CARTER
I HAVE A LOVE/HATE relationship with Christmas.
Growing up, it was my favorite season. Yeah, it wasn’t just a holiday; it was a whole damn season.
It started in November when the Vancouver air would chill enough for my dad to kick on the furnace. Christmas music started playing from the stereo speakers in our living room out through the whole house as soon as Remembrance Day passed. We’d barely have our Halloween decorations down, and Mom would pull out all the bins labeled Christmas from the attic.
She’d kick her holiday baking off with chocolate peanut butter balls, even though the Christmas before she swore she’d wait until later. The earlier she baked, the more we ate, and two weeks before Christmas, she’d be a mess in the kitchen, freaking out over having nothing left.
But my favorite was the first Sunday in December. We were a busy family, always on the go between my sister and I, both of us competitive athletes, even as kids. But on that first Sunday, we cleared our schedule like clockwork every year. We’d start off at our favorite diner for breakfast, and I always got the Oreo pancakes. Then we’d head to Merry Tree Farms, where we’d trudge through fields—snow covered or not—in search of the perfect Christmas tree.
Dad had a thing for Christmas trees. No less than nine feet tall, and wide enough that we could all fit around it. It had to fill the front window in our living room just right. He’d spend minutes examining a tree only to suddenly say nope and head off to find another. My sister and I were always competing to find the perfect tree, the one that would impress our dad. One year, he bought two because he said we both picked perfect ones.
When I was ten, he showed me how to use the saw, and we cut the tree down together. I helped him carry it back to the truck, and we worked together to get it up into the bed of the F-150.
When we got home with our tree, Mom would crank the Christmas tunes, make a platter of sandwiches, and the four of us would decorate the tree together. Then we’d all pile onto the couch with mugs of hot chocolate and a tray of Christmas goodies and watch The Santa Claus. When I was younger, I always wished my dad would take Santa’s place like Tim Allen did in the movie. He promised to take me to the North Pole with him if it ever happened.
I loved everything about Christmas.
But we lost my dad seven years ago and Christmas has never been the same.
Cutting the engine in the driveway of my childhood home, I stare up at the lackluster house. There’s not a single light or decoration to indicate what time of the year it is, and I know why. Every year I offer to put them up for my mom, beg her even, but she just gets this sad smile and says “Maybe next year.”
Still, she tries to give us pieces of the Christmas she thinks we want, even if the effort leaves her covering up the ache in her chest, pretending like every Christmas without my dad by her side doesn’t kill her. I hate watching her like this, seeing her so broken when she deserves so much love.
“What are you looking at?”
The weary, quiet voice to my right makes me jump, like I somehow forgot he was here. I smile at my friend, his pale blue eyes moving slowly around the car like he’s trying to see what I’m seeing, even though he can’t.
“How do you know I’m looking at anything, old man?”
Hank is eighty-three years young and began losing his vision at fifteen due to Leber hereditary optic neuropathy. It affected his left eye first, and a few months later his right. Though he can perceive shadows, he’s been legally blind since before his sixteenth birthday.
Hank taps the spot between his eyes with two fingers. “Third eye. Some people call it mother’s intuition.”
“You’re not a mother,” I remind him, in case he’s forgotten.
His deep laugh lines transform his weathered face with his hearty chuckle, and he runs a gloved hand over his mouth. “Your mother let you
put up lights this year?”
“Nope.” I sigh, stepping out of the car and into the falling snow. Opening the back door, I let Dublin, Hank’s guide dog, out of the backseat before I round the car to help Hank.
“It’s hard, you know,” he starts softly, slipping his hand into mine while I guide him to Dublin’s lead. “Living without your soul mate. Holidays without them. New years and birthdays. Heck, listenin’ to the evening news without them is hard. It’s all hard, Carter.”
I know that, of course. I’ve watched my mom struggle year after year. And Hank knows because he lost his high school sweetheart to cancer fourteen years ago, seven years to the day I lost my dad. It’s how Hank and I met way back when, on the worst day of my life.
