A Home for the Holidays: A Novel

Chapter 1

When I was eight years old, Santa crashed in my backyard.

I was asleep, having a scary dream about a bear in my school cafeteria. Bears, fires, and my mom dying. Those were my recurring nightmares.

My mom jostled me awake. Darling girl, something’s happened. I could tell she hadn’t gone to bed yet because she was still in her party clothes. Her sparkly bracelets clinked against each other as she shook me. I looked at my Minnie Mouse clock—it was almost two a.m.

Christmas already.

Christmas was my favorite day of the year. Santa always came, though I always missed him by seconds. My mom and I were united in our commitment to catching him. The year before, she’d set up a video camera on a tripod in the living room, facing the tree. It caught him scattering presents before running out the front door. We didn’t have a fireplace, so my mom said he used the VIP entrance. I’d heard the door slam, but by the time I jumped out of bed to investigate, falling snow had erased his footsteps from the yard. I watched and rewatched that tape, marveling at the evidence that magic was real.

One year Santa arrived while my mom and I were watching Miracle on 34th Street and eating Campbell’s tomato soup on TV trays. Reindeer hooves thumped on the roof, and when I looked out our front window to the street, I saw Santa running away from our house like he knew he’d given himself away. It was only ten degrees in Chicago that year and I still chased him for three blocks.

This was going to be the year I caught him. I wasted no time sitting up and throwing my covers back. I’d worn my purple LA Lights sneakers to bed so I’d be prepared for exactly this scenario. Where is he? I demanded, like I was a hardened detective about to squeeze a confession from a perp.

The backyard, she said, and I sprinted downstairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door.

Our yard was a small dark square. Thick winter clouds hid the moon and city stars. But enough light spilled from the kitchen that I could see something red twinkling in the corner. Snow swallowed my shoes and soaked my socks as I ran closer to inspect.

From the back door, my mom asked, What is it? She was barefoot, wearing a black velvet dress with shoulder pads.

I picked up a fragment of red glass. I think it’s Rudolph’s nose. How would Santa find his way without Rudolph’s nose? "This is devastating." I’d learned how to spell that word for my last weekly spelling test before winter break. Picturing Rudolph with only the shards of a once-blinking nose on the tip of his little furry face gave me the same seasick feeling I’d experienced when my parents argued over who was going to have me for the summer, or when my mom fell asleep on the couch and I couldn’t wake her up, or when she was two hours late to pick me up from school. Like I wasn’t on solid ground. Like I didn’t know what was going to happen.

Look over there, she said.

I followed her finger, running to the bushes that lined our chain-link fence, and crouched down. Was that silver wrapping paper? It was all torn and crumpled up. In the yellow light from the kitchen, it looked like wreckage. TWA Flight 800 had exploded over the Atlantic Ocean that year. I couldn’t forget the pictures I’d seen on TV.

When my mom gasped, I whipped my head around. Was he here?

His hat, she said. On the garage.

I looked up and saw Santa’s red hat dangling upside down from a gutter. That could not be good.

Do you think he’s dead? I asked.

I crept closer. Along the side of the garage, where we kept the trash cans, I found a shiny stack of boxes. All my presents are here! I called, falling to my knees in the snow.

He must have crashed, she called back. But he made it out okay.

I shaded my eyes from the motion-sensored floodlight. How do you know?

Because otherwise his sleigh would still be here, she said, backlit from the kitchen, a dark and beautiful silhouette.

That answer was fairly logical coming from my mom, a woman who sometimes didn’t make sense. She wasn’t like other moms. Other moms did mom things, like pack my friends’ lunches with Fruit Roll-Ups and heart-shaped sandwiches. My mom wanted to do those things—she bought the snacks and the cookie cutter—but they never happened. Was it really that hard? I wondered. I was only eight, and I was capable of making my lunch every day. Then again, I was one of the most responsible kids in my grade. The teacher usually picked me to feed the class hamster and lead the recess line. So maybe my mom and I were just different in that way. Me, responsible. My mom, forgetful. I suspected other kids’ moms remembered to wake them up for school in the morning, so they weren’t late. In my house, it was the other way around. I shook my mom awake every morning at ten to eight, when it was time to leave, but it usually took her so long to get out of bed, dressed, and into the car that I missed morning announcements and most of math. But I didn’t ask my friends about their morning routine. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

I was shivering, so I hugged my gifts and carried them inside. One of them was the exact size and shape of a Tickle Me Elmo box, the thing I wanted most. Every toy store in Chicago was sold out. You could get a Tickle Me Elmo only from Santa, and even then, he had to like you.

