Last Christmas

Hysteria/December 2021

Christmas. It’s Christmastime. I have forgotten. 

“We haven’t had a tree for-“

“Right. For a while. We should have. Mom wants it,” Dad says, squinting up at the giant pine we have chosen. 

“Who’s going to decorate this huge thing?” I ask. 

“We are. But first we are going out to lunch.” 

Gavigans-a local place we always went before Mom got sick. Not very fancy or trendy, but a good burger and fries. We slide into the vinyl booth. I shiver with cold, hunching my shoulders and rubbing my hands together under the table.  

“You alright?” Dad gives me that overly-concerned look that had become his natural expression. 

“Sure. Why?” My tone ripples with annoyance. 

“You just look pale,” he says.  I could say the same about him. 

We talk the small talk, the avoiding the elephant between us talk. The weather. School.

Even his job a little. I show him stupid videos and memes on my phone that he I know he pretends to think are funny. 

“You know, Paul, you probably know, things aren’t…”

“I know,” I cut him off.  

“Sometimes it’s almost better if-if she doesn’t have to suffer anymore.”

 “It’s so freakin’ cold in here,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. 

#

The tree is up. I stand in a tangle of lights as Dad walks in, Mom on his arm. She is so thin, so pale, like she is disappearing. 

“What a mess, huh?” I say, turning to the tree. 

“I think I bought those lights twenty years ago.” She tilts her head back on the sofa, closing her eyes. 

 “Paul, what should we have for dinner?” she asks.

Meals meals. Adults are always asking about meals. 

 Dad orders and leaves to go pick it up, a blast of cold air enters the room as the door closes.

Panic in the form of a head rush overtakes me. I dread being alone with Mom. 

“Do you want to watch something?” she asks, breaking the silence. 

“Yeah, that’d be good,” I grab the remote and start scrolling through Netflix. “This is funny-this comedian, John Mulaney. He’s a riot.” 

“Sounds great,” Mom says. 

#

 We are both laughing hard when Dad returns with the pizza. He actually looks alarmed. 

 Mom holds her ribs, looking pained, points at the screen. John Mulaney is pretending to be Mick Jagger, jutting his leg

out in the air and strutting around the stage. 

Mom and Dad sit together, plates on laps. I wedge myself down beside them on the floor, my back leaning

into the couch. Things feel almost normal. 

The tree’s little spheres of white lights glow, compete with the harsher TV glare, the only lights in the room. 

“You know what I always wanted to do? Ever since I was a kid? Sleep downstairs, by the tree, all night,” Mom says. 

 I can tell Dad is about to say something negative but stops himself. 

 I trudge off to get my sleeping bag, Dad to retrieve the pillows from their bed and a bunch of blankets. He removes the

back cushion of the couch, gently tucks Mom in. Dad smooths her hair and kisses her head. We shut off the TV and

settle in.

In the darkness, no one speaks as we all stare at the light and shadow of the Christmas tree. 

“Goodnight, my guys,” Mom says. 

“Goodnight, Mom. ” I say, the  “I love you” caught in my throat.