Running Scared

Chapter 20:

 I woke up Christmas morning to Mom humming downstairs. The smell of bacon, eggs, and pancakes wafted upstairs. I rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth then my hair and headed downstairs.

Mom was dancing around the kitchen, bouncing from griddle to oven to pan. Flip pancakes, check bacon, stir eggs. It was her method to the perfect breakfast. The oven light was on and I could see the bacon grease popping on the pan.

“Merry Christmas,” I murmured as I sat down at the bar.

“Merry Christmas, Jessie.” She walked over and gave me a hug before scurrying off to methodically check the food.

“It smells delicious! Have you made any coffee?”

“Yep. It's in the maker.” She nodded towards it and made her rounds.

I walked over to the coffee maker and poured a mug full of delicious coffee. I finished it off with creamer and sweetener then sat back down at the bar. “Remember Christmas when I was four?” I asked as I took a sip.

She chuckled. “Yeah. Your father got you that giant dollhouse you had been begging for all year long. He didn't even tell me about it. I think I had the same look on my face as you did when you opened it.” Her voice was nostalgic then died into sadness.

It was quiet for a moment until I spoke. “I miss him.”

“I do too, honey. I do, too.”

She snapped out of the trance and went back to making food. That was the thing with Mom. She was never sad for more than a few minutes. The longest I'd seen her dwell on Dad's passing was the month or so after it happened. Neither of us were quite okay during that time. After he passed, she threw herself into work, always busy right down to the minute. She lived a 100-mile-an-hour life, except on Christmas. Christmas was Dad's favorite year so it was bound to have its down moments more often that its ups.

Mom served breakfast at the dining room table after having me set it. Everything looked and tasted delicious. Mom was a good cook, not amazing like Kora, but better than I'd ever be. Breakfast was the same every year. If I could get a picture each year, the food might change, but we would have the same looks on our face the last few years. Confusion, loss, unsure of how to handle a family Christmas anymore. Mom's parents lived in Europe and Dad's died a year after he married Mom. It was always us two. We made the best of it but also tried not to think about it too much.

After breakfast we sauntered into the living room where the tree had presents surrounding it. Mom smiled at me and signaled for me to go first. I grabbed the first present with my name on it and tore it open. Clothes. I thanked her then she went. Methodically, we went through each one until two final presents sat. The two left over were the special gifts we either made or put plenty of thought into it. I handed Mom hers and sat back and watched happily.

The look on her face when she opened it was priceless. It was a photo album documenting all of my favorite moments and hers. Pictures from her wedding, through the early years, my first few years, Dad in his final years, and a couple years ago. The album stopped there, a few exceptions of photos we had taken in the past month, but there was room to put more. She flipped through the book, smiling with some tears but they were good tears.

“Thank you so much, Jessica.” She lingered on the last photo we had of Dad. He was smiling next to me on my twelfth birthday. He was bony and weak but he looked like the happiest man in the entire world. And despite everything, he was. It's always the good people who leave us.

“You're welcome. Did you read the comments on them?” Each picture was reprinted to look like a Polaroid and on each one I wrote a caption I thought would be good. She nodded and turned the page, finally.