Reagan was the wrong choice for this.
If you could only spend Christmas with one person, no one in her family would pick her. （No one in the world would pick her.） Reagan was the person you called when you wanted someone to talk you into leaving your husband. Or when you needed someone to call the bank to straighten out your overdraft fees.
Her niece called Reagan when she needed help getting birth control. And Reagan’s mom called when she wanted someone to go to the Ford dealership with her dad, so they didn’t end up paying too much for a truck.
No one called Reagan for comfort.
No one called Reagan to offer any.
No one ever said, “I’m lonely, could you come by?”—and no one ever came by.
Even before this bullshit.
Her grandpa felt more solid in her arms than he looked. He was a big guy once, and those bones were still there. “Thought maybe my hugging days were over,” he said.
Reagan laughed and pulled away. “Me, too. It smells good in here.”
“You thought I couldn’t make a turkey?”
“No, I believed in you.”
“I didn’t bother with the potatoes.”
“I brought potatoes,” she said. “I told you I would.”
“Well, all right . . .” He seemed awkward. Standing there in his own living room. Everything looked the same as it had when her grandma was alive. Either he kept the place pretty clean, or he’d cleaned up because Reagan was coming over.
“Well, all right,” she said. “Let’s get them started.”
Grandpa turned toward the kitchen. Then the doorbell rang, and he turned back. Reagan caught his arm. “Don’t answer that,” she scolded. “You don’t answer the door, do you?”
“Well, I look to see who it is. I get a lot of deliveries.”
“I’ll check. There’s no reason for you to be answering the door right now. Nobody needs you.”
She looked out the window. She didn’t see anyone. Who was making deliveries on Christmas Day? Fucking Amazon Prime.
Reagan opened the door. The Jell-O salad was sitting on the welcome mat.
She picked it up, then went inside and wiped the glass down with a Clorox wipe.
Her mom texted while Reagan was peeling potatoes.
I’ve been thinking and I just think it would be okay if you brought Grandpa over for dinner.
You always think it would be okay, Reagan texted back.
Well it has been so far!
Her older sister, Caitlin, was on the thread, too.
I mean, Caitlin texted, Mom’s right. We haven’t seen each other in nine months, and none of us have had Covid. So that’s nine months we could have seen each other.
Reagan wanted to say, “Maybe that’s why we haven’t had Covid.”
But she wasn’t even sure that no one in her family had had Covid. They wouldn’t tell her if they had. Half of them didn’t wear masks—half of Nebraska wouldn’t wear a mask. Her brother kept posting conspiracy theories on Facebook, and Reagan was the only one arguing with him.
Also, Reagan’s family had seen each other. The rest of them had. They’d all gotten together for Thanksgiving. “We’re socially distanced over here,” her mom had called to tell her.
“You put the leaf in the dining room table,” Reagan replied. “That’s not social distancing.”
Only Reagan and her grandpa were taking this seriously. They each spent Thanksgiving alone—Grandpa here in Arnold, the little town where most of her family still lived, and Reagan a few hours away, in Lincoln.
“We’re all so worried about you,” her mom kept saying to her. “You’re becoming a recluse.”
“I’m simply following the recommendations of the CDC,” Reagan would say.
“Oh, the CDC . . .”
Reagan didn’t need to get Covid. She was fat and prone to bronchitis. She was exactly the sort of person who showed up in those “Who we’ve lost” retrospectives in the local newspaper.
If you asked Reagan, every single person in her family looked like someone in a Covid obituary. They were all fat. Her dad was diabetic. Her mom was a cancer survivor. Her sister still smoked. What were they playing at? They weren’t lucky people. They were the sort of people who got laid off right before Christmas and got pregnant in the back seat of cars. Why were they willing to roll these dice?
Her grandpa had locked down right away.
“I’m worried about your grandpa,” her mom said back in April. “He won’t let me come over.”