The Housekeeper by Joy Fielding

Author:Joy Fielding [Fielding, Joy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2022-08-16T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-four

I have to admit that, until I had children of my own, I never really enjoyed Christmas.

Maybe it’s because I never got the chance to believe in Santa Claus, Tracy having robbed me of that fantasy when I was four years old. She’d heard some of the older kids talking about it at school and couldn’t wait to share the news with me. “Santa doesn’t exist,” she said, flat out. “It’s Mommy and Daddy who fill our stockings and leave the presents under the tree.”

I immediately ran crying to our mother, begging her to say it wasn’t so. “Thank God,” she said instead. “At least we don’t have to carry on with that ridiculous charade anymore.”

After that, the whole thing seemed more an obligation than a celebration. We dutifully hung our stockings on the mantel in the living room on Christmas Eve, only to find them filled with leftover chocolates and oranges from the fridge on Christmas morning. We feigned surprise at the gifts we received, Tracy having already uncovered their hiding places and opened each box weeks before. Even as a child, I could tell that her presents were nicer, certainly more expensive-looking, than mine. Our father considered toys frivolous, so we rarely got any, and never Barbie dolls, which was what I always asked the fake Santa in the mall for anyway.

Just in case everyone was wrong about him.

As I got older, I tried to overcompensate by buying Tracy and our parents the nicest presents I could afford. A pathetic attempt to gain their approval, I knew even then. It never worked. The things I picked out—one memorable year, a sweater for Tracy, a silk scarf for my mother, a vest for my dad—always came up short.

“It’s not really me.”

“I’ve never really liked these colors.”

“Since when have I worn vests?”

It was the same thing every year, more or less.

Less joy.

More anxiety.

The closer to Christmas it got, the less joy I felt, the deeper my anxiety grew. It wasn’t until after Tracy and I had moved out and our parents abandoned the early morning ritual that I started to breathe easier. We were still expected home for Christmas dinner—dry, overcooked turkey with all the requisite trimmings—but we were no longer encouraged to bring gifts, although my mother always seemed somewhat put out not to receive any.

Things changed after Harrison and I had children of our own. Christmas finally became a joyous event, filled with presents and laughter. Plenty of video games under the tree. Dozens of superheroes and Super Mario plushies, even the occasional Barbie doll.

At first, we were still obliged to show up at my parents’ house for Christmas dinner, but as my mother’s condition deteriorated, this fell by the wayside. I tried inviting them to our house instead, but they always refused. Tracy might or might not decide to show up at the last minute to celebrate with us, depending on whatever other invitations she’d received. That was fine with me. Tracy was Tracy, and contrary to what she seemed to think, I had no problems accepting her for who she was.

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