Nancy Christie
Nancy Christie is the author of Rut-Busting Book for Writers (Mill City Press), Traveling Left of Center and Other Stories (Pixel Hall Press) and The Gifts Of Change (Atria/Beyond Words). Her short stories and essays have appeared in numerous print and online publications. She recently finished her second short fiction collection, Peripheral Visions and Other Stories, and is currently working on several other book projects. A member of the American Society of Journalists and Authors, Florida Writers Association and Short Fiction Writers Guild (SFWG), Christie teaches writing workshops at conferences, libraries, and schools. She is also the founder of the annual “Celebrate Short Fiction” Day (www.nancychristie.com/focusonfiction/celebrate-short-fiction-day/).
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As writer bios go, Nancy Christie’s life story isn’t very interesting. She still lives in the same Ohio town where she was born, has resided in the same house for more than thirty years, and thus far has failed to use her passport for any overseas travel. She leaves it to her fictional characters to have all the excitement—whether they want it or not. These include those whose tales she told in her fiction collection, TRAVELING LEFT OF CENTER AND OTHER STORIES (Pixel Hall Press, 2014) as well as in her other short stories that have appeared in literary magazines such as Talking River, Wild Violet, EWR: Short Stories, Hypertext, Wanderings, The Chaffin Journal, Fiction 365, Full of Crow, Red Fez and Xtreme. She is currently working on a second fiction collection, and several novels as well as a book for writers.
When she is not engaged in playing “let’s pretend,” (or, in writer-speak, writing fiction), she hosts the monthly Monday Night Writers group, coordinates “Celebrate Short Fiction” Day (an annual celebration of short stories and those who write them), and blogs about writing at One on One, Focus on Fiction and The Writer’s Place—links to all at www.nancychristie.com.
12 Days Before Christmas
Nancy Christie
Autumn, 2018
On the twelfth day before Christmas, my mother-in-law Agnes emailed me, casually mentioning that they would be arriving not on December 21st but on the 17th “so we could have more time to spend with Michael and our three darling grandchildren—and you, of course.”
Sometimes I dread the holidays.
On the eleventh day before Christmas, when I called my cleaning woman to change my appointment to 16th, she told me she was solidly scheduled and couldn’t accommodate me, adding, “I’m sure your mother-in-law doesn’t care what your house looks. She just wants to see you.”
Not likely, but then she wasn’t married so what did she know?
On the tenth day before Christmas, my husband announced that the date of the office party had been moved up to the coming Friday night. “But you won’t have any problem getting a sitter, right?”
Wrong, since when I called Stacey (the only sitter who was still willing to watch all three kids at one time), she claimed she was already booked.
Maybe.
Or maybe it because the last time she watched the kids, she spent two hours trying to convince Sarah (one of the aforementioned “darling grandchildren”) to come out of the bathroom where she had locked herself since Charley had threatened to throw her doll down the storm sewer.
The same sewer where she had thrown his autographed Major League baseball that his grandparents had given him for his last birthday and where his brother Jason was now stuck in in a vain attempt to retrieve said baseball.
Or maybe because I only paid $10 an hour plus all the snacks the sitter could eat—at least, before Lily, our 85-pound omnivorous Lab, could get to them.
On the ninth day before Christmas, Sarah came home sick from school. This led to a two-hour visit at the pediatrician followed by a one-hour wait at the pharmacy for medication that was only for her head cold—not for the intestinal virus that kicked in on the ride home.
I was never more grateful for the plastic wastebasket in the back seat as I was that afternoon.
On the eighth day before Christmas, my in-laws arrived, with a two-pound box of mixed chocolates that Agnes immediately handed out to the kids, saying, “Gamma knows how much you like candy!”
I would have been upset at the veiled intimation that my mother-in-law could be relied on to give my kids their hearts’ desire when their own mother failed them except that she and my father-in-law would be watching the kids that night while Michael and I went to the office party. And all that sugar would turn my already active children into hyper little bodies that she would never be able to get into their pajamas let alone their beds by their 9 PM bedtime.
On the seventh day before Christmas, my father-in-law Pete wandered into the kitchen where I was having my first cup of coffee and offhandedly mentioned that the toilet in the guest bathroom wasn’t flushing. I downed my coffee, grabbed the plunger, mop and bucket from the cleaning closet and left the room, ignoring Pete’s question regarding my plans for breakfast.
The rest of the day was spent waiting for the plumber, since the problem expanded to the other toilet. And the kitchen sink. And the laundry room drain.
After the problem was finally resolved and all the floors scrubbed and sanitized, I hunted down the box of candy, desperately in need of a chocolate fix. Unfortunately, the kids (and probably my mother-in-law) had finished them off, including my favorite: raspberry cream-filled dark chocolate.