I shake the snow from my toque before stepping inside and kicking my boots off. Dublin waits patiently by Hank’s side as I help him with his coat, and I smile at the way he shifts on his paws, ready for permission to bolt into the kitchen. He’s the sweetest golden retriever in the world, but probably the worst trained guide dog.
Well, maybe it’s not the training that’s so bad, but how lax Hank is with him. Dublin’s always on when he needs him, but Hank doesn’t like keeping him in working mode for too long. He says dogs should be allowed to be dogs. Hank’s fairly independent, and I think more than anything he got Dublin for the comfort, the emotional support.
Hank sticks his nose up in the air, inhaling. “If you think you’re gettin’ some of that turkey before me, Dubs, you’re mistakin’, big fella.” Once he’s got his cane out, he gives his dog a pat. “Okay, buddy. Go ahead.”
Dublin skitters across the old hardwood floors, sliding past the opening for the kitchen before he reverses and disappears inside. A gaggle of laughter erupts from the room, and I hear my mom and sister as they gush over their favorite dog and how cute he is.
A moment later my mom emerges, sliding into the living room on her socks, her cheeks flushed, face more lit up than the half-assed Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. Her gaze quickly sweeps over me and Hank as she smooths her palms over her brown hair, and she takes a step forward and leans to the side, peering around us.
“Oh.” She frowns. “Only you two?”
“Only us two? Were you expecting someone else?” I tug her into me, enveloping her in a hug. She smells like cinnamon and syrup, bacon and
turkey, the same as every year, which is how I know my Christmas morning is off to a good start, even though she sighs at my question.
“No, nobody else.” She places her hands on my shoulders and presses up on her toes, kissing my cheek. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.” She embraces Hank. “Merry Christmas, Hank. I’m so glad you could make it.”
“Where would Dublin and I be if we weren’t spending Christmas with the two most beautiful women in Vancouver? And this chump,” he adds, thumbing in my general vicinity. “Thank you for having me, Holly.”
My younger sister saunters into the living room, leaning against the kitchen door frame, wearing that signature Beckett smirk my dad gave us. “Mom was hoping you were going to surprise us by bringing your girlfriend.” Jennie pops a chocolate peanut butter ball into her mouth. “Her exact words were, ‘wouldn’t that be the best Christmas present ever?’”
My gaze slides left, landing on my mom, and I cock my head and raise my brows. She’s wearing this grin, half sheepish, half guilty, maybe a sprinkle hopeful, too, but she still swats my shoulder.
“Oh, don’t give me that look, Carter. I know that look. I invented that look! You’re hiding something.”
“I’m not hiding anything.” I move by her, wrapping Jennie’s entire face in some sort of headlock, which she promptly tries—and fails—to wriggle free of. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
Jennie lands a punch to my gut, earning an oof from me as I release her. She flips her braid over her shoulder. “That’s what I said. Nobody would ever want to date you.”
I snort a laugh. “Please. I’m a hot commodity. Everyone wants a piece of me.”
She rolls her eyes as she greets Hank with a hug. “Yeah, it’s called alimony.” She barks a loud laugh in my face and then squeals when I lunge for her, dropping to the floor to use Dublin as a shield.
“Well, since your sister brought it up…” Mom shifts her tortoiseshell glasses up her nose, that hopeful expression never waning as she rocks back and forth on her toes. “Who’s the girl you’ve been pictured with?”
“What girl?” I head into the kitchen, finding the widespread platter of Christmas goodies. I drop a chocolate peanut butter ball in my mouth and quickly follow it up with a snowman sugar cookie. “Dere are wots of girls,” I mumble around my bite, then swallow. “You know how I feel about variety.”
“Carter, for heaven’s sake. Swallow before you speak, and you know damn well which girl I’m talking about.”
I shrug, though I know exactly who she’s talking about, and she plants her hands on her hips, lips pursing.
