearing a pair of Priya’s pajamas: shorts and a button-up top printed with unicorns. I almost crack a joke about how off-brand they are until I remember—she didn’t get to pack a bag of her own because she was packing for me, even after a year of not speaking.
“Did you need something?” I showed them where the thermostat was in case it got stuffy and left enough towels for everyone to shower. My brain cycles trying to figure out what I must have forgotten.
“No, I’m just checking on you. You’ve been taking care of your mom and sister all day. I wanted to make sure someone was taking care of you.” She hovers in the doorway. “So, uh, how are you feeling?”
“I don’t think it’s sunk in yet.” I pull back the blankets on the bed, an invitation. She crosses the room without hesitation and climbs in. Strands of her still-damp hair tickle my arm as she finds a comfortable position. We automatically arrange ourselves face-to-face, the way we’ve done so many times before in her bed at Orchard Street.