On the sixth day before Christmas, I was treated to a return visit from our plumber (whom we really should have on retainer) since now my fifteen-year-old dishwasher wasn’t draining. I wrote him the second check of the week, sighed at the weekend service call surcharge, and watched my checkbook balance head ominously into the red zone.
On the fifth day before Christmas, I received a frantic phone call from my sister who needed a cat-sitter because her husband had surprised her with a five-day cruise to the Bahamas and they were leaving the next day.
“We’ll be back by the 27th. And Bad Kitty won’t be any trouble, I promise,” she said. “All you have to do is give him his canned food every morning by 6 AM, and a scoop of dry food at supper time. Oh, yes, and don’t let him near the Christmas tree or any of the presents because he likes to eat the ribbons. And the tinsel. And chew on the cords. And you’ll have to give him his hairball medicine at noon, but that’s easy: just catch him, hold him down, and shove a small bit into his mouth. He won’t bite—not if you’re fast enough, anyway.”
What could I say? She was my sister. And the kids were thrilled to have Bad Kitty for a holiday visit, unlike Lily, who came over to sniff the new arrival and ended up with a row of bloody scratch marks across her muzzle.
On the fourth day before Christmas, I learned three things about Bad Kitty. One, if I gave him too much canned food, he would eat it all and then throw it up in a convenient spot—like inside my favorite pair of slippers.
Two, if I didn’t scoop the litter box as soon as he used it, he would leave me a “present” just outside the box. That cat poops more than anyone else in the house.
Three, he not only liked to chew the needles on the Christmas tree but also liked to climb the trunk. All the way to the top—at which point the entire tree tipped over, dumping decorations onto the floor.
Lily barreled into the room to see what the noise was and then took off with the angel tree top while Bad Kitty hid behind the couch where he threw up again.
I righted the tree, cleaned up the broken ornaments and the cat puke, and realized that now the string of 200 lights weren’t working. So now my lighted tree wasn’t. Not having the time or patience to deal with the lights, I retrieved the angel (now missing one of her wings) from the dog and stuck her back on top of the tree.
On the third day before Christmas, Charley handed me the list his teacher had given him two weeks earlier, detailing items he had to bring to school before winter break started. Which was tomorrow.
A list that included six dozen cookies and the people he had to bring gifts for: his teacher, cafeteria monitor, bus driver and a classmate for whom he was a “Secret Santa.” Fortunately, the local we-have-it-all store was open until midnight. Not so fortunately, it was crowded with other parents whose children had also just presented them with the same list.
On the second day before Christmas, my father-in-law decided to string more lights outside, but slipped off the ladder and wrenched his ankle in the process. In the meantime, the boys started complaining that their stomach hurt and then took turns running to the bathroom.
I settled my father-in-law on the living room couch with an ice pack on his ankle and gave both kids crackers and ginger ale along with their own buckets in case they couldn’t make it to the bathroom on time.
The rest of the day was spent keeping my sons occupied so they wouldn’t kill each other, replacing the ice pack on my father-in-law’s ankle, doing endless loads of laundry and pulling Bad Kitty out from under the Christmas tree on a regular basis.
Sometime around midnight, I also realized that in all the commotion I had forgotten to defrost the ham for Christmas Day dinner.
On the last day before Christmas, the rain that had started early in the morning turned into hail and then sleet. The weather forecaster announced that the winter storm watch had officially become a winter storm warning, and we should be prepared for any and all of the above: blizzard conditions, snow accumulations topping a foot or more, and single-digit temperatures (not counting the wind chill factor which put us somewhere in the Arctic category).
That was bad enough. What made it worse was that I had to make an unscheduled run to the grocery store, since Charley had dropped a full gallon of milk on the floor. The last gallon of milk in the frig.
I had had a second one but my mother-in-law had poured it down the drain the night before, saying “I know the ‘sell by’ date was December 28th but it smelled funny to me and I didn’t want the children to get ill.”
On Christmas Day, I dragged myself out of my bed, exhausted after everything I had had to do the last few days. And it wasn’t over, since my family would expect the traditional Christmas breakfast of French toast, cheese omelet, fresh-squeezed orange juice and baked apples with cinnamon. Followed just a few hours later by the traditional Christmas dinner of ham, sweet potatoes, homemade rolls and pecan pie.
However, the ham hadn’t fully defrosted, I had forgotten to buy sweet potatoes and all I could find at the grocer’s the night before was a 12-pack of brownies. As for homemade rolls, I decided that it was either sliced bread or nothing.
Hoping that everyone was still asleep so I could have at least an hour of peace and quiet, I shuffled into the kitchen to be greeted by my mother-in-law. And the welcome aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. Not only had she made a fresh pot and cleaned up the dishes from the night before, but she had also started the morning meal preparations.
