“The house smells so good!”
“It should,” I say to my grandma as I take her coat. “It’s your stew recipe.”
“And The Pink Lady looks great,” Grampa adds, “especially this time of year.”
“Yeah, she still dresses up nicely for the holidays, doesn’t she?”
My old home defines the quirk and character of Northern Michigan’s cottage culture. She’s a century-old, two-story Victorian featuring a wraparound porch, scalloped shingles at the top, and trim, trim and more trim, all in white. A white arrow hangs from the top gable pointing directly toward the lake. But her signature feature is her color: a pale pink with a deep pink roof.
The Pink Lady.
I bought her painted pink, and—much to local preservationists’ relief—have kept it that way. I cannot imagine changing her true colors as she is a true lady—a Victorian classic, much like Elizabeth Gaskill—and I’m proud to be her steward for this time in her, and my, life.
It was the first home since my parents’ that actually felt like mine. I loved—and still love—my grandparents’ house, but it never was my home. Though my grandparents never conveyed this and would be mortified to know I felt this way, I did—especially as a teenage girl—feel like an interloper, the piece of new furniture in the vintage room that never quite fit in. I understand now this was my grief talking, but The Pink Lady is the closest replica of what I grew up in, with its own history and charm, and the place I knew could house all of my mother’s heirlooms that had been in storage for so many decades: Her china cabinet, four-poster bed, hook rugs and Jenny Lind chairs.
I had a small housewarming party the first week in this house, where I made malts, barbecued burgers and watched—in honor of my Pink Lady—Grease. That’s where it all started, how my best friends and I came to call ourselves the Pink Ladies. When they came to help me unpack and settle into my new home, and we started watching Grease, we all looked around, pointing at one another. We decided that Holly was Marty Maraschino—most attractive of the Pink Ladies. Leah, always a friend to all, was Frenchy; Noah—even though he was still in college at the time and working summers at the store—was Rizzo; and I was Sandy, still destined to meet the love of her life.
I glance up at my old house. She’s been my lifeline and savior. In the summer, hydrangeas bloom in breathtaking blue and pretty pink all around the sweeping porch, patriotic bunting billowing over the rails and birdhouses hooked up high. Adirondack chairs line the front porch, and white camp lights are strung over the deck in the backyard. In the winter, pine boughs are hung over the railings, white lights highlight every angle, votive candles line the sidewalk, inflatables of Santa and Rudolph take the place of the Adirondack chairs, and a giant, pink bow is tied to the arrow.
“It’s cold tonight,” my grandma says. “You’re letting all the heat out.”
I close the front door, my grandparents kick off their snowy boots and I hang their coats.
My grampa sniffs the air, following the scent of the stew, like a bloodhound on the trail. He heads into the kitchen and lifts the lid on the pot.
“You have to work for your dinner first,” I say.
My grampa grunts and places the lid back on the pot. “Then Santa deserves a Manhattan. He never takes a day off.”
I laugh and make my father’s favorite cocktail. I pour a glass of a hearty Pinot Noir for me and Grandma.
“This’ll warm me up from the inside out,” she says. “Cheers to another Christmas.”
We all clink glasses and head to the living room.
A ten-foot-tall Christmas tree stands in the living room. Balsam fir has always been our family’s favorite tree. Not only does it have soft, dark green needles and strong branches to hold our beloved ornaments but it also has an aromatic evergreen scent that fills the house with Christmas spirit.
My grampa groans. “I forgot how many boxes of ornaments there are.”
“Grumpy Santa,” my grandma says. “Sip your Manhattan.”
It’s almost odd to see my grandparents out of costume. I am so used to seeing them as Mr. and Mrs. Claus, that it’s always shocking to see them simply as Nicholas and Betty Norcross this time of year.
My grandma and grampa make for a very striking couple. They were Woodward-Newman gorgeous in their youth, and I believe time has only made them even more beautiful. Today, my grandma might resemble a slightly older Jean Smart. She is polished and pretty. Grandma keeps her white hair shoulder length and softly curled. She got tired of the hassle—and heat—of wearing wigs, especially since she has to “stuff” her costume, so she adopted a hairstyle that could serve double duty as Mrs. Norcross and Mrs. Claus. Grandma attends her Silver Sneakers exercise class three times a week, and she walks nearly every other day, spring through fall, on the Little Traverse Wheelway, where I run nearly every day—even in the winter—and train for my races. The Wheelway is a twenty-six-mile, rail-to-trail bike path and paved trail which starts in Charlevoix and ends in Harbor Springs, running smack-dab through Petoskey and along the bay. It features some of the most stunning views in Michigan.
