The summer weather in December and the way people say “the” before a freeway—as in the 405—aren’t the only odd things about California. Finals are after winter break. I guess it’s because school starts so late here. So, I’m not cramming for tests the week before vacation. And despite dreading the holiday, I’m sort of floating through the days. Ryan stops by at lunch more often now. Sometimes Mari pretends she has to get something from her locker in order to leave us alone. I’m not sure what she thinks is going to happen in the quad at school, but since he’s getting busier with basketball, it’s nice to have these few moments alone with him. I’ve learned he has a little brother Jake who’s in seventh grade, and Ryan has already gotten an offer to play basketball at San Diego State. His dad is an engineer, and his mom is a physical therapist who works her schedule around their school hours. He pretty much has a perfect life. He’s pretty much perfect himself.
And this whatever I have going with Ryan has also reignited my friendship with Callie. We’ve kept in touch, but there is more than just a bunch of states between us. We’ve drifted apart without the anchor of cheer and classes and our parents palling around. A little boy drama was just what we needed. I’m pretty sure by now Callie can sketch Ryan in her art pad, down to the tiny freckle beneath his left eye, and in hundreds of texts, she hasn’t once asked me if I’m doing okay.
Even at home, Grandma is doing really well. There’s a delay with the new nurse’s start date, but the independence has freed Grandma from her depression. She’s singing, cooking, and really obsessing over her iPad these days. She’s even started cleaning out the garage. All her appointments have been consolidated into two days each week, so it’s easy for us to get her a ride. She seems more like a mom these days than a grandma.
Since Grandma is so self-sufficient and I don’t have finals, I finish all my college applications this week. They’re not due until February 1, but I’m anxious to keep checking things off my list—one race down, half of my plane ticket to Greece earned, and my Ohio State application sent. I couldn’t get all the information together in time for early decision to Ohio State, and this means I’ll have to wait until April. That’s an eternity from now, but it feels good to be finished.
By Friday, my heart is so light that the fact that it’s the last day before vacation is just the icing on the cake. My second half-marathon is tomorrow. It’s closer this time, so I can drive over after school to pick up my race packet like all the other runners. Like Mom used to do. This puts me at ease as well as the fact that I have a handheld water bottle, hat, and tank top ready for tomorrow even though it’s expected to be chilly at the start. This race is already starting out better than the last one.
The start on Saturday isn’t even as awkward because Tim, the graduate assistant who works with my group at cross-country practice, is running the race and finds me in the crowd. He gives me some tips about the course and guides me through some stretching. In no time, it seems, it’s time to line up in our race corrals.
Even though I put all of my lessons from race one to work—hat, water, tank top, regular hydration, and don’t go out so fast—it’s still no day at Disney World. Sweat streams down my face that has heated up despite my hat, and at times my breathing is so loud I have to increase the volume of my music to drown it out. And I have to admit that I’m the teeniest bit disappointed my hopeful eyes haven’t spotted Ryan along the course.
Nevertheless, I make it all the way to the halfway point without stopping to walk, except through the water stations. I’m careful about the cup I take and choose a more appropriate mixed berry energy gel. I practiced with them twice on my Saturday runs, so I know what to expect now. It’s a much better experience at the midpoint this time, and I surge into the second half of the race.
The extreme pain and mental anguish, however, make their usual appearance. All the cross-country drills pay off as I’m better able to use my mind to power through the pain, but even a mind of steel eventually is no match for the brute force of leg fatigue. I’m starting to let it all overwhelm me—the heat, breathlessness, and pain—when I hear my name. “Loooooo-kas!” My head swivels left, and Ryan, along with Mari this time, stands in a clump of other cheering friends and family. Ryan waves his “Go Emma!” sign, and they give me a thumbs-up. My legs instantly rev up as a surge of power has electrified them. And for the rest of the race, just when I need that burst of energy to keep going, they magically appear.
At the finish line, Ryan waits for me with a bottle of water. “Congrats!”
“Thanks,” I say, bending down to catch my breath. I straighten and add, “You came.”
“Of course I came. If you’re crazy enough to run these things, you deserve a cheering section.” He leads me away from the crowded finish area. “Mari says congrats. She had to take off.”
I smile. Of course she did.
