Читать книгу The 13th Gift: Part One - Joanne Smith Huist - Страница 10
ОглавлениеFor weeks, my sister-in-law Charlotte has been chiding me to hustle up my holiday preparations.
“You have got to give those kids a Christmas,” has become her latest trope.
This morning, she calls before six a.m., offering to pick up Nick and Megan from their sports practices to provide me with a few hours of shopping time after work.
“Just get it over with,” she insists. “You love Christmas shopping. Getting out there might cheer you up.”
I have no confidence in her logic, but I agree to give it a try.
That is how I find myself waiting with my turn signal on for a mom and a toddler to move past an open parking space in the shopping plaza, when a gray-haired grandpa type whips his Lexus around them and nabs my spot. The mom jerks her cart back to avoid a collision.
“Asshole,” she shouts, covering her daughter’s ears with gloved hands.
“Merry Christmas,” the old guy hollers as he steps from his car. He winks at me as he passes. I want to shove his smug expression somewhere distinctly un-Christmasy, but he’s already vaulting through the store doors. I’ve never been much of a musician, but I imagine rewriting the lyrics to “Silver Bells.” In my more realistic version, people are meeting “scowl after scowl” instead of “smile after smile.”
I abandon my search for a primo parking place, and drive to the adjacent shopping center where most of the businesses are closed for the day.
As I enter the store, strains of “Frosty the Snowman” blasting over the sound system weaken my resolve. Though my intent is to buy a mountain bike for Nick, I veer first into Rick’s favorite department, hardware. The layout of the aisles here is as familiar to me as housewares. Before Rick tackled a home repair—turning our concrete-walled basement into a playroom, building a deck on the back of the house, or crafting a ceramic-tiled counter for the kitchen—he would drag the whole family with him to the hardware department to select supplies. I am struck with the idea of buying some sort of useful tool that I can donate in Rick’s name to the Salvation Army or Habitat for Humanity.
There must have been some magic in that old silk hat they found.
I don’t ever remember hearing Christmas music in this section of the store before, but the lines of “Frosty” are loud enough to rattle the light fixtures. I imagine ending the iceman’s romp through town with a blowtorch, or at the very least barbecuing the store’s sound system. It’s cruel, but the thought makes me laugh at myself.
“Do you carry acetylene torches?” I ask a clerk.
Thumpity, thump, thump. Thumpity, thump, thump, look at Frosty go.
I load the torch into my shopping cart, thinking that this could be a useful donation or perhaps a Christmas gift for my brother-in-law Tom. Maybe I’ll keep it for myself. A more likely scenario, there won’t be presents or a tree to put them under at our house on December 25.
Just buy a bike. One step at a time.
On my trek to the toy department, I toss wrapping paper, gift cards, and tape into the cart. My holiday purchases, so far, are limited to bags of athletic socks and underwear for each of the kids—the only two items Rick ever asked for on his Christmas list. When we first met, Rick didn’t understand my need to ferret out the perfect gift for each loved one. His mother had died when he was three years old, and the holidays never took on much significance in his family. The Christmas gifts he received thereafter had been mostly functional … until he met me. It took time for him to catch my enthusiasm for the holidays. Maybe I just wore him down. The year I bought him a video camera, he waited two full days to open it as a protest over the expense. I caught him reading the manual the next day, and by New Year’s Eve he threatened to leave the tool-and-die industry to make movies. He gave me a nightgown that year, a twin to one I already owned. The following year, he bought me a sterling silver necklace and matching bracelet.
I understand now why his dad was not a fan of holiday shopping. It feels as if I’m betraying my husband to even think about celebrating the holidays. All I want for Christmas is him, and the idea of making new holiday memories without Rick just makes me miss him more. I just can’t operate under the same modus operandi as past years, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to behave.
“I need a damn rule book.”
My lament is loud enough to summon a clerk.
“In the video department,” she responds, pointing to the rear of the store, apparently ignoring my profanity in a way that my daughter does not. “Books are back by the videos.”
I move in that direction, embarrassed to have been caught talking to myself. I hope the clerk will chalk my behavior up to temporary holiday insanity and not a more general affliction. I glance backward to see if she is occupied with another customer. That’s when I really do get into an accident. I smack into a life-sized, blow-up lawn Santa with my shopping cart; he doesn’t deflate, but he is wobbling close to a display of glass candle globes.
“Can I help you?”
Now I have the clerk’s undivided attention, and she is looking none too surprised to see that I am the cause of the near display disaster.
“My daughter would love him,” I say weakly.
“Then buy one.”
Abashed, I grab a blow-up Santa and toss him in my cart next to the torch.
I know our house looks cheerless compared to others on the block dressed in white lights, nativity scenes, and grazing wire reindeer. Trimming the outside of the house was Rick’s bailiwick, not mine. I am not going to buy this blow-up, but I don’t want to put the Santa back on the shelf with the clerk now stalking my every move. Under her now watchful eye, I pretend to consider buying hand-painted ornaments, a quilted Christmas tree skirt, metal tins with snowy scenes on the lids, and others filled with assortments of chocolates.
None of the items appeal to me.
I do want to feel the Christmas tug that usually consumes me this time of year. I have always begun holiday shopping before Thanksgiving and usually have a trove of presents purchased long before the onslaught of the holiday stampede. Then I purposefully forget how much I have spent and buy more just to be part of the holiday rush. I used to love crowded shopping malls, wrapping presents, baking cookies, the swarm of family visiting on Christmas Eve.