In the living room, my mom helped me arrange my presents under the tree. We’d gotten it only that morning. Everything in our house ran behind schedule. The tree was lopsided and dry, but my mom had saved it by using twice the number of lights anyone else would have used. It lit up the living room, pinpricks of gold in the dark, like flying over a city at night.

Do you want to open one? she asked, prodding my shoulder.

I longed for that Tickle Me Elmo. I’ll wait. It’s not Christmas morning yet.

You’ve got to let loose a little, she teased.

No, I don’t think I can. Only one person in our two-person household could be loose. Otherwise, nothing would get done. I’d never do my homework or get vaccinated or even go to school. I took my role as grown-up very seriously.

I told her we needed to go to bed, and she lay down with me, her velvet dress curled around my flannel pajamas. She was still my safe place. I tried to fall asleep, but she beat me to it, snoring softly, so I was careful not to move a muscle. If I woke her up, she’d stay up all night and sleep until the afternoon, straight through Christmas morning.

At a sleepover two years later, my best friend, Gabby, told everyone there was no Santa, and it turned out all the girls knew that already. I pretended to know that, too, but then I said I had to go to the bathroom so I could cry without their seeing. I felt so stupid. I didn’t know what was worse: that I’d still believed in Santa, or how much I wanted to keep believing in Santa. He’d brought an uncomplicated magic to my complicated life. My mom might have forgotten to pay the bills, but Santa was coming. I didn’t have to worry or wonder or plan. He would be there, using the VIP entrance, delivering gifts.

When I finally understood, sometime around my fifteenth birthday, that my mom wasn’t forgetful, but instead had a problem with alcohol, I reexamined my Christmas memories. Some parents put presents under the tree labeled From Santa. Some parents told their kids to leave out cookies and carrots in case Santa and his reindeer got hungry. Some parents even went so far as to eat those cookies and carrots. Those parents were amateurs compared to my mom. She brought Santa to life. I’d cherished him for showing up, predictably, every year on Christmas Eve. I’d cherished him for being the opposite of her. But he was her, all along.

Chapter 2

December 14

Our band, the More the Marry Her, usually played weddings. But around the holidays, we picked up charity galas, office Christmas bashes, and New Year’s Eve parties. I liked weddings, but office parties were a blast. No mothers to please, no pressure, just hundreds of overworked employees who’d just gotten their end-of-year bonuses. Antics were guaranteed. Rivals settled the score over cranberry-and-goat-cheese crostini. Everyone jockeyed to bring the boss a cocktail. Secret crushes became dance-floor kisses.

The band had four members—I sang, Dan played bass, Lizzie played guitar, and Ronald played drums. Dan, Lizzie, and I met in college as music majors and initially formed a wedding band to make money after graduation while we figured out our real plans. Ten years later, here we were. That Lizzie was my best friend and Dan eventually became my boyfriend proved both that we spent way too much time together and that we had fun doing it. Ronald was a mid-fifties retired firefighter we met on Craigslist who’d replaced our original drummer after she and Lizzie fell in love, then catastrophically out of love, and we all had to choose sides.

Tonight we were playing the holiday party of a huge accounting firm at the Signature Room, the ninety-fifth floor of the famous Chicago skyscraper formerly known as the John Hancock Center, or Big John. Hundreds of accountants were getting rowdy. Lizzie always predicted who’d end up making out at these things. During our break, she pointed to an older man in a tidy gray suit talking to a younger guy in a blinking holiday sweater. Those two, she said.

No way, I disagreed. The guy in the suit looks like he’d rather be getting his teeth cleaned than having that conversation.

He’s about to. With that guy’s tongue.

She was right, of course. By the end of the night, they were making out behind the photo booth. When the lights came on and everyone lined up to get their coats, their hiding place wasn’t so private anymore.