She handed me my much-needed caffeine fix, explaining, “I wanted to help out. You’ve really had your hands full the last few days”—surprisingly without any snarky addendum.
Just as I was taking my first sip, my father-in-law yelled for me to come into the living room, where he proudly showed off a fully-lit Christmas tree, declaring with satisfaction, “There. It’s fixed. Now if you can keep that damned cat out of the tree, it should stay lit through New Year’s!”
While I was admiring his prowess and patience, Sarah, Charley and Jason rushed into the room, shoved me into the easy chair (spilling half my coffee in the process) and demanded that I immediately open the Christmas cards they had made in school.
Sarah’s had a drawing of what was presumably the two of us on the front and “Merry Christmas to the best Mommy in the world!” painstakingly printed on the inside, while the ones from the boys featured snow scenes liberally decorated with glitter, most of which dislodged and floated into my coffee mug.
Just as I finished wiping my eyes, explaining to my kids that “Mommy is crying because your cards are so beautiful!”, my husband came into the room, gave me a kiss and then handed me a gift bag.
I peeked inside and found a brand new pair of slippers to replace the ones Bad Kitty had thrown up in, my own box of raspberry cream-filled dark chocolates, and a gift certificate for a full day of treatments at Peace and Tranquility Spa that included a mani/pedi, hot stone therapy, a seaweed wrap and a full body massage.
I looked around the room: at the now-lit tree topped with a single-winged but still beautiful angel, at my mother-in-law handing out presents to my barely restrained offspring while my father-in-law kept a stern eye on Bad Kitty who in turn was eyeing the ribbons, and at my husband, who was feeding Lily her annual holiday treats from her own Christmas stocking.
He smiled at me and I smiled back.
I love the holidays.
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN
Nancy Christie
Sept/Oct, 2016
“Dear Sir…”
Hmmm, that didn’t exactly strike the right note. There was certainly nothing “dear” in how she felt about the person to whom this letter was directed. Instead, she was disappointed, unhappy, frustrated. No, not even any of those adjectives were accurate. The bottom line was that she was angry—very, very angry. She had paid good money—money she had set aside from the insurance check she had gotten when George died—and now it turns out she may have been tricked, fooled, duped even by the salesman because this was definitely not the quality she had expected nor had shelled out thousands of dollars for.
“To whom it may concern”—now that sounded slightly better, more formal, almost as though the letter might be sent to more than one place or even used in a court of law. Not that she knew anything about suing people, but she watched enough judge shows on television to know that lawsuits were a way of life for a lot of people and sometimes they even won. Besides, it was time that American consumers stood up for their rights and forced companies to deliver on their promises and honor their guarantees and stop using inflated marketing claims to promote their goods.
That was what she was going to do—stand up for her rights and demand that they give her all her money’s worth.
Now, where was she? Oh, yes: “To whom it may concern…”
What should she write next? Maybe a brief summary—just hit the main points and don’t be long-winded. George always complained that she went into too much detail, that by the time she stopped talking, no one remembered what her point was. She didn’t agree with him—sometimes you needed all those details to make your point—but in this case, he might be right. Besides, she didn’t have a paper and pen handy so she had to remember all the sentences until she could get somewhere to put it all down.
And her memory just wasn’t what it used to be. Why, just last week (Or was it last month? Well, never mind—when it happened didn’t matter as much as what had happened!) she had driven to the grocery store to buy a few items. But then, after she had picked through the carts that were lined up, trying to find one that didn’t have wobbly wheels or trash bits left behind by previous users, she couldn’t remember why she was there in the first place.
Did she need milk? Bread? Butter? And where was her grocery list anyway?
Frustrated, she left the cart in the frozen food aisle and went back out to the parking lot. But once there, she couldn’t find her car. Anywhere. It wasn’t in the handicap section where she usually parked it, and wasn’t near the entrance or exit doors or even under a parking lot lamp. She finally had to set off her car alarm to locate it.
Frustrating, that’s what it was. All those aggravating, unsettling things that happen as one gets older. But even if she was well into the Medicare stage, she still knew what was what, and what she had a right to expect from manufacturers and retailers and service providers.
“To whom it may concern: I am writing this letter to complain about the quality of the merchandise I had purchased from Dominick Brothers on —” Now, let’s see, when did she buy it? George died on June 19 just a little more than two years ago. Or has it already been three years since he passed?
She did remember that it was summer time, because it was hot — so unbearably hot that it was almost a relief to get inside the showroom. Of course, there it was freezing cold. Must have been near 68 degrees, and she was glad she had brought her sweater. She didn’t want to get sick. Doctor visits were so expensive and medicine wasn’t cheap either. They probably kept it that cold so people would hurry up and make a decision and sign the papers that resulted in a big commission for the sales staff.
Anyway, she had an idea what color and style she wanted and knew how much she wanted to spend but somehow—and she was usually so good about not being talked into things!—she ended up paying more.