Out of his Santa costume, people say Grampa looks like the actor Charles Durning. He has a round, affable face, silver hair that he sweeps back with a bit of gel, a big bubble of a nose and rosy cheeks. As my grandma jokes, Your grandfather does not need to stuff his costume.
But my grampa is sturdy. He’s the type of man who can hold chubby triplets in his arms without any effort and smile for the camera, or hoist a box of books on each shoulder and walk across the store.
In other words, he is St. Nick.
I open the first box of decorations. Each box and bin is carefully marked: Great-grandma’s Tree Skirt, Grandma’s Shiny Brites, Travel Ornaments. We each take an ornament and hang it on the branch, my grampa going high to decorate the top of the tree. Eventually, we come to the last boxes, marked in my mother’s looping cursive, My Christmas Ornaments.
I open it slowly. Inside are her beloved ornaments, many of which she purchased in little Michigan gift shops when I was by her side: beautiful butterflies, fragile flowers and countless vintage Santa ornaments, many of which feature the year she bought them.
I retrieve an ornament—an ornate Christopher Radko Mrs. Claus—from its little box. Inside is the original gift tag in my childish script that reads:
To: Mom
From: Susan
Merry Christmas, 1991!
My grandma smiles, and I lift the ornament to the lights on the tree. My hand trembles ever so slightly. My grandma puts her arm around me.
“It looks so much like her when she would get all dolled up in her costume, doesn’t it?”
The mouth on the ornament is open, an O, as if she’s singing, or—like my mom—telling a story.
“Marilyn never knew a comma or period in her life, did she?” my grampa asks with a booming laugh. “Remember how your father would just walk into another room when she was in the middle of a story without any end and yell, ‘Land the plane, Marilyn!’”
The two of them roll in laughter.
I nod. If I open my mouth, I will start crying. Even so many years later, it feels especially raw this year.
“How do you do it?” I finally ask. “Rather, how have you always done it? To just speak about them so freely? Every year, I open these ornaments, and my heart just wants to shatter no matter how much time has passed.”
“So does mine, Susan,” Grandma says softly. “But what good does it do if we don’t remember their lives? What happens if we don’t honor their memories, especially this time of year? Everything just fades into oblivion. And that’s not right.”
“I would give my own life to bring your parents back,” Grampa says. “I wished every day for years it would have been me. But none of us can undo time. None of us can go back in time. We can—and should—only move forward. It’s the only thing that honors our lives and their memories.”
“But what if...” I start.
“If if’s and but’s were candy and nuts, oh, what a Merry Christmas it would be,” my grandma says. “We can’t live the rest of our lives wondering what if. We can’t live small simply to minimize the pain, because the world needs our strength and resilience. Just look at Rita. She stopped living the moment grief overtook her life.” My grandma looks at the tree, and then back at me. “I grieve every single day. I grieve every holiday season. I grieve for my babies. I grieve for the state of the world. But you can’t leave your heart in a box forever like these ornaments, unopened, unwilling to be touched. That’s why I have to celebrate the lives of a son and daughter-in-law who gave us the greatest Christmas gift in the world. You.”
I lean into her arms, and she holds me.
“You’re going to make it through this holiday and this year, okay?” she says. “Actually, you’re going to shine. I just know it.”
My grampa takes a sip of his Manhattan and sits on the sofa. He touches a schooner ornament, and it floats back and forth as if it’s sailing on rocky seas.
