Every Christmas Eve, Beth and I help my father with two projects at his station house. First of all, we’re the servers for the big holiday feast he makes for all the firefighters who are on duty. We’ve known most of them forever, and it’s like we’re one big Italian-Irish-Polish-African-American family. They love to give Dad a hard time about anything and everything and are always looking for new ammunition. Beth gave them plenty when she told them about his mad scrapbooking skills.
“You should see how he makes the little ribbons,” she said. “They’re so delicate and pretty.” Dad’s captain, a giant man we’ve always called Uncle Rick, laughed so hard, he almost spit out his mashed potatoes.
Moments later, Dad walked in wearing his favorite apron—which says FIRE CHEF instead of FIRE CHIEF—and carrying a plate of turkey. Things got quiet, and all eyes turned to him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I was wondering if you could help me with something,” Uncle Rick said.
“Of course,” he answered.
“I’ve been studying for my recertification test, and there’s one thing I can never get straight.”
“What is it?” asked Dad.
“Are you supposed to glue the pictures directly onto the scrapbook? Or should you use double-sided tape instead?”
The entire table erupted into laughter, and Dad turned two shades of red. He laughed too but quickly tried to change the subject. “So, did you catch that Jets game on Sunday? It was unbelievable, wasn’t it?”
After the feast was done and all the leftovers were labeled and loaded into the refrigerator, we picked up the final donations to the station’s toy drive to take them to a nearby homeless shelter.
“Michael, we left those last toys unwrapped,” Uncle Rick said to my dad. “ ’Cause we know you like to do the ribbon.”
There were more laughs, and Dad gave Beth the stink eye as we headed out the door to go to the shelter.
It was my turn to choose family time, and since we were already going to be in the neighborhood, I decided on a night in Manhattan. The plan was to start with ice skating in Rockefeller Center and then to cross the street and go to midnight mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
This worked for me in so many ways. First of all, Midtown is beautiful during the holidays. There are lights and decorations everywhere, and I can’t think of a better way to spend Christmas Eve.
Second, we’d learned from one of Brock Hampton’s newscasts that midnight mass was going to be this year’s Verify for Elias Blackwell. As my Omega team’s lone Catholic member, I’d told the others that I would take care of getting a picture.
8. Elias Blackwell: Deceased
Occupation: Lawyer
Aliases: Elias Wollman, Elias Belvedere, Elias Olmsted
Most Recent Home: Central Park
Last Sighting: Fifth Avenue
Most important, though, I thought both of these activities gave me the perfect opportunity to include Mom as part of our holiday plans. There were plenty of places where she could watch us skate, and it would be easy for her to hide among the packed congregation in the cathedral. It wasn’t exactly the same as being together, but it was as close as I could come up with.
As far as ice skating goes, the family falls into varying levels of ability. Beth is by far the most graceful. She’s long and lean and took figure skating lessons when she was little. Dad played hockey in high school. He’s the fastest, although it’s not particularly pretty to look at. He also has a tendency to slam into people—and by “people,” I mean me—like he’s playing for the Stanley Cup. Meanwhile, I’m the worst. (I know, shocker!) I do what Dad calls “the Molly shuffle” and never stray more than a few inches from the safety of the side rail that wraps around the rink. Despite this lack of skill, I really enjoy going once or twice a year. I especially love skating at Rockefeller Center, where you’re outside, surrounded by the city, and right beneath the massive seventy-five-foot-tall Christmas tree.
After going around for a few laps without spotting Mom, I began to worry that she didn’t see my message. I was scanning faces in the crowd when Dad came to a hockey stop right in front of me. But because I was looking up instead of where I was going, I slammed right into him, and we had to scramble to keep our balance.
“Dad?!” I said, exasperated. “You almost tackled me.”
“Tackling is football,” he said. “In hockey, they call it ‘checking.’ ”
“Well, I’ll make sure to use the right term when I try to explain to the doctor how I broke my hand . . . again.”
“Besides, you were the one who wasn’t watching where you were going,” he said. “Who are you looking for?”
Busted.
I stammered for a moment, trying to come up with an answer. “Hockey scouts,” I said. “You know, from the Rangers or the Islanders, in case they’re looking for a middle-aged player with good paramedic skills.”
He smiled and waved a finger at me. “Don’t forget the Devils,” he said. “I could handle a commute into Jersey to play professional hockey.”
We skated around together for a little bit and talked about nothing in particular. It was nice and relaxed. We both looked over at Beth, who was gliding effortlessly across the middle of the rink. Her bright pink jacket made it impossible to miss her. If Mom was up there somewhere, I’m sure she was glued to her every move.
“I want you to be honest with me about something,” he said.
“Of course,” I answered, nervous about where this could go.
“Did the thing about scrapbooking just slip out? Or did she sell me out on purpose?”
I laughed. “You know the answer to that one.”
“That’s what I figured,” he said as he focused in on her. “I think it’s time for a little revenge.”
“You’re not going to tackle her, are you?”
He gave me a frustrated look. “It’s check, not tackle. How many times do I have to go over that? And of course not. I’m going to do something much worse than that. I’m going to embarrass her in front of those boys she’s flirting with.”
Sure enough, there were a group of high school boys watching her closely. She wasn’t exactly skating with them, but she was staying close and maintaining just enough eye contact to keep them in her orbit, not unlike Jupiter does with its many moons.
