Where the Heart Is

By Christy Lanier-Attwood

“CHRISTY, GO TELL your brother and sisters to hurry up,” Mom said.

“All right,” I groaned. At nine years old, I found being the oldest child a gigantic burden.

I cupped my hands to round up my siblings, but Dad beat me to the punch. From the front door his voice boomed out, “Get a move on, kids. At the rate you’re going, we won’t get to Grandma’s house until tomorrow.”

Grandpa also lived there, but for some reason no one ever called it his house.

“Last one to the car’s a rotten egg,” Derris yelled over his shoulder as he ran outside, heading for the car.

Gari and Cynthia hollered, “Dibs on shotgun,” and took off after him.

Being the family thinker, I lagged behind and ended up squashed in the middle of the backseat. I elbowed my way to a comfortable position before Dad started the car and the chatter began. Try to imagine six people crunched in a compact car, everyone doing their darnedest to outtalk the others. No one got a word in edgewise, and most of the time it didn’t matter anyway, because everyone only half listened to each other.

“I wish it would snow,” said seven-year-old Cynthia, the family dreamer.

“Have you lost your mind?” I asked her. “It’s eighty degrees today.”

“So? It could snow.” She made a face and stuck out her tongue.

“I wouldn’t want that nasty thing in my mouth either,” I said.

“Christy, you’re the oldest,” Dad reminded me. “You know better than to pick a fight.”

See what I mean? I got blamed for everything, whether it was my fault or not.

Cynthia mouthed a silent, “Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah,” just about the time Mom’s singsong voice resonated over the front seat. “Y’all better behave. Santa Claus might be listening.”

Santa was definitely listening, since he was the one driving us to Grandma’s.

Here’s how I’d learned the truth: The year before on Christmas Eve, I got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and caught sight of Mom and Dad in the living room. One by one, Dad removed gifts from a huge department store bag and held them out to Mom, whose eyes sparkled like the lights on the Christmas tree. With every gift Dad handed her, Mom returned a tender smile before she turned to place the package under the tree.

From my hiding position behind the dining table, I watched in silence for some time and then tiptoed from the room back to my bed. I fell asleep feeling a little sad about Santa, but my heart felt happy, even though I wasn’t quite sure why.

By the way, I never came clean about my discovery.

“What do you think Grandma will give us?” my brother asked from his lucky window position.

Mom twisted around in the seat and faced us. “I wonder.” Her light blue eyes twinkled.

I’m sure she was kidding. A few days before, I’d heard her talking to Grandma on the telephone. She said, “I’ll pick out something nice for the kids with the money that you sent, Momma.” I think Grandma was much too old to go shopping, so Mom had to do it for her.

Gari squirmed around like a wiggly worm. “Are we almost there?” She was only four, so the thirty-five minute drive probably seemed like infinity to her.

Mom reached around to the backseat and patted Gari’s curly blond head. “It won’t be long, honey.”

“I hope Santa comes while we’re gone.” Derris’s head was always in the clouds, just like Cynthia’s, which made perfect sense. After all, they were twins.

Derris wanted a bicycle, but he was most likely going to be disappointed. Right after Thanksgiving I’d heard Dad tell Mom that he was working hard as he could just to scrape up enough money to buy food, much less Christmas presents. Mom looked like she was going to bust out crying. My heart ached seeing her so sad. I wanted to hug her and tell her I didn’t care if she got me anything, but I didn’t want to get in trouble for overhearing something not meant for my ears. Besides, I wouldn’t have been telling the truth. What nine-year-old doesn’t want presents?

“We’re here,” Dad called out. He stopped the car at the large two-story house where my mother and her five brothers and sisters had grown up.

We tore out of the car like it was on fire.

Grandma’s front door was open and through the screen I could see loads of relatives inside. Many had spilled outdoors onto the huge front porch. A few swayed back and forth on the old white swing, some stood around talking, and others sat on the steps.

When we got close enough, they smothered us with kisses. After they said how much we kids had grown (what did they expect?), Mom steered us inside for more smooches. I suffered through, only because I knew I’d soon be able to play.

There were cousins galore in our family, and every year the numbers grew. I once mentioned how many new babies there were to my older cousin Danny. He told me the reason: “We’re Czech Catholics and we do it for the pope.” I had no idea what he meant, but he laughed like he’d told a great joke, and so did I, just like I’d gotten it.

Before long Grandma stood in the center of the dining room and announced it was time to eat. “Let’s say the blessing,” she said. In unison we spoke the prayer we’d all learned at an early age. “Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord. Amen.”