“No one’s life is lived in vain if their memory is celebrated,” he says. “Just look at my grandfather, Captain Santa. Trees still wash up on shore to this day, a century later, that people swear are from that boat. Legend says the lake never gives up her dead, and the Christmas tree ship was no exception. No bodies were ever recovered. But his legacy of kindness and goodwill lives on to this day. Years after my grandfather died, they found his wallet, made of waterproof oilskin, still watertight, the contents undamaged. They returned the wallet to my grandmother, and we all went to see it. Inside was a picture of the two of them, on the bow of the boat, as fresh as the day it was taken. ‘A little piece of him came home to me,’ she said, ‘but he’ll always live inside of me because he made my life better. That’s what love is.’”
My grampa turns his gaze on me. “And you know the name of the fishing boat that recovered Captain Santa’s wallet?”
“The Reindeer,” I say in unison with him.
He smiles and continues. “That’s right. My grandma’s buried right next to his headstone. Her tombstone is a simple stone with an evergreen etched in it. The last time I visited, I was greeted with the overwhelming scent of pine, as real as this tree before me right now. In fact, the whole cemetery smelled like Christmas. I like to believe that my grandfather did make it home to be with my grandma.” He focuses on me again. “I need to believe that we’ll all be reunited again. I need to continue that legacy of providing kindness to complete strangers. That’s how I go on. That’s why it’s an honor to be Santa.”
We hang the Mrs. Claus ornament front and center, finish decorating and then have our stew in front of the tree. Later, I walk my grandparents to their car and then sit by the tree with my phone in my hand, waiting for them to call to say they’ve made it to their knotty-pine cottage by the bay ten minutes away. When I know they’re home safe and sound, I head up the narrow staircase to the second floor.
Everyone is charmed by the Pink Lady’s tiny turret. The room is round and has an old ornate fireplace that I’ve switched to gas, burnished woodwork and tall, narrow windows with what Realtors here call a “seasonal view,” meaning you can see the bay when all the leaves are off the trees in town. I’ve made it into a guest room, because everyone wants to stay in here. They love its quirk as well as the fact they can sit in the window seat and read, or drink coffee and watch summer tourists bike, jog or walk their dogs.
Down the hall is a room I keep locked. I call it my office, and people don’t question it. But it’s actually a spare bedroom I decorate for the holidays all on my own.
If my public life were a book, Sleigh By the Bay would be the cover. It’s how people see me. It defines me. It’s a picture of what I like readers to see, and how I want them to buy into my character. My home would be the first chapter. It sells readers on my story. I decorate for the holidays, for instance, because I love Christmas. But I also want to portray an image and storyline so people believe that I believe in happy endings.
But I keep a room all to myself. In a book, this room might be what an author would term as her “little darling.”
“Kill your darlings” is one of the most common pieces of advice given by authors to aspiring writers. It’s when an author must rid a work of an unnecessary passage, character or storyline—often one that the author loves, thus, a “darling”—for the overall sake of the work. It’s often attributed to William Faulkner, but its literary roots go all the way back to English writer Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch who more brutally stated, “Murder your darlings.”
I have a few darlings I’ve tried hard in my life to rid myself of, but I have yet to convince myself my overall life would be better without them.
I open the door, click on the light and step inside. A small desk sits below the window, and there’s a twin bed against one wall. Bookcases filled with my mother’s and father’s favorite books line another.
I open the tiny closet and pull out two bins stacked atop one another and drag them over to the bed. I pull free a Charlie Brown tree—a replica of the sad little bent tree from the Christmas cartoon special, right down to the single red ornament that weighed it down—and place it on a nightstand. It’s a tree my mom bought me for my bedroom when I was little. I wrap the base in its little blue Linus blanket and surround it with Charlie Brown, Snoopy, Lucy, Linus and Sally figurines. On the other nightstand, I stack my favorite childhood Christmas books, including How the Grinch Stole Christmas by Dr. Seuss.
I retrieve the other bin and open it. The scents—like those of the balsam fir in my living room and the evergreen at the cemetery in my grandfather’s memory—overwhelm me. I pull out two pillows and place them vertically on the bed as if they were people laying down for a nap. I retrieve two Santa caps and place them on the tops of the pillows.
And then I pull each into my arms and inhale.
Old Spice and Shalimar.
My father’s favorite cologne and my mother’s favorite perfume are still fragrant on their pillows and velvet caps that I’ve kept hidden and all to myself for so many years.
I hold them forever, place them back on the bed and lay down with my parents.