We’d finished our last song and begun to pack up. I don’t know why I doubted you, I said, watching them from afar as I zipped my mic into its foam case.

She shrugged as she unplugged her guitar. Me either.

Outside, freezing in the alley near the service entrance, we loaded our equipment into Ronald’s van. He was the only one of us with a house, so we rehearsed in his garage. Lizzie lived in a three-hundred-square-foot studio, and a few months ago I’d reluctantly moved into the apartment Dan’s parents bought for him in a new high-rise in the West Loop, with a security desk, windows for walls, and an indoor pool. The bathroom was pristine white, floor to ceiling. I was afraid to get my period in there.

The apartment I’d given up was a one-bedroom in Lincoln Park with creaky wood floors and pale green kitchen tiles. Sometimes I accidentally boarded my old train, and when I realized what I’d done, I went anyway, just to sit in the courtyard and stare at my bedroom window for a while. But financially, it made sense to live with Dan. Even though, since his parents owned the place, I paid them rent.

Isn’t that kind of weird? I’d asked when Dan first suggested that arrangement. Your parents will be my landlords. What if we get married?

They’re going to give you a discount. You don’t have to pay half. Just like thirty percent of the market rate. And if we get married, you can stop.

By no means was I a romantic, but if that was Dan’s way of proposing, I’d rather pay rent. I didn’t expect to live for free, but it was impossible to relax in my new apartment when Dan’s mom stopped by unannounced three times a week and assured me that I should make myself at home as if I didn’t live there, then circled me like a hawk to make sure I wiped up any droplets of water I splashed on the kitchen counter while washing my hands.

Still, thirty percent was better than a hundred percent, and since I was not exactly flush with cash as a wedding singer, I tried not to think about it too hard.

In the alley, Ronald slammed his hatch. See you kids on Thursday.

We’d played the usual wedding favorites—Sweet Caroline and Wagon Wheel and All of Me—so many times we barely needed to rehearse anymore, but we still met once a week, mostly because it was fun and the pizza we ordered was tax deductible.

Can I convince anyone to go to Elsa’s for a bite? I asked. In the spirit of Christmas?

That’s a pass for me, Ronald said. He always went home to his kids right after gigs. The band was not Ronald’s life. His life was his life, and the band was just a band.

Lizzie was tugging on her knit hat. I’m in.

Can we go literally anywhere else? Dan asked. That place is everything I hate about the holidays, and the food is disgusting.

I crossed my arms, giving him my best oh please. The food’s not that bad. And we only go once a year. It’s fun. Elsa’s was a German restaurant famous for its over-the-top chintzy holiday decor. Colored lights dripped from the ceiling, fake snow glittered on the floor, and electric reindeer sang carols from the bar. A projector played Christmas movies against a wall, and the mulled wine cost twenty dollars. It was a total racket, but sometimes rackets were rackets for a reason.

Dan rolled his eyes, meaning he’d go, but not without complaining.

We hugged Ronald goodbye, zipped our coats up to our chins, and began the twenty-minute walk.

Christmas is such a rip-off, Dan continued as we crossed Michigan Avenue. You can sell carrots for fifteen dollars if you say they’re for reindeers.

We just made four thousand dollars singing ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,’ Lizzie said. What makes you think we’re any different from Elsa’s?

What we do takes talent, he said. And I’m allowed to play the game even if I don’t agree with the rules.

There were few things Dan loved more than a rant, the exceptions being the Dave Matthews Band, the clear-frame-glasses trend, and his bicycle. I’d learned long ago that the best way to handle Dan’s rants was to tune them out.

When we got to Elsa’s and the line was a block long, Lizzie raised her brows at him. I guess the rest of Chicago is fine with the rules.

We joined the end, stamping our feet on the sidewalk to stay warm. Other than the dozens of people waiting, the street was quiet—dark apartment buildings and closed-up shops.

Dan craned his neck to get a better view of the door. How long are we going to wait? It’s fucking apocalyptic out here.

Lizzie checked her phone and admitted, I might be with Dan on this one. I could wait in this line and get frostbite, or I could answer this booty call from Marcella.