Then everyone dove in. The dining table was loaded with turkey and dressing, Grandma’s creamy vinegar green beans, salads, and homemade rolls. The buffet held pies, cakes, and cookies, and my favorite, kolaches. I jam-packed my plate with much more than I could possibly eat.

With a family of at least fifty, everyone took a seat wherever they could find one. I sat in a living-room chair and balanced the dinner plate on my lap. The cheerful voices, delicious food, and anticipation of the night’s remaining Christmas Eve festivities made me tickled to be part of the huge family.

After dinner the aunts and married female cousins cleaned up the dishes while the men chose the table where their favorite game would be played. From one table came the clickity-clack of “bones” being mixed up on the Formica top for a domino game. At another table, tall funny-looking cards from Czechoslovakia were shuffled for tarosy.

The kids took off outside to shoot firecrackers. The sun had set and the night air was so cold we were breathing smoke when we talked. About ten cousins, plus my siblings, were running around screaming and yelling. We were having more fun than a barrel of monkeys, until we were asked to come inside and sing Christmas carols. You could tell by the way the grownups’ voices barreled out the melodies that this was the part they liked the best, even if most couldn’t come close to carrying a tune.

After a jillion songs, someone saved us by saying it was time to open gifts. Some of the adults held gifts on their knees waiting for who knows what. All the kids ripped open their presents fast and showed them off to one another.

Grandpa, his hair as white as Cynthia’s sought-after snow, sat in his chair and watched Grandma. Her apron was still tied around her plump middle as she passed out money envelopes to all their grown children, just like she does every single year. Regardless, they all acted real surprised at getting their twenty-five dollars. Mom and Dad were no different, except they looked at each other with what seemed like relief when they opened theirs.

When Grandma was down to the last packet of money, Grandpa jumped to his feet so fast it looked like a spider had bit him. His cheeks were rosy red and his blue eyes were cheerful, just as I imagined Santa’s would be. If there was a Santa, that is.

Grandpa looked especially jolly as he watched several uncles bring in a box big enough for two people to fit in. The present was covered in at least three different wrapping paper designs and looked like the work of a toddler, but Grandpa stood proudly next to the package, like he was showing off the Vatican.

“Here, Minnie,” Grandpa said. “Merry Christmas.”

Grandma giggled and pressed her lips to Grandpa’s cheek. He gave her a grin and then with a few fingertip brush strokes, he dusted off her kiss. He always did that. I told Mom once that Grandpa didn’t like kisses, but she said he most certainly did too.

After Grandma tore the paper, someone handed her scissors and she sliced through the tape on the box and yanked the lid open. With both arms she reached in and pulled out shredded paper until it became a huge mound on the floor. We oohed and aahed. Grandpa had never done anything like this before, and we were curious as all get out.

Grandma just about disappeared into the box and looked like she’d fall in if she dug any deeper. Then she whooped like she’d hit gold and rose up with two envelopes, which she held high in the air. We clapped and cheered. Her hands trembled as she slowly opened them. When she looked up at Grandpa, tears poured from her eyes.

“What is it?” we wanted to know.

Grandma lifted the corner of her flowered apron and dried the tears on her face. “It’s been over thirty years since I’ve seen my sister. Grandpa has given me the airplane tickets and the money to go home to Czechoslovakia.” The waterworks in her green eyes started up again.

The family was almost as excited as Grandma, and we showered her with hugs and congratulations. Her face glowed with happiness, and she kept looking back at Grandpa like he was an angel. He’d be busy wiping kisses aplenty off his face that night.

Soon it was time to leave and we said our good-byes. Cynthia, Derris, and I made our mad dash to the car for the sweet seats. It turned out the race wasn’t necessary, because Mom declared that Cynthia and I got to sit by the windows on the way home.

Gari was sound asleep in Dad’s arms. He positioned her in the middle, next to me. Her head slumped on my arm and I let it stay there. When her eyelids twitched and her lips curled in a little smile, I wondered what she was dreaming about. A few minutes later it got real quiet and I peered around her to see what Cynthia and Derris were doing. They were already in their own dreamland.

Poor Grandma, I thought. Even though my brother and sisters drove me crazy sometimes, I couldn’t imagine going thirty days without seeing them, much less thirty years.

Except for soft snores and Dad’s whispers to Mom, our ride home was silent. I watched as Mom scooted over next to Dad and he pulled her close. She pressed her lips to his cheek and then snuggled into his neck.

I curled up in the seat and rested my head on Gari’s. Then I closed my eyes and hummed, “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”

Christy Lanier-Attwood resides in Austin, Texas, with her husband, Randy. Together, they have four wonderful children and a precious granddaughter. Christy is a realtor, but her lifelong passion is writing. She graduated with a degree in journalism from St. Edward’s University and recently completed her first mystery novel.