“And actually, I have to go, too. Basketball practice.” He shrugs apologetically. “Sorry I can’t stay to hang out.”
I wave him off. “It’s totally fine. I’m grateful you came at all. You guys really helped me.”
“I wouldn’t miss it. You’re a beast, Loukas.” He playfully knocks me on the arm.
My hand immediately reaches to pat down my hair.
His cheeks flush. “No, I mean, you’re an animal... you’re like a monster...” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”
I laugh. “I know what you mean. And thanks.”
“I mean you’re great,” he says quietly.
I fidget with my water bottle. “Thanks.”
Ryan clears his throat. “All right, I’m out. Congrats again.” He leans in and we exchange an awkward hug as I try to keep my sweat and smell to myself.
He waves and walks away, and I head to the grassy area away from the crowd. I plop down and take a bite of banana. By no means am I that Prefontaine guy Coach talked about at our end-of-season party, but this wasn’t nearly the disaster that the last race was. And now I’m halfway done with Mom’s races. I lean back and stare at the sky. I’m almost there, guys.
My euphoria of late is much like the runner’s high I experience around mile four—it doesn’t last long. Each day that Christmas inches closer increases the weight that’s shackled to every part of me. I sense Grandma has a similar weight because she’s singing less and doing a lot more sitting in her armchair, staring at her book. We hardly talk about my dad or that day. We sidestep unintended references and gloss over the empty moments that pop up. Like me, I don’t think she wants to be buried in an avalanche of teardrops, so we avoid the topic. But the approach of Christmas makes that difficult.
Christmas was always my dad’s favorite holiday. He nominated himself Lead Decorator. Ornaments filled every space on our tree because he loved all of them. It hurt him to leave any off. He dragged us all out to a Christmas tree farm ever since I can remember, and each year he made one of us choose the winning tree. He cursed his way through getting it home and into the house, but his eyes lit up just like the tree when it was finished. From all the pictures I’ve seen of Grandma and Grandpa’s Christmases, I think Dad inherited his enthusiasm. And when Grandma started spending the holiday with us, the joy only multiplied.
My mom was in charge of the cookies. Every year, I helped her make a batch of sugar cookies in different Christmas cutout shapes. Connor swooped in at the end to help decorate them in green, red, and white frosting, but he wouldn’t allow sprinkles. I tried to sneak them in one year, and he told me I ruined Christmas.
On top of all of this, Christmas Day is also my birthday. I am a Christmas baby. My parents knew how much I hated it, so they always filled the house with equal parts Christmas decorations and birthday decorations; my dad even counted. They split the day in half, too. The first half of the day was Christmas and the second half, including dinner, was always the birthday celebration.
But this year, I don’t think either of us cares about cookies or decorations or a tree. We go through the motions out of a sense of obligation. With the help of Rose’s son, we find a live Christmas tree and get it set up at home. I dig out Grandma’s Christmas boxes from the garage, and we decorate the tree. Lights are quickly wrapped around the tree, and ornaments are placed wherever there is space. Instead of “Frosty the Snowman” playing in the background, we have the evening news on TV, and we stop when I ask, “Is this good enough?” and Grandma says, “Sure.”
We already have plenty of presents to put under our tree. Since December 1, packages have arrived daily from Mom’s relatives and Grandma’s friends and her family in Greece. It’s as if everyone thinks they can make this time easier by giving us a box of chocolates or a gift card or a pair of fuzzy socks. But we still spend a day shopping at the mall. We plaster on our best smiles and choose a few gifts for each other. I think Grandma has forgotten it’s also my birthday, and for once I’m not sad to let it get lost in the red and green of Christmastime.
At the end of the day, we stop at the drugstore and buy some wrapping paper with Christmas aliens on it, simply because it was the first roll we saw. When we are finally home, we wrap the presents together and put them under the tree. That night and for the next few nights, we forget to even plug in the tree lights.
On December 23, after work, I drive to the store and buy all the ingredients for the sugar cookies. I don’t have Mom’s exact recipe and the new cookie cutters I buy are odd. Santa has a bigger head than belly, and the tree branches are too skinny and the dough keeps getting stuck in it. I suffer through my frustration and decorate them as usual. When they’re finished, I place some out on one of Grandma’s holiday china platters.
