Page 19 of Crystal Iris
“Oh, you know, getting old, but can’t complain.”
The house looks impeccable, as always—beautifully decorated but completely impersonal. Exactly like their previous home in Massachusetts. I still don’t understand why they had moved to New York, especially with their only son living in Boston. Aaron mentioned it had something to do with an identity crisis after Don’s retirement.
Maria is wearing her signature outfit: a matching set of pants and sweater, pearls, and flats.
“How are you, sweetie? How was the drive? I hope the roads weren’t icy.” She eyes me from head to toe, and I immediately regret my choice of comfy leggings and sneakers.
Aaron responds before I can open my mouth. “No need to worry now, Mom. We’re already here.”
“I heard about Stanley and Rile. Everything under control?” His dad hands Aaron a beer before we even shut the front door.
“Please, Don, can I say hello to my son first?” Maria kisses him and immediately wipes the lipstick off his cheek.
“We’ll talklater, Dad.”
I’m making myself a plate from the table of appetizers when Aaron’s cousin Steve asks, “How’s Harvard treating you?” Steve is just a few years older than Aaron, though already going gray.
“As good as one can expect, I guess.” I bite into a piece of cheese. “How’s business?” I reciprocate the fake interest.
“Same old struggles. We can’t all be as lucky as the golden boy, can we?”
“Steve! Can you get your sons to turn off their games? They need to eat something.” Peyton waves at me from the living room, and I nod back.
I’m still snacking from my plate, glancing at the TV when Princess, the family Persian cat, brushes against my leg. I drop my hand to pet her, but she swiftly moves away.
I want to follow her, to disappear without having to excuse myself. I mumble, “Wait for me,” and watch as she makes her way toward the yard. I pop another olive in my mouth.
To my left, sitting in a leather chair, Aaron is giving his dad a full report on his latest transaction. Next to his father, he still looks like a scared little boy.
On my other side, his grandparents are dozing off on the couch.
I envy Aaron sometimes—even with their issues, his family is still around. I’m all alone, have been for quite some time. My dad’s parents stepped in to take care of me after he left. I know he asked them to. Growing up, I often wondered if they still talked to him, but they told me, many times, “We get his check every month; otherwise, we wouldn’t even know if he’s still alive.” During the first year after he left, I begged them to bring him back, to apologize for whatever I had done to make him leave. No matter how much I cried, they only hugged me and said, “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
I still talk to my aunt Sheila once in a while. Apparently, Dad disappeared from all their lives when he left, and now his sister lives somewhere in Atlanta.
And then there’s my mom’s side of the family. They could be tight-knit, but I wouldn’t know.I never met them. Apparently, Mom left their abusive household when she was young and never looked back. My dad didn’t like talking much about them. I know I have cousins, but I don’t even know their names. I’ve searched my mom’s maiden name enough times to accept that they could be anyone.
Maria and Peyton are discussing shoes, and I find myself bored on Christmas Eve. There’s not a single thing to do. No food to prepare, no dishes to clean, no last-minute errands to run—not with the number of servants they have to handle everything. Judging by the perfectly crisp and neatly wrapped presents under the tree, they haven’t bothered to wrap a single gift themselves.
I retire early to the bedroom, and no one seems to care. Aaron kisses me and says he’ll be up soon. I unpack my suitcase and hang my clothes in the empty closet. The bedroom is comfortable, with a large television and a couch across from the bed. I slip off my shoes and massage my foot—I’m definitely tired.
I must have fallen asleep with the movie still on because I hear Aaron shutting it off when he comes to bed.
“Merry Christmas,” I say for the tenth time as I pour myself coffee. I feel much happier after a full night of sleep.
“Can we open them yet?” I hear Rick ask Peyton again.
“Not until everybody is down,” she tells him.
“But Mom…”
“No buts. Your great-grandparents want to see you open your gifts too.” She’s firm enough that he sits down.
The boys are too old for Santa, but too young to have much patience. I’m on my second cup when I hear footsteps.
“Here they are,” says Tucker, the twin.
“All right, now, one at a time,” Steve says as he hands out the gifts to his kids.