I looked at the text, which said, Are you feeling naughty or nice? with the Santa emoji followed by the tongue emoji. Marcella from the arborists’ party?

We’d recently played the holiday gala of the Illinois Arborist Association, and although we’d agreed when our band first formed and we took ourselves way too seriously that we’d never hook up with guests to protect our reputation, that rule had long gone unenforced.

She’s more fun than she sounds, Lizzie implored. Don’t hate me. It’s been a long, cold winter.

I caved. Fine. Go. Both of you. I’ll eat schnitzel by myself.

Lizzie kissed me on both cheeks. That’s my Uber over there.

Dan kissed my lips. I’m going to get the train. See you at home.

Lots of kisses from my deserters! I called after them.

I waited in line for a while, scrolling through my phone, eavesdropping, shivering. Every so often, I stood on my tiptoes and counted how many people were in front of me. Eventually I had to admit the schnitzel had started to lose its appeal. I was about to call it quits and head home when, up the perpendicular block, I spotted Christmas trees for sale underneath a red-and-white tent lit up with string lights.

Dan and I didn’t have one yet because the tree was always a fight between us. He was morally opposed to chopping down trees for entertainment, and I was morally opposed to plastic prelit trees from Target. Not a knock against Target, but the joy of a Christmas tree was picking it out, lugging it home, singing along to holiday music as you strung lights and tried to cover the holes with well-placed ornaments. Taking a perfect tree out of a box and plugging it in just didn’t feel right.

The lot was closing. Guys in Santa hats and red sweatshirts were pulling tarps over the trees and turning off the generators. An inflatable Santa melted into a puddle of polyester, one black-gloved hand poking up from the sidewalk like he was reaching for help. I took one last look at the door of Elsa’s—still half a block away—and decided to forfeit the schnitzel in exchange for the smell of a real tree. Dan had left me here alone—he had no one to blame but himself.

I jogged up the block toward the red-and-white tent.

Hey, I said to the nearest staffer in a Santa hat, got time for one more sale?

—

I was dragging my tree toward the train, alone on the street, when my phone vibrated in my pocket. A Chicago area code calling on Saturday night at midnight was unusual enough that I answered. Hello?

Is this Melanie Hart? a man asked.

This is Mel. Who’s this?

My name is Dr. Samuels. I’m a physician at the University of Chicago Medical Center. I’m calling about a patient named Connie Hart.

I stopped walking, my body tensing. That’s my mom. Is she okay?

Are you in Chicago? Can you come to the hospital? I’d prefer to speak in person.

What’s wrong?

I’d really prefer to talk here, he said. My shift ends in an hour, but I can wait if need be.

As the words But I have a Christmas tree with me came out of my mouth, I wished I could swallow them back down. I’d always remember the first thing I said when I realized my mom died, and I wished it wasn’t that.

The doctor sighed. All right. I’m sorry to tell you this over the phone, but your mother died at the hospital earlier this evening. We’ve been trying to track down your number. She’s still here if you’d like to say goodbye. I can answer your questions, and our bereavement staff can help you make arrangements. I’ll meet you in the waiting room on the fourth floor. Just let the nurses’ station know you’ve arrived. Okay? Ms. Hart?

A voice—not mine—said, Okay. Sure. Yeah. Fourth floor.

I hung up and stood still for a while. I couldn’t feel my hands and my ears were ringing. What had he said to do?

I looked down at my feet. Surprisingly, they were still there. I started walking, my body floating along the sidewalk. When I looked at my hand, I realized I was still dragging my tree. Nothing felt real.

I walked two miles home. It was after one a.m. when I unlocked the door. Dan was asleep, the apartment lifeless. From the back of a closet, I dug out my tree stand and strings of lights and wrapped them carefully around the branches, pushing the bulbs deep into its heart, using twice the number anyone else would have used. That was how my mom and I always did it.

Chapter 3

December 17

My sophomore year of college, I brought home my first serious boyfriend for winter break, Kamil. Having a man in the house was a new dynamic for me and my mom. She did not date and discouraged me from dating, too. When I’d started hanging out with boys in high school, she told me I was too young to make good decisions. But between the two of us, hadn’t I been