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By Kay Hanifen
Brenda watched Kate take her seat, practically swooning in her chair as she unburdened herself from what she seemed to think was a terrible, dark secret. It almost made her want to laugh. Really? That was her terrible sin?
“Wait, so you’re a psychic?” Maven said. “That’s—”
Kate cut her off. “I don’t want to hear it, Maven. I know what I am, and I’ve had to live with it every day of my life.”
Maven blinked, surprised at the older woman’s outburst. “I was going to say that’s awesome.”
It was Kate’s turn to look shocked. Quickly, though, it twisted into offense. “No, it’s absolutely not ‘awesome.’ It’s an affront to God.”
“Careful now,” Carrie warned. “A good number of the people in this room have been called that. No one here is an affront to God, and I won’t have anyone saying otherwise, even about themselves.”
The cat meowed as though protesting Carrie’s assertion, earning a chuckle from the Innkeeper as he scratched between his pet’s ears.
“You just don’t understand. It’s unnatural to have these powers, to conjure spirits and make deals with the devil. Suffer not a witch to live.”
“She said it, not me,” Maven cut in, earning an elbow from Mildred. “Ow!”
Carrie rolled her eyes. “What’s the difference between a witch and a saint, Kate?”
“Well, saints get their powers from God while witches get their powers from pacts with the devil.” The reply was rote, as though something Kate had said thousands of times, either to herself or to others, probably her father, who sounded really overbearing to Brenda.
“Did you make a deal with the devil?” Carrie spoke with the patience of a kindergarten teacher.
Kate looked as though she’d had a lemon shoved into her mouth. “Of course not.”
“Then, by your definition, you would not be a witch.” Carrie smiled, her eyes twinkling as though she was gearing up for another historical lecture. Brenda always found them fascinating, and settled in for another story.
“The Spiritualist movement was never considered witchcraft during the height of its popularity,” Carrie began. “It’s an offshoot of Christianity born of grief and desire for closure after the Civil War. They were actually very progressive, using their seances and alleged contact with the spirit world to advocate for racial and gender equality. You could definitely criticize them for preying on people’s grief and defrauding them, but they never considered themselves to be witches. Mary Todd Lincoln, after all, was a spiritualist, and—”
“Well, that’s fascinating,” Kate cut her off venomously, “but it doesn’t change the fact that they were going against God’s will. Not that you would understand.”
Carrie raised her eyebrows. “I’m not sure I like what you’re implying, Kate.”
“You treat God’s word like a set of guidelines to follow at your convenience and ignore what doesn’t suit you.” Kate sat with her back ramrod straight. “The fact of the matter is this: when I contacted my ancestor, I tapped into unholy powers. It’s unnatural and cannot be anything but the Devil’s work. Ergo, the Devil is in me, and always has been. It’s my job to root it out.”
“Kate,” Carrie said, her voice soft and sad.
“Don’t you dare look at me like that,” Kate snapped. “Don’t you dare pity me.” Getting to her feet, she stormed out of the room.
Carrie got up to follow her, but Rachel took her hand. “Give her a minute,” the choir director said softly.
“I can talk to her,” Brenda said. In truth, she didn’t really want to talk to Kate, but ever since Liz, she wanted nothing to do with Secret Santa. Just being in the room with it made her hackles raise. It was strange. She wasn’t even there that day, but knowing what happened and that it was her fault made her never want to be around another Christmas present.
She found Kate in the kitchen, stress washing the dishes. “Hey.”
“Did you get the short straw or lose a bet?” Kate asked without turning around.
“Neither. I chose to come here.” She took a dish from the rack and started drying it.
“I’m not going to be very good company.”
“That’s fine.” She focused on the motion of drying the dish.
“It’s just—” Kate stopped herself.
Brenda picked up her head. “What?”
“Never mind. I’m just on edge.” The muscles on Kate’s jaw twitched. “There’s something about this place that just feels wrong. I don’t know how to explain it, but it is. And everyone is acting like it’s all fine, so I feel like I’m going crazy.” She rubbed more fiercely at an already clean dish.
“Do you think it’s your powers trying to warn you about something?”
“I don’t know!” Kate set down the dish with a clatter that made them both wince. “I’m sorry. I just hate this.”
Brenda gently took the plate from her and began to dry it. “You know, I used to be really good at shopping for others. My favorite part of Christmas was going to flea markets and finding the perfect gift for the people I loved. It was the way their faces lit up. The way surprise became delight, and then, later, the way I would catch them using it or see it on display and know that, in some tangible way, I added to their lives. People used to joke that I had a sixth sense for getting the perfect gift. I wish I did, though. If I actually had powers like yours, maybe I would have known how dangerous some gifts can be.”
Kate didn’t look at her, all her attention on the plates as she scrubbed. “Well, you said yourself that not all gifts are good.”
“And that they’re also wonderful.”
The older woman sighed, her usually ramrod straight shoulders slumping. “You don’t know what it’s like, living with this knowledge that you were born unnatural.”
Brenda snorted. “How many gay people are in that room back there? You think none of them know what it’s like?”
“Yes, well,” Kate balked, “that’s different.”
Setting her dish on the rack, Brenda raised her brows and met Kate’s eyes. “How?”
Kate refused to meet her gaze. “It just is. The Bible is far clearer on witchcraft than it is on same sex attraction, and they’ve made their peace with their lifestyles. Who am I to tell them what to do?”
“If mental gymnastics was a sport, you’d be an Olympian,” Brenda said, smiling to soften the words.
Scoffing, Kate finished the last of the dishes and handed it to Brenda before turning to leave. “I think we’re done here.”
“Kate, wait,” she said as Kate was leaving. The Brenda of a few years ago would have pushed her even further, steamrolling Kate until she was forced to agree with her. But she’d learned her lesson the hard way about how well that inevitably works out.
The older woman paused, but didn’t look back. “Yes?”
“Just think about what we said. Sometimes, our self-loathing creates our own hell.”
“Thank you, Brenda.” The words were curt, but Kate’s shoulders relaxed minutely before she disappeared back into the main room.
Putting the last dish on the dryer rack, she rejoined them. As she passed by the tree, a box caught her eye. Her name was written on the tag. Her stomach dropped as though all the air had been punched from her chest. “I said I wasn’t participating in Secret Santa,” she said.
Carrie blinked, her brows furrowing in confusion. “I never put you down for it.”
“Well, then why is there something addressed to me?” She wasn’t sure why she was so upset. It was just a gift. Something from a friend who felt bad that she had been left out of the festivities, even if it was by choice.
But what if it was something more? Kate was right about this place feeling off. Brenda felt it too. And now there was this present in its bright red wrapping just waiting for her. She approached it almost as though in a trance, picking up the box and returning to her seat.
Slowly, she unwrapped the paper and opened the box’s lid, her stomach curdling as she saw the contents. A Christmas sweater with a tree in the center, covered in pompoms, gaudy tinsel, and garland. Tears pricking her eyes, she lifted it slowly to show the rest of her group.
“Finally, a normal gift,” Maven said.
“It isn’t,” Brenda choked out, dropping it. The sweater pooled on the floor like a blood stain. “It really isn’t.”
