Read Online The 13th Gift by Joanne Huist Smith - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joanne Huist Smith
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extra cupcakes just in case.”
“I hear the family is falling apart.”
I stop walking and take hold of Megan’s hand so she stops, too. A blank expression replaces her smile. I’m hoping a black hole sucks us in before the ladies turn around and detect our presence, but Megan has other plans. She starts singing.
“He’s making a list. Checking it twice. Going to find out who’s naughty or nice.”
The ladies turn to see Megan taking hold of our shopping cart and plowing down the aisle in their direction. Her legs move with propeller speed toward the cupcake display. She stops short of disaster and says, “Excuse me.”
They step out of her way.
I join my girl, and we load cupcakes into our cart. She continues singing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,” emphasizing the word
naughty
.
Her daddy and I used to sing that tune whenever one of the kids acted out when they were little. I wonder if Megan sings it now for the busybodies or for me. The women hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true. We are falling apart.
When the ladies move out of the aisle, I whisper to Meg, “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
She acts as if nothing happened.
“Let’s get an extra half dozen in case someone wants seconds,” she says instead, adding more cupcakes to our shopping cart.
I see that she is smiling again, but now there are tears welling in the corners of her eyes.
We encounter the women one more time in the checkout lane. Megan pointedly wishes them a happy Christmas. I walk out without saying a word to either of them.
Except for the hum of the car engine, the ride to school is a silent journey. Megan takes her time transferring the cupcakes from the plastic store containers into our decorative ones. She snaps down the last lid as I pull into a parking space.
“Try to have fun today,” I tell her. “Don’t let those ladies get to you.”
To my surprise, she laughs.
“Those women don’t get what we’re going through, not like the gift givers,” she says. “We’re not falling apart; we’re just chipped a little bit. You do what you can, Mom. We all do.”
Megan leans across the center console of the car and gives me a kiss on the cheek before getting out.
As I watch her swaying ponytail disappear into the crowd entering the school building, I see not the ten-year-old she is, but the young lady she is becoming. My heart glows with maternal pride, and I sit there basking in it, until I notice one of the moms from the store pulling into the parking space next to mine. I am pretty sure there is an apology written on her face, but I don’t want or deserve it. I back the car out as she approaches. I have nothing to say. My daughter has said it all.
I spend most of the day scrubbing floors, washing dishes, and doing lots of laundry. My kids need me to take charge, and I don’t want to let them down any more than I already have. Now that Nick has removed the holiday decorations from the basement closet, I know it won’t be long before ceramic Santas start appearing around the house. My goals are to make sure the decorations won’t be sitting in dust clouds and that we have clean clothes to wear next week.
It feels good to do normal things, chores I have done every year to prepare for the holidays since I was a new bride. I appreciate the solitude of the house, the quietness. Instead of feeling lonely and stiff, I feel free to let my mind wander back to happier Christmases and to cry if I want to, without fear of upsetting one of the kids.
My holiday preparations always began in mid-November with a floor-to-ceiling scrub of everything in the house, a tradition of my mom’s that I adopted. Our first Christmas together, Rick had volunteered
to help before he realized how extensive the work was actually going to be
.
“Nobody’s going to notice if you don’t vacuum under the bed,” he had complained two days into our Christmas cleaning. “Who cares about dust on the top of the chandelier that can
“I hear the family is falling apart.”
I stop walking and take hold of Megan’s hand so she stops, too. A blank expression replaces her smile. I’m hoping a black hole sucks us in before the ladies turn around and detect our presence, but Megan has other plans. She starts singing.
“He’s making a list. Checking it twice. Going to find out who’s naughty or nice.”
The ladies turn to see Megan taking hold of our shopping cart and plowing down the aisle in their direction. Her legs move with propeller speed toward the cupcake display. She stops short of disaster and says, “Excuse me.”
They step out of her way.
I join my girl, and we load cupcakes into our cart. She continues singing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,” emphasizing the word
naughty
.
Her daddy and I used to sing that tune whenever one of the kids acted out when they were little. I wonder if Megan sings it now for the busybodies or for me. The women hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true. We are falling apart.
When the ladies move out of the aisle, I whisper to Meg, “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
She acts as if nothing happened.
“Let’s get an extra half dozen in case someone wants seconds,” she says instead, adding more cupcakes to our shopping cart.
I see that she is smiling again, but now there are tears welling in the corners of her eyes.
We encounter the women one more time in the checkout lane. Megan pointedly wishes them a happy Christmas. I walk out without saying a word to either of them.
Except for the hum of the car engine, the ride to school is a silent journey. Megan takes her time transferring the cupcakes from the plastic store containers into our decorative ones. She snaps down the last lid as I pull into a parking space.
“Try to have fun today,” I tell her. “Don’t let those ladies get to you.”
To my surprise, she laughs.
“Those women don’t get what we’re going through, not like the gift givers,” she says. “We’re not falling apart; we’re just chipped a little bit. You do what you can, Mom. We all do.”
Megan leans across the center console of the car and gives me a kiss on the cheek before getting out.
As I watch her swaying ponytail disappear into the crowd entering the school building, I see not the ten-year-old she is, but the young lady she is becoming. My heart glows with maternal pride, and I sit there basking in it, until I notice one of the moms from the store pulling into the parking space next to mine. I am pretty sure there is an apology written on her face, but I don’t want or deserve it. I back the car out as she approaches. I have nothing to say. My daughter has said it all.
I spend most of the day scrubbing floors, washing dishes, and doing lots of laundry. My kids need me to take charge, and I don’t want to let them down any more than I already have. Now that Nick has removed the holiday decorations from the basement closet, I know it won’t be long before ceramic Santas start appearing around the house. My goals are to make sure the decorations won’t be sitting in dust clouds and that we have clean clothes to wear next week.
It feels good to do normal things, chores I have done every year to prepare for the holidays since I was a new bride. I appreciate the solitude of the house, the quietness. Instead of feeling lonely and stiff, I feel free to let my mind wander back to happier Christmases and to cry if I want to, without fear of upsetting one of the kids.
My holiday preparations always began in mid-November with a floor-to-ceiling scrub of everything in the house, a tradition of my mom’s that I adopted. Our first Christmas together, Rick had volunteered
to help before he realized how extensive the work was actually going to be
.
“Nobody’s going to notice if you don’t vacuum under the bed,” he had complained two days into our Christmas cleaning. “Who cares about dust on the top of the chandelier that can
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