“I have to go.”
“So do I.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Linda’s.”
His eyes came back to mine.
“Aunt Linda?”
“Yes.”
“You never go there for Christmas.”
“No.”
I smiled slightly.
“This year I fit.”
He flinched.
I regretted that one.
A little.
“Merry Christmas, Michael.”
He nodded.
“Merry Christmas, Mom.”
I drove away.
—
Linda’s Christmas was loud.
Too loud.
Her husband, Frank, believed music needed to be heard from adjoining counties.
Their daughter brought three children.
Someone burned rolls.
A dog stole half a sausage from a serving platter.
Nobody had coordinated outfits.
Nobody discussed wine pairings.
At one point I found myself wedged between Frank and an eleven-year-old telling me about Minecraft in such detail that I lost track of every noun.
I loved it.
After dinner, Linda handed me an envelope.
“What is this?”
“Open it.”
Inside were two train tickets.
Not real tickets.
A printed reservation confirmation.
Quebec City and Montreal.
October.
I stared at her.
“What did you do?”
“Before you start, I did not pay for you.”
