Page 10 of The Grumpiest Elf

“Okay,” Nora says with fake affability, standing and patting my shoulder. “I’m not arguing with you.”

“What did she tell you?” I demand.

After rinsing her mug, Nora turns to face me, arms crossed, still clearly entertained by this. “I told you. She said you asked her to tone it down when you were on break. Something about her being too cheerful?” She shrugs, dropping her arms and heading out of the kitchen. “Don’t worry, bro. I’ll be my usual self all the time, just for you.” She disappears through the doorway, but then pokes her head back in. “All. Day. Long.”

“You sure about that?” I shoot back, needing the last word. “Or are you going to con Lydia into taking half your shift like you usually do?”

Her laughter floats back through the house. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

CHAPTERSIX

Lydia

My day offis going to be epic.

At least that’s what I think when I wake up at the luxurious time of 12:05 pm. Mom’ll be at work until at least six, if not later. She’s deep in the throes of planning multiple Christmas parties, both for local groups as well as companies coming in from out of town to treat their C-suite executives and their families to the town’s festivities. It’s my first day all to myself in … I can’t remember. Ever, maybe?

I know there were times in high school where I was home alone hanging out by myself, but it was never for an entire day. A few hours, tops.

And it was different, too, since I was still in school. After the stress of college and the divorce and Dad getting mad at me for quitting school, a day of lounging on the couch watching as many movies as I can and eating junk food is exactly what I need.

Except by about four o’clock, just as it’s basically dark, my day of lounging and movies has gotten stale. But what should I do with myself?

I’ve been in town for a week, so it’s not like I have friends. I could go out somewhere, but … where? It’s a little early for dinner, and I’m not that hungry anyway. Besides, eating in a restaurant by myself just seems kinda sad.

In books and movies, the glamorous single heroine always decides to get dressed up and go out to a bar in this kind of situation, but I’m not old enough for a bar, and despite my roommates’ insistence, I’ve never tried to use the fake ID she got me for my birthday in November. We might both have dark hair, but beyond that, I don’t look at all like the forty-year-old woman whose picture has been paired with the name Natalia Milosevic on the piece of plastic. When I asked why she got me a Russian name, she shrugged and said, “It was between that or Latina, and you’re way too white to pull that off.”

I couldn’t argue with that reasoning. I am way too white. I barely even get tan at the height of summer.

Something like that might—might—work in a sketchy bar in a big city like Seattle, but in a town the size of Arcadian Falls? Sure, it’s full of tourists for ChristmasFest right now, but I still have my doubts that anyone would let me into a bar. I’ve always been told I act mature for my age, and maybe someone would believe I’m twenty-one if I told them, but no one would believe I’m the forty listed on the fake ID, and the minute I got out my real one, the game would be up.

So. What then?

I stand up, fold the throw blanket I’d been lounging under, and place it neatly over the back of the couch, then I straighten the pillows, collect the remains of my snacks and dispose of them in the kitchen, all while contemplating what I should do. Moving into my room, I stare into my closet, debating what to change into. I’m going to walk, because we live close enough to the main strip that driving is ridiculous anyway but also because Mom has the car, and while my plan is still mostly nebulous, that’s where I plan to end up. It’s dark, though with the snow and cloud cover, there’s a purply quality to the light reflecting off the snow and clouds that’s a lot brighter than nighttime would be otherwise.

I decide on fleece-lined leggings and an oversized sweater. With my boots and coat I’ll be plenty warm and still look cute if I end up inside somewhere and take my coat off. Though I still don’t know that I’ll do more than just walk around downtown and head back home. Once I’m changed, I get on all my winter gear, put my phone and keys in my coat pocket, and head out the door.

My breath puffs in front of me as I pick my way along the sidewalk. They’re mostly clear, but a skiff of snow has fallen at some point this evening. It must’ve been recent, because I’m the first person to walk on this stretch of sidewalk, my boot prints perfectly outlined in the snow that just barely covers the concrete. Glancing over my shoulder, I smile at the sight, but as soon as I turn onto Main Street, the thin layer of snow is no longer visible, trampled by the near constant foot traffic during ChristmasFest. I’m sure it’s quiet once everything’s closed, but during business hours, there are always people about.

Walking along, I peer into the various shops and businesses. It’s mostly souvenir shops and restaurants through here. One street over is the town park with its gazebo. The gazebo and trees are bursting with lights, and baskets of poinsettias hang from all the streetlamps downtown. At the end of the street on the other side is the lake, which I haven’t really been to yet since it’s not exactly lake weather. At the end of this street is the big town hall that gets converted into the market space for ChristmasFest every year.

My feet take me in that direction, almost without thought. It’s like I can’t stay away, even on my day off. It might be nice to check out, though. I haven’t been through and looked at the vendors. And while I haven’t gotten paid yet, I do still have enough money in my account that I could maybe get my mom a present while I have the opportunity, and maybe a keepsake for myself. Something to help me remember this time, no matter how short it ends up being. Because even though I’m planning on staying here for the next several months—nearly a year, really, because even if I only take one semester off, I wouldn’t go back to school until August—being here feels important. Formative. Like it’ll have long term significance. Arguably if it’s so important, I shouldn’t need a trinket to remember it, but Iwantone, and that’s a good enough reason. That’s what Mom keeps saying, anyway. That she’s finally doing what she actually wants rather than what she’s always been told she should want and that she’d like me to have that realization while I’m still young so I can have a full and happy life the whole time.

The unspoken counterpoint to that, of course, is that Mom has been largely unhappy her entire adult life, fitting herself into the roles she’s been told she should play rather than what she actually desires to do. I have to admit that she does seem much happier in general here. Sure, there are moments where she’s sad—especially after she’s been on the phone with Dad or with her attorney—where I come home to find her with a glass of wine in hand and evidence of recent tears on her face and she holds out an arm and says, “C’mere, baby girl. I could use a hug,” just like she always did when I was little and needed comforting. Only this time, she’s the one needing comforting. Maybe when I was a kid, she needed it some of those times too? Or just as much as I did?

The thought stops me in my tracks when I’m nearly to the door, and I start moving again when a couple carefully steps around me with a murmured, “’Scuse us.”

“Oh! Sorry.” I step to the side and let them and a family pass before resuming my route. It’s only at the last second that I make myself go in the front door instead of continuing around to the employee entrance at the back. It feels a little funny to do that, but it’s a good distraction from the sudden shift in my understanding of my childhood and how it must’ve been for Mom.

Another wave of guilt ripples over me at the renewed realization that she stayed unhappy for so long so that I could continue my carefree existence. And maybe it’s selfish, or at least self-absorbed, of me to make their divorce about me, but it’s hard not to think that I’m a major contributor to my mom’s longstanding unhappiness.

She’s an adult, my therapist’s voice floats into my head.She’s responsible for her own choices. If she decided staying was the best choice, she’s the only one who could make that call. And now she’s decided leaving is the best choice, and that’s also only up to her. Not you. You are not responsible for your mother.

“I am not responsible for my mother,” I whisper to myself, the words lost in the noise and clamor that overtakes me as soon as I open the doors to ChristmasFest.

Coming at it from this angle is an entirely different experience. When I work the opening shift at Santa’s Workshop, the noise gradually grows around me so that I barely notice it until I leave and walk out into the sudden quiet. Even when I start in the middle of the day, enough filters into the locker room that it’s not such a shock going into the main event space. Plus, I’m there to work, so I have something specific to focus on.

Now I’m just part of the crowd.

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