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One Last Christmas

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I lifted my hand to knock on the door of the house I’d grown up in. I hesitated. How had I ended up here again? I shifted my weight on the doormat and set down my suitcase. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see my mom and sister, but this wasn’t the plan. I was supposed to be relaxing on a beach right now—not parked on my old cul-de-sac, prepped to move back home for a month.

I drew a deep breath and steeled myself, then rapped my knuckles on the worn wood. I inspected the planters next to the door and the rocking chair on the porch. This house looked exactly like I remembered it, but that wasn’t a surprise. Mom was brilliant and creative…and also had zero desire to take on house projects. She threw herself full-tilt into work and theater projects and had time for little else. Especially now that I was gone and Megs was the only one at home.

Footsteps sounded inside, and before I could decide whether I was standing too close to the door, it flew open, and there was Mom. Her glasses were slightly askew, and a few curls that had escaped her hair clip were flying haphazardly around her ears. She smiled so widely I thought her face might split in two.

“Bobbi! You made it!” She threw her arms around me before I even had a chance to step inside.

“Hi, Mom.” I grinned, not able to return the embrace because she had my arms in a vice grip. Sylvia DeBosse was short and slender, but her hugs were no joke. That woman had some serious strength locked inside her thin appendages.

“Here, let me help you.” Mom dropped her arms and reached for my suitcase.

“It’s okay, I’ve got it.” I brushed her hands away and lifted the bag over the threshold. “I’ll bring in the rest of my things tomorrow.”

She nodded as she beamed at me. “I thought you wouldn’t be here until after dinner.”

I shrugged. “I got on the road a little earlier than I thought. But don’t feel like you have to feed—”

Mom scoffed. “Of course, I’m going to feed you.” She reached out and pushed the door closed, then walked past the sofa in the front living room. “Megs!” she called down the hall. “Your little sister’s here!”

Megs tromped down the hallway. “Mom, what are you doing? You need to be at least six feet from her!”

I rolled my eyes. “Megs, you know I already finished quarantining, and my test came back negative.” She looked at me skeptically. “You seriously think I’d show up here when I was contagious?”

Megs shrugged, and Mom made a point to step close and pat my shoulder. “Go ahead and get settled in your room. Come to the table whenever you’re ready, honey.”

I nodded, set my shoes on the mud rack, then lifted my suitcase—to avoid rolling snow-covered wheels on the wood floor—and carried it through the entry toward the hall on the left. I glanced longingly to the right where Megs’ room was. It had its own private bathroom. I’d hoped to move in there during my senior year of high school, but Megs never moved out. That meant I was forever relegated to a room the size of a postage stamp with a bathroom across the hall.

I pushed the door open—my Olympic rings sticker still stuck proudly between the panels—and set my suitcase on the floor in the corner by the dresser. The zipper caught as I tried to open it, but it eventually gave way. I sat back on my knees and stared at my winter clothes, then glanced around the bedroom. I couldn’t help but compare my old twin bed with the patchwork quilt and the four-and-a-half-star beachside resort I was supposed to be staying in.

I yanked out my sweaters and stacked them on the carpet. Sugar Creek was a lovely town—especially around the holidays—but it held nothing for me anymore. Besides Mom and Megs. I sighed. And Haley, but this wasn’t the plan. Missing my graduation trip? Not the plan. Having to wait three weeks to move into my Los Angeles apartment? Not the plan.

Even though I’d had time to come to terms with this shift in my life trajectory, I still couldn’t get over the ridiculousness of it. How had my COVID test come back positive? I didn’t even have any symptoms when I took the test.

I stood, opened the larger middle drawer of my dresser, and plopped the sweaters inside. The airline and resort hadn’t cared about my lack of cough or runny nose. They wanted proof in the form of a piece of paper, which I couldn’t provide them. At least I’d gotten the hotel refunded after a few hours on hold. And the airline did give me flight credits. But there hadn’t been an affordable option to rebook the trip so close to Christmas, and I wasn’t going to be a jerk and ruin everyone else’s trip just because I couldn’t go.