Of course, Jupiter gets by with gravity and doesn’t have to worry about a dad getting in the way. Ours skated right up and did his hockey-stop thing and almost knocked one of the boys to the ground. Then he started giving her encouragement.
“Looking good, Beth!” he said loud enough so I could easily hear him all the way on the edge. “You’re burnin’ so bright, you’re going to melt the ice.”
As if that weren’t cringe-worthy enough, he turned to the boys and said, “I’m her dad. I used to play hockey in school, and I’m thinking about getting back into it. You know any leagues around here for guys my age?”
They were gone before he finished his question.
“Guess that’s a no,” he said, turning toward Beth. “It’s just you and me now.”
“All right, I shouldn’t have mentioned the scrapbooking,” she said. “I apologize.”
“Good. Consider this your first Christmas present, a little gift I like to call sweet revenge,” he said. “And, fitting for this weather, it’s a dish best served cold.”
The ice skating rink is located on the lower plaza of Rockefeller Center so that if you’re on the street level, you look down on it. That’s where I finally spied Mom on my next lap. She had tucked herself into a little spot near the Christmas tree and blended right in with the crowd. We locked eyes long enough so that she’d know that I’d seen her, and then she flashed me a smile that was the best present I could ask for.
As far as skating goes, I was starting to get the hang of it and actually went about fifteen feet without holding on to anything when I got slammed into the rail. Again.
“C’mon, Dad,” I said, a little frustrated. “I get the point. It’s called a check, not a tackle.”
Except, when I turned around, it wasn’t my dad.
She was a big, orange-and-yellow-toothed Level 3 zombie. She squeezed my forearm so tight, my fingers tingled, and she pressed me against the rail long enough so that she could sniff me like an animal and get my scent. I looked up to where I’d seen my mother, and she was already gone, no doubt on her way to rescue me.
Instinctively, I tried a Jeet Kune Do move, not thinking about the fact that they weren’t exactly designed with ice skates in mind. Instead of kicking Zelda Zombie, I wound up slamming butt-first into the ice.
I looked up at her and considered my situation, which was quickly spinning out of control. I had to defeat a zombie . . . on ice skates . . . without attracting the attention of my father and sister . . . and without them seeing my undead mother. There was simply no way this could get worse.
As I struggled to get back up onto my skates, I saw none other than Natalie skating right toward me. And she was angry.
I braced to be slammed into the railing one more time. But Natalie being Natalie, she of course stopped with the precision of an Olympic ice dancer inches from my face.
“Who are you sending messages to?”
I didn’t know who to deal with first: Natalie or the zombie. I checked to see that my dad and Beth were busy, so that was good, but I still had no idea where my mom was.
“What are you talking about?” I asked her.
Just then, Zelda Zombie took a wild swipe at me, and I had to duck to miss it, which almost made me fall again.
“I mean, haven’t your secrets already gotten us in enough trouble?” Natalie asked.
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’m kind of in the middle of something here,” I said as I scrambled to keep my balance. “So, either you can be more specific, or you can help me fight this girl without my dad and sister finding out.”
“I saw the coded message in Central Park,” she said. “It led me here to you. Who was it written for?”
While she was talking, Zelda grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed. With skates on, I had no way to stop, and I just slid in reverse and braced to slam into either the ice or the railing. But someone caught me from behind and lifted me just as I was about to hit the ice. I looked up and saw her face.
“Mom,” I said out loud before I realized it.
“Mom?” Natalie asked, looking at me and then at her.
With me in her arms, my mother had nowhere to go. She looked up at Natalie and smiled. “Hi.”
Zelda, of course, was still determined to take me out, and as I looked back, I saw that my father and sister were about to turn the corner and come right at us.
“Beth, Dad, zombie,” I said to the two of them, hoping they could do the math on their own.
Natalie thought for a second and nodded.
“Got it.”
She did an axel or spin or whatever you call it and clipped Zelda in the backs of her thighs with her skate, knocking her right into my mother’s arm. Mom spun around, taking Zelda with her, and by the time Dad and Beth got to me, everything appeared normal.
“We should probably head over to mass,” Dad said. “It’s going to get pretty crowded in there.”
“Great idea,” I answered.
I shuffled off with them, and neither had any idea that they were just a few feet from Mom. I’d just have to trust that she and Natalie could take care of Zelda and figure out a way to deal with Natalie knowing about Mom.
As far as church goes, I don’t really love going to services all that much. I think my time in Catholic school kind of burned me out. But I’ve always loved midnight mass, especially singing all the carols. It started with “O Come All Ye Faithful” and ended with “Joy to the World,” two of my favorites.
I managed to use my phone to sneak a couple of pictures of Elias Blackwell, who was actually one of the readers. He spent much of the mass sitting with the archbishop, and I couldn’t figure out how he managed to get such a prominent spot. I later learned that he’s a big donor to the church and often provides free legal services for some of its charities.
Apparently, Natalie and Mom were able to take care of everything, because halfway through the service, I got a text from Natalie that simply read, “All good.” (I also got a dirty look from my dad for checking a message during church.) And as I was walking from my seat to communion, I saw my mother in the crowd. I was able to pick a line that went right by her, and as I did, I put my hand on the pew in front of her. She put her hand on mine and said, “Merry Christmas, Molly.”
“Merry Christmas, Mom,” I said as I held her hand for an instant longer.
She was crying, but I’m pretty sure they were tears of joy.