With the cookies on the table, decorations everywhere, and the tree lights glowing, it looks like a house bursting with Christmas joy. But when we say goodnight on Christmas Eve, after Mass and a very quiet dinner, I can sense that neither of us is going to want to get out of bed tomorrow.
But we do. I awaken around six because there is a clanging going on in the kitchen. I stumble in and pots and pans are stacked on the counter.
“Grandma, what are you doing?” I ask.
Her hair is disheveled, and she’s still in her pink floral robe. She never comes out of her bedroom undressed. “I can’t find my hairbrush. I need to do my hair before we go, and I can’t find my hairbrush.”
My heart sinks. I inhale slowly and let it out. “Okay, can I help you look?” I walk over to her and open a nearby cupboard. I remove some Tupperware. “I’ll check all these cabinets, and you look in the drawers.”
The wildness in her eyes softens. For a few moments, I pretend to search for her hairbrush in the cupboards while she opens every drawer.
“It’s just not here.” The desperation in her voice and the worry etched on her pale face age her by about twenty years.
“Why don’t we try some of the other rooms?” I suggest.
“I’ve looked everywhere,” she insists.
“I know you have, but sometimes it’s good to double-check. C’mon, let’s double-check.” I rest my hand lightly on her back and lead her by the elbow out of the kitchen and back to her room. “Let’s start in your room. Next, we’ll move on to my room and the living room.”
She agrees, and I help her search a few of the dresser drawers before I step into the bathroom. Right there on the counter next to a tan hand towel with a single seashell stitched into it lies her brown paddle brush.
Grandma sits on the bed, staring at her hands. I sit by her side.
“I found your hairbrush, Grandma.” She looks at it as though she isn’t sure what I’m holding. “It was buried under your hand towel, so that’s probably why you didn’t see it.” A tear tumbles down her cheek. I put my arm around her and give her a little squeeze, blinking back my own tears.
“It’s okay. We found it. Now let’s get your hair done,” I say in as a cheery a voice as I can muster. I help her up and lead her into the bathroom.
“Your hair always looks so pretty. Can I stay and see how you do it?” I don’t want to leave her alone with the curling iron, but I know the hovering will agitate her more.
She wipes away the tears, and a half smile forms as she slowly raises the brush and gently moves it through her chin-length hair.
“Your hair has always reminded me of Elizabeth Taylor.” This is Grandma’s favorite actress. And it’s true, her brown waves remind me of the way Elizabeth Taylor looked in the movie I watched with Grandma once when she visited us. “What was that movie called that we watched together?” I squirm as soon as I say it. This might be another thing she can’t remember.
“Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,” she says confidently, and her eyes brighten. “That’s sweet of you to say, dear. You know, Elizabeth Taylor...” She slowly eases herself out of the confusion by talking about her favorite actress and all the others she loves. I actually enjoy hearing her tell me about all her favorite old Hollywood stars, but I feel even better being there when she uses the curling iron and helping her find the right makeup after she’s done.
While she’s getting dressed, I sneak out into the kitchen and clean up. I also set out her pills. She appears a few minutes later in her walking clothes and informs me she doesn’t feel like taking her pills right now and that it’s time for us to go on her usual Wednesday walk. My heart drops once more; today is Thursday, and we just took her Wednesday walk yesterday. But I figure another walk can’t hurt, so I tell her to give me a minute to change.
After her walk, she takes a quick rinse off shower and tells me it’s time to go to her hair appointment. I try to convince her she might have written the day down incorrectly, but she insists she’s correct. I’m not sure if it’s the right thing to do, but I want to avoid a meltdown so I drive her to the salon. When we arrive, it’s closed, and this upsets her more. I concoct a story about the hairdresser probably forgetting what day it is, but it doesn’t calm her and the tears tumble once more.
After waiting for fifteen minutes, I drive us home. I try explaining to her that it’s Christmas, but she tells me, “Don’t be silly. Christmas was last week.” She then appears to notice the tree for the first time today and asks why we haven’t taken it down yet. Once again, I try to tell her that Christmas is today and remind her how we were at Christmas Eve Mass just yesterday. But she yells at me that she knows when Christmas is. It was last week, and why is everyone always telling her that she’s wrong? I consider calling her friends, but I don’t want to ruin their days. They’re probably playing with grandchildren and new toys or working on their special dinners.