I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly. It was fine. I could enjoy Christmas here with the family and pretend I didn’t know that my two best friends from film school were sitting on a blissful white sand beach without me. I could muscle through until it was finally time to make my way to L.A.—hopefully with a shiny new internship at B25 Productions to show up for.

I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my phone, then swiped to my inbox. I’d already checked it three times today, but the workday still hadn’t finished on the Pacific Coast. I scrolled through advertisements, clothing sale announcements, and student loan reminders and grimaced, then pulled off my jeans and slipped into my favorite fuzzy pajama pants.

“Can I help with anything?” I asked as I walked into the kitchen and straightened my oversized sweatshirt. Megs was sitting on a stool at the island, and Mom was pulling something out of the oven.

“Hi to you, too.” Megs’ heavily mascaraed eyes flashed with annoyance. It was just the invitation I needed.

“Oh, Meggie, it’s so good to see you!” I ran to her and smashed my face against her cheek as I wrapped my arms around her shoulders.

“Ewww! Bobbi, get off me!” she groaned, but I could hear a smile breaking through her feigned disgust. I let her go with one final obnoxious squeeze, then backed away before she could smack me.

“You asked for it.” I grinned and walked to the opposite side of the island, then rested my elbows on the countertop. “How are you?”

“Good.” Megs rolled her eyes. “I started a new job.”

“Oh yeah? Where at?”

“Sugar Creek Loop.”

My eyes widened. “Are you one of the performers? For the Christmas train?” Somehow I knew Megs was not talking about being hired to take tickets or clean rail cars—that had never been her style. Which was why she was in her current predicament.

“Yep.” She smiled proudly. “I auditioned in September and got one of the singing roles.”

“That’s great.” I mustered as much excitement as I could after sitting in the car for five-and-a-half hours. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel genuine happiness for her and this new gig—I was thrilled she was working and doing something she loved. But how long was it going to last? They wouldn’t have performers on the train after the holidays, and then what? We’d watched her go down this road many times before, and it never ended well.

Mom removed the tin foil from the top of the pan she’d pulled out of the oven. “I really went all out tonight, girls.” She held her arms out dramatically. “Freezer lasagna. Ooooh!”

She turned with the foil from the top of the pan still in her hand. Gooey cheese dripped on the tile as she opened the fridge. “And bagged salad.” She set the foil down on the counter, held the door open with her hip, then reached into the crisping drawer and pulled out a salad kit.

“Looks great, Mom.” I wasn’t being sarcastic. Store-bought or not, this was better than nine out of ten meals I’d eaten in my apartment lately.

Mom threw the salad at me. “Can you grab a bowl and toss that up?”

I nodded and walked to the cupboard, impressed that after two away, I still remembered where everything was.

Mom stepped on the dripped cheese and muttered something under her breath, then reached for a paper towel to wipe it up. “Megs, you get the plates and fill a few glasses with water.”

Megs slid her stool out from the counter and did as she was told. This all felt so familiar, it was almost jarring. Like I was living this moment in parallel worlds that had somehow collided into one moment in time.

I opened the plastic bag and dumped the shredded broccoli into the bowl, then added the packet of nuts and dried cranberries and tossed the whole thing with the sweet poppyseed dressing. I threw the empty bags in the trash and brought the bowl and tongs to the table, then took my seat between the two of them.

It was the same four-top table we’d always had. Three chairs—one on each side with the fourth edge being pressed up against the wall to give more room between the breakfast nook and the island. We hadn’t needed four chairs since I was six years old.

Mom reached out and pulled one of each of our hands into hers. “It’s so nice to have both of you girls here.” She turned her attention to me. “I’m sorry your trip didn’t work out.”

I nodded and plastered a smile on my face so she couldn’t see the very real disappointment on my face. The last thing I wanted was for her to think she came in second to friends or a tropical destination.