“Don’t feed me that bullshit. It’s been two weeks of pictures of you two. Slow dancing at the bar last weekend, at your fundraiser two days ago.” She arches a brow. “How like you to wait until your sister and I leave to bust out your date, by the way.”
Well, that’s not what happened. I saw Olivia after they left.
She gestures at me with the sweep of both hands. “And you dedicated your goal to her!”
“Oooh, her.”
“Yes, her. And then in your postgame interview, you said, ‘That’s Olivia.’”
“Right.” I tap her nose. “That’s Olivia.”
Her jaw tics, eyes flashing with something dangerous and scary, before she reaches forward and flicks me right between the eyes.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“I know that was Olivia, because that’s what you said in your interview, smart-ass! I want to know who Olivia is.” She manages to stop long enough to pull in a deep breath, and when she continues, she does so at a normal level. “You’ve never done that before, dedicate a goal to a girl.”
“Untrue.” I point at the only two ladies in my life, even if I’m considering adding another one to the mix. Why? They’re fucking complicated; these two right here prove exactly that. “I’ve dedicated plenty of goals to you two.”
Mom snaps a tea towel at me when I reach for another cookie. “You’re really getting on my nerves lately, Carter Beckett.”
“I’ve always been there, Mom.”
I study her closely for a moment, noting the way so much of her excitement has drained. There’s a disappointment that lingers in her expression, pulling down the corners of her mouth, dulling the spark in her eyes. I don’t like that I’ve somehow crushed what little bit of happiness she managed to find today.
I nudge her shoulder. “You didn’t really think I was going to show up here with a girlfriend, did you?”
Her cheeks flush and she waves me off. “Of course not.” Her gaze shifts to the table in the dining room, then back to me. I follow it, finding the fifth place setting when there should only be four.
“Aw, Mom, c’mon.”
She rushes into the dining room and quickly picks up the dishes, cutlery clattering against the plate. “It’s nothing. Nothing. I don’t know what I was thinking. I thought maybe…” Another wave of dismissal. “Nothing. The fifth place setting was for the dog, actually.”
Jennie comes up behind me and tugs my ear. “Would you get a girlfriend already? Quit breaking Mom’s heart. I’m sure there’s someone out there that will look past all your humongous fuckboy-sized faults.”
“Oh, Jennie.” Mom presses a hand to her forehead. “Would you quit calling your brother a fuckboy?”
“He prefers ladies’ man,” Hank supplies. “Yeah, I do.” I whoop. “That’s my guy!”
“And ladies’ man is just a nicer name for fuckboy.”
Jennie snickers and leads Hank out of the kitchen, leaving me and my mom alone.
“You know, Carter, I’ve never said anything about your choice to… to…” She’s got this flail-y hand thing going on, flapping around her face like she’s trying to figure out a nice way to say her son sleeps around. “To do whatever it is you’re doing with so many different women,” she finally settles on. “But I hate to think you’re missing out on something incredible, something special.” She lifts one shoulder, wearing a smile that manages to be sheepish, sad, and nostalgic all at once. “Something like me and your dad had.”
Tugging gently on her hand until she shuffles forward, I pull her into me, winding my arms around her and holding her tight.
“How are you doing today, Mom?”
“I’m okay.” A staggered inhale followed by a raspy exhale that hints at the lie. “I miss your dad, Carter. I miss him so much.”
My eyelids fall shut, as if that’ll stop the pain. It won’t. My mom’s pain is my own.
“I know, Mom.” I press my lips to her hair as I squeeze her a little bit tighter. “I miss him too. The bins made it out this year,” I add on a whisper as I spy those big, blue totes sitting by the stairs, Christmas scrawled over all of them.
“I couldn’t open them,” she admits. “Just sat there and stared at them.
But…it’s a step, right? Even if it’s a small one?” “It’s a step, Mom.”
As we stand there in the silence of the kitchen, holding onto each other while the Christmas music drifts all around us, I make her the only promise I know how to make.
“If I find something like you and Dad had, the last thing I’ll do is let it get away from me.”