This room is akin to lighting a candle at church or visiting the Wailing Wall and sliding a note into the rocks. It is sacred to me.
I shut my eyes, say a prayer and then cast my eyes upward. On the wall over the headboard is my poem from fourth grade, “The Single Kringle.” It is housed in a red frame, and the first prize medal I won for writing and reciting it in elementary school hangs beside it.
I look at the words, upside down, and think that is exactly how my life has been since my parents’ deaths.
To the outside world, Susan is good.
In here, surrounded by the darlings she cannot surrender, she is alone.
And yet... I can still recite the poem I wrote so long ago.
People say Santa isn’t real
But he was a man named St. Nicholas
To think otherwise
Is purely ridiculous.
We must believe
Because faith is no game
There is purpose beyond us
Otherwise life is a shame.
How does one make
A wish come true?
By believing in others
But also believing in you.
So, until my day comes
I’ll remain happy and bright
And I will believe in my Kringle
With all of my might.
I must believe. I must remember. I must remain happy and bright with all my might.
Why?
I sit up and reach for the framed poem. It is heavy, heavier than I remember, heavier than anyone would ever know.
I remove it from the wall.
The poem is a ruse.
I set the frame on the bed and remove the panel on the back to reveal a virtual mini safe beneath the glass.
To reveal the reason behind my childhood words and fading belief.
“Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad.”
Many people keep their loved ones’ ashes in urns on mantels or vases beside their bed. My grandparents have what I secretly call a “death shelf” dedicated to my parents: framed photos of them from all stages of their lives sit on a specially made shelf in their den surrounding a beautiful urn that resembles, fittingly, a book. My grandparents like to gaze upon it as they read or watch TV in front of the fire.
“It feels like they’re with us.”
I’ve never told them that it sort of creeps me out. When I try to watch TV with them, my eyes focus on the book. If I nod off and wake to see my parents in pictures, my dazed disappointment is almost too much to bear. So I keep some of my parents’ ashes in the place I know is closest to my heart, the words I wrote in tribute to them and their undying love so long ago.
I’ve told most people that I scattered my parents’ ashes on the bay Christmas Day decades ago, but I’m a wonderful little white liar, and I can scatter my half-truths softly into the air like winter’s first snowflakes. I’ve kept people—pardon the pun—at bay for so long by telling them what they want to hear.
Yes, I’m seeing someone.
Yes, the holidays are hard, but I focus on how much I was loved.
You know men these days. No one wants to commit.
Online dating is so hard. I wish I could meet someone like my parents and grandparents did.
I’ve had horrible dates—Hello, Cletus!—and heartbreaking disappointments—Hello, mysterious Santa!—that have made me swear off men, but—many moons ago—I’ve also had a few wonderful dates. I’ve gone on first dates where I’ve felt a real connection, second dates that led to a kiss, and third, fourth and fifth dates that could actually make me see a future. And, oh, how that terrified me. Waving goodbye in the morning to a husband and child, watching them pull out of the driveway and then wondering every second of every hour of every day if they would be okay and return home to me.
People often say you hit forty, and you stop giving a damn. You stop caring about what other people think.
That’s not entirely true.
It’s that when you hit forty, you start looking at the finish line of your life, and you see there aren’t that many people in front of you. And when I hit forty, the age my mother passed away—without having achieved the things she had, like love and children—well, it wants to stop me cold in my tracks even more quickly than a blizzard blowing off the bay.
Such milestones and markers either bring great clarity or great confusion.
It’s brought both to me. I know what I want, what I need, what I deserve, but I’m too paralyzed to make that happen. And so you learn to be content with who you are and what you have.
You become content with the reality of being alone, because it’s less terrifying than having it all and losing it all over again.
“What do you wish for Christmas this year?” I ask the ashes.
The wind whistles around the Pink Lady’s old gables.
“Me, too,” I whisper. “Me, too.”
I close the frame and place it back on the wall with a little kiss.
Over at the bookshelf, I scan the titles, running my fingers over the spines of the books, before I see one that makes total sense. Every Christmas, I pick out a new book—one that I think will make the perfect gift—for a dead stranger.
You see, Rita may have been the one who started this tradition long ago.
But I think I was the one who perfected it.