She gave our hands a final squeeze and let them go, then picked up the spatula on the table and cut herself a piece of lasagna.

My brow furrowed as I watched her transfer it to her plate. I scanned the family room and glanced at the empty railing leading down to the basement. “Where are all the costumes?”

Mom lifted her head in confusion with her fork halfway to her mouth.

I pointed to the bare countertops. “Normally you have stuff all over the place this time of year. Doesn’t White Christmas open the second weekend in December?”

“It does.” Mom nodded. “But—”

“Mom doesn’t do that part anymore.” Megs picked up the serving spoons and dished up her salad.

“What do you mean ‘doesn’t do that part?’”

“She doesn’t do the costumes. She hired someone.”

My eyes widened in surprise. “Really? When did that happen?”

Mom shrugged as if it were no big deal that after fifteen years of insisting she needed to do everything herself, she’d retracted her claws from a portion of the production.

“Last year,” she answered finally, then blew on the glob of lasagna on her fork and put it in her mouth.

“Wow.” I lifted the spatula. It was clear she didn’t want to make a big deal of it, but I was stunned. “That’s got to feel good. Not having to do it all yourself.”

Mom nodded curtly.

I slid the piece of lasagna onto my plate. “What about the set?”

“Frank’s doing that this year. He’s putting it together in his outbuilding.”

My fork froze halfway to my mouth. “Frank? As in…Mr. McGinnis?” He was my social studies teacher in middle school, and I swear, he’d always had a thing for mom. “Didn’t he ask you out once?”

A blush rose to Mom’s cheeks. “No—”

“He totally did.” Megs grinned as she wiped marinara sauce from her lips. “Remember? After Bobbi’s eighth grade graduation?”

“I have no idea.” Mom looked flustered. “That was so long ago—”

“You turned him down. Said you didn’t make it a habit to date your children’s teachers,” Megs continued.

“You didn’t!” I gaped at her. “Poor Mr.—”

“Okay, that’s enough.” Mom was blushing furiously now. “Your dad and I had barely finalized our divorce. I wasn’t in a good place.”

I looked down at my plate. By ‘barely,’ she meant they finalized it over four years earlier. I guess time passed quickly when you were taking care of two little girls on your own.

“I still think he has a thing for you.” Megs arched an eyebrow, and I snorted.

Mom flashed me a look, but I didn’t miss the slight curve of her lips as she took another bite of lasagna.

We ate in comfortable silence until I noticed Mom glance up at Megs. I looked over and saw Megs give Mom an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

“What?” I asked, and the energy in the room tangibly shifted. “What’s wrong?”

Mom sighed and nodded to Megs. “She needs to know.”

“Know what?” My voice raised in pitch.

“I think we could’ve waited ‘till tomorrow,” Megs muttered, and my heart raced. What news could be bad enough to warrant this kind of trepidation? The two of them looked healthy, but maybe something was going on under the surface. The blood drained from my face as I sank into my seat. Was Mom—?

“You know the McNeils returned to Sugar Creek last year,” Mom started, and I blinked in confusion. Mom had told me Ben’s parents moved back from Colorado, but why would she be bringing them up?

Mom clasped her hands on the table nervously.

“Mom—”

“Ben’s back,” Megs spit out.

For a second, I forgot to breathe. Ben McNeil was back? Here in Sugar Creek?

Mom squeezed her eyes shut. “He moved back home at the beginning of November because…” She sucked in a breath, and when she turned her eyes to mine, they were shimmering with tears. “Bobbi, Corinne is sick.”

I swallowed hard. Ben and I had gone skiing every Friday after school together during the season, and every other day he was either here at my house, or I was over at his. Corinne had been like a second mother to me.

“How sick?” My voice came out in a whisper.

Mom pursed her lips and shook her head as a tear spilled onto her cheek.

My breathing became shallow, and the kitchen suddenly felt stifling. Without saying a word, I pushed my chair back and stood, then rushed to my room.