“Feel the material,” the dark-suited salesman had said, running his hand lightly over the blue tufted cloth. “It’s so soft and smooth. And the padding” here he pressed down, and she saw how it gave just enough to adjust to the body’s weight but not so much that it wouldn’t provide support, “I can promise you, ma’am, with this type of padding a body would feel so comfortable indeed. Like being in a bed.”
It sounded good and the price was really not very much more than what she had budgeted, and it was so cold and nearly lunchtime. So she signed the papers and wrote her check and went back to her stifling apartment, not sure which she preferred: the freezer-cold temperature of the showroom or the suffocating oven heat of her one-bedroom home. Some people in her building had window air conditioner units but she couldn’t afford one of those—not with all the household bills and an income reduced now that George was gone.
And even if she could, how would she get the unit up all those flights and then into the window? It wasn’t like there was anyone around to help her. She was on her own.
The date—well, she could look that up later. The papers were in the file, just behind the folder with her birth certificate and copy of her marriage license and George’s three remaining certified death certificates. Their marriage hadn’t been perfect—and was anyone’s really? Or was that just what people claimed once the spouse was gone?—but overall George had been a good husband. And she missed him when he died. His presence gave a framework to her life—someone to cook for and clean up after and complain to and about. Now the apartment was so empty.
But there was no point in dwelling on what couldn’t be changed. No, she would do better to keep her focus on the matter at hand, which was her complete and total dissatisfaction with this very expensive purchase.
And it was expensive—probably more than she should have spent. Maybe she shouldn’t have paid so much money. After all, it wasn’t like she had a lot of money saved up. And you never know how long you might live—why, she might have another five years in her before it was her time to go! But after all, it was a necessary purchase, not something frivolous. And so she opted to use that money—money that could have been put into her account at Bankers Savings and Trust—and buy what she needed to buy.
And that’s what made this all so much more aggravating. Every time she thought about how much it had cost, her blood boiled.
“I bought this model on the advice of your salesman and I have to tell you that it is not as comfortable and soft as he claimed it would be.”
And here, just to prove her point—if only to herself—she tried to shift her body a bit. But it was so unforgiving that she couldn’t adjust herself even just a little. And it was hard—her back would be very sore and stiff when she got up.
How long had she been lying here? Funny, she couldn’t remember when she laid down or even why. She wasn’t one to take a nap in the middle of the day. Maybe she’d been sick. She remembered a few years ago when she had the flu — So much for the flu vaccine! She got sick anyway!—and her fever was so high that she got confused and groggy. George found her in the kitchen trying to make breakfast but she hadn’t plugged in the toaster. And when he told her to go back to bed, she went instead into the front room and laid down on the couch and slept there, convinced that she was in her bedroom.
Maybe that’s what was wrong. Maybe she was sick again—not that she felt unwell but sometimes you didn’t know you were sick until it hit you really hard. You thought you might just be tired or had indigestion.
That’s what George had told her, that he had a stomach ache. “Something didn’t agree with me,” he had said when she found him in the bathroom, where he was waiting for the two fizzing tablets to completely dissolve in the glass of water so he could drink the antacid.
Now she regretted dismissing his complaint. She had told him there was nothing wrong with the meal, rushing him to finish the drink so she could use the toilet. He did as she said, and the next morning she found him dead in bed.
Heart attack, the doctor told her. Nothing she could have done, he added, explaining that a major blockage in his left descending aorta was the cause. “‘The widow-maker’ they call it,” he said. Funny name, she remembered thinking at the time.
“Did he have any symptoms?” he had asked, but she shook her head. What was the point in saying he was sick to his stomach the night before? Nothing could make a difference now.
Unlike in this situation, when saying something could make a difference. They might let her pick another one or give her all her money back. That’s what she would demand, she decided.
“I feel that since it hasn’t even been used, I should get my money back. Very sincerely yours, Elizabeth Wilson” using her full name instead of “Betty” which was how she usually introduced herself to people.
That should do it. It made her point, set out her demand and that, as they say, was that. Now, all she needed to do was write it down, get the address of the company and mail it. She’d do it first thing tomorrow after she got up and had her tea and toast. It was too late now. It must be night time—that would explain why it was so dark.
Funny, though, usually by now the small table lamp in the front room would be on. The timer was set to turn it on after supper and off after the evening news. But it wasn’t working. Or maybe the light bulb was burned out.
Even some moonlight would be something but the sky must be covered with clouds because there was no light at all—not from the moon, not from the stars, not even from the streetlamp outside.
When did it get so dark? And stuffy, too? It was stifling in here. Maybe she should open a window.
But she was so tired and so stiff after lying here all this time that she just couldn’t bring herself to get up.
Never mind. She’d deal with it tomorrow.