So I bring over a calendar and study it. “You know what, Grandma? You’re right. Christmas was last week.” Her muscles unclench and her agitation subsides. “It probably is time to take down the decorations. Do you want to get the stuff on the tables, and I’ll get the Christmas tree?” She nods and her breathing slows to a normal rate.
While she gathers figurines and candles from around the room, I haul all the unopened presents into my room to get them out of her sight. Together we box up all the decorations, and I somehow manage to drag the tree outside to the curb. I return the boxes to the garage, and Grandma vacuums the living room.
By late afternoon, there is no sign left of Christmas in this house. I’ve even thrown away all the cookies I made and iced, except a few I keep in a baggie and put in my room. Grandma says she isn’t hungry, but I cook a frozen pizza for dinner. She picks at it and says she’s tired. I help her set out pajamas and wait for her as she goes through her nightly routine. By 8:00 p.m., she’s asleep. I clean the kitchen and even put her pills away, hoping we can start fresh tomorrow.
I throw on a sweatshirt and take my phone and the few cookies I saved out to the front porch. It’s not even cold out. Such an odd Christmas. Our tree has been kicked to the curb, and it’s warm enough for shorts.
My phone dings.
Ryan: Merry Christmas! How’s it going over there?
Me: fine
Ryan: can I stop by with something?
I glance at my shabby jean shorts and the hole in my Cincinnati Bengals sweatshirt and reach up to feel the unruliness of my hair.
Me: sure
I’m too tired to care.
Ryan: be there soon
Sure enough, about fifteen minutes later, his Jeep pulls into my driveway. For once, Ryan is not in basketball gear. He’s wearing a pair of khaki pants and a light blue button-down shirt. He hides one hand behind his back.
“Well, don’t you look all fancy,” I tease him.
“Family dinner.” He shrugs. He walks up the pathway and sits next to me on the porch, still holding his hand behind him.
“So how was Christmas?” I ask
“Good. Typical. New socks from my grandma, my mom overcooked the prime rib, and Uncle Todd got drunk.”
I laugh. “At least it wasn’t dull. Well, except for the socks.”
He smiles. “How... was your day?” I read the pause in his voice.
I point at the curb. “Well, that’s our Christmas tree.”
He looks down the driveway then back at me with furrowed brows.
“Grandma didn’t have a good day. It started with her tearing apart the kitchen looking for her hairbrush and ended with us taking down all the decorations.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
“It’s okay, actually. I was too busy to be sad.” My gaze shifts down, and I brush away a few stray pine needles.
“Well, I had a feeling from the way you talked about it at work the other day that you wouldn’t be celebrating the other holiday, so I wanted to bring you this.” His arm swings out from behind him, and he’s holding a chocolate cupcake with green frosting topped with chocolate jimmies and a single candle. “Happy birthday, Loukas.” His usual steady hand trembles a little as he hands it to me.
My lips curl into a half smile. “Thanks.” I take the cupcake and swipe a finger through the side of the green frosting. My eyebrows rise. “Mmmm... mint.”
“Well, I know you miss the mint chip ice cream from home, but I couldn’t really bring you a dish of ice cream without it melting, so I thought a mint cupcake would be an okay substitute.”
I lower the cupcake and gaze at his bright blue eyes. My half smile widens into a fully genuine one. “Thanks,” I say again. I want to say more, but that’s all I can get out.
“Here.” He fishes a matchbook out of his pocket. “I’ll be careful.” He raises a hand to promise. I set the cupcake down between us, and he lights the candle. “Make a wish,” he instructs.
Make a wish. A crowd of ideas appears in my mind, each clamoring to be chosen. I could wish my family back or that they are all in heaven or that I’ll be able to fulfill their dreams. I could wish Grandma will be okay. I could wish I get into Ohio State. I could wish for an A on all my finals. I could even wish that Ryan would kiss me.
But when I draw a deep inhale and begin to let it out, the words that push all the others away are I wish to be free. And the flame is extinguished.
I don’t even know what it means, but on my 18th birthday, when technically I’m already free, that is what I wish for. I wish to be free.