Then it was back to the motel, and onto the ferry first thing in the morning. It didn’t feel much like Christmas at all, but my aunt tried to make up for it. In the seating area, she and Gwen shared stories of their favorite Christmases. Gwen, who’d grown up on a farm in Vermont, told us about the time she’d received an Australian shepherd puppy. She was nine years old, and she’d wanted a dog for as long as she could remember. In the morning, after unwrapping all of her packages, she’d been crestfallen, not realizing that her dad had slipped out the back door. He reappeared a minute later holding the puppy, who was wearing a red bow for a collar—and even almost half a century later, she could still recall the joy she’d felt when the puppy bounded over and began playing with her. On a quieter note, Aunt Linda recounted how she had baked cookies with her mother on Christmas Eve; it was the first time her mom had allowed her not only to help but to do most of the measuring and mixing. She remembered how proud she’d been when everyone in the family raved about the cookies, and in the morning, she received her own apron with her name stitched on it, as well as her own baking utensils. There were more stories like that—and as I sat with them, I remember thinking how normal the stories sounded. It had never occurred to me that future nuns had ordinary childhood experiences; I just assumed that they grew up praying all the time and finding Bibles and rosaries beneath the tree.
Back home, I chatted with my parents and Morgan on the phone, wrote the card for Bryce, then started getting ready. I showered and did the hair-and-makeup thing. On went the stretchy jeans—God bless them, by the way—and a red sweater. Outside the window, darker clouds had filled the sky, so just in case, I put on my rubber boots. Evaluating myself in the mirror, except for my ever-expanding bust, I thought I barely looked pregnant.
Perfect.
Tucking the gift under my arm, I started toward the Trickett house. In the Pamlico Sound, I could see small whitecaps in the swells and the wind had picked up, playing havoc with my hair, which made me wonder why I’d bothered to style it in the first place.
Bryce opened the door as I was climbing the steps. In the distance, I heard a deep rumble echoing in the sky. The storm, I knew, would be coming soon.
“Hey there. Merry Christmas! You look amazing.”
“Thanks. You too,” I said, eyeing his dark wool slacks and button-up shirt, as well as his shiny loafers.
Inside, the house was a picture-perfect version of Christmas Day. The remains of wrapping paper had been crumpled up and packed into a cardboard box beneath the tree; the aromas of ham and apple pie and corn simmering in butter filled the air. The table was set, some side dishes already in place. Richard and Robert were on the couch in their pajamas and fuzzy slippers reading comic books, reminding me that as smart as they were, they were still kids. Daisy, who’d been nestled at their feet, rose and wandered toward me, tail wagging. In the meantime, Bryce introduced me to his grandparents. While they were perfectly friendly, I barely understood a word they said. I nodded and smiled, and after Bryce finally maneuvered me away, he whispered in my ear.
“Hoi Toider,” he said. “It’s an island brogue. There’s maybe a few hundred people in the world who speak it. People on the islands didn’t have much contact with the mainland for hundreds of years, so they developed their own dialect. But don’t feel bad; half the time, I can’t understand them, either.”
Bryce’s parents were in the kitchen and after hugs and greetings, his mom handed him the mashed potatoes to bring to the table.
“Richard and Robert?” she called out. “Food’s almost ready, so wash up and come find your seats.”
Over dinner, I asked the twins what they’d received for Christmas and they asked me. When I explained that my aunt and I planned to open our gifts later, Robert or Richard—I still couldn’t tell them apart—swiveled his gaze to his parents.
“I like opening the gifts on Christmas morning.”
“Me too,” the other one said.
“Why are you telling me this?” their mom asked.
“Because I don’t want you to get any crazy ideas in the future.”
He sounded so serious that his mom burst out laughing.
When everyone was finished eating, Bryce’s mom opened the gift I’d brought, for which she and her husband thanked me graciously—and everyone pitched in to clean the kitchen. Leftovers went in Tupperware and then into the fridge, and when the table was cleared, Bryce’s mom brought out a jigsaw puzzle. After dumping out the contents of the box, Bryce’s parents, brothers, and even the grandparents began flipping the pieces, turning them right-side up.
“We always do a puzzle on Christmas,” Bryce whispered to me. “Don’t ask me why.”
As I sat beside him, trying to find matching pieces along with the rest of the family, I wondered what my own family was doing. It was easy to imagine Morgan putting her new clothes away while my mom cooked in the kitchen and my dad caught a game on television. It occurred to me that after the morning frenzy of opening gifts, aside from the meal, everyone in my family did their own thing. I knew that families had their own holiday traditions, but ours seemed to keep us dispersed while Bryce’s gathered them together.
Outside, it began to rain, then pour. As lightning flickered and thunder boomed, we worked steadily on the puzzle. There were a thousand pieces but the family were absolute puzzle wizards—especially Bryce’s dad—and we finished it in about an hour. Had it been me putting it together alone, I was pretty sure I’d still be working on it until next Christmas. His family put on Scrooge—a musical version of Dickens’s classic—and not long after it ended, it was time for Bryce and me to go. After fishing out a couple unopened gifts from under the tree, Bryce grabbed umbrellas and his truck keys while I hugged every member of his family goodbye.
It felt darker than usual as we drove the quiet roads. Heavy clouds blocked the starlight while the wipers pushed the rain aside. The storm had abated to a drizzle by the time we got to my aunt’s, where we found her and Gwen in the kitchen. I savored another round of delicious aromas, even though I wasn’t hungry in the slightest.
“Merry Christmas, Bryce,” Gwen called out.
“Dinner should be ready in twenty minutes,” Aunt Linda informed us.
Bryce put his gifts beneath the tree with the others and greeted both women with hugs. The house had been transformed in the hours I’d been gone. The tree was glowing, and candles flickered on the table, the mantel, and the end table near the sofa. Faint strains of holiday music drifted from the radio, reminding me of my childhood, when I’d be the first to sneak downstairs on Christmas morning. I’d wander to the tree and check out the gifts, noting which ones were for me and which ones were for Morgan before taking a seat on the steps. Sandy would usually join me and I’d stroke her head, letting the anticipation build until it was finally time to get everyone up.
As I recalled those mornings, I could feel Bryce’s curious gaze on me.
“Good memories,” I said simply.
“It must be hard being away from your family today.”
I met his eyes, feeling warm in a way I hadn’t expected. “Actually,” I said, “I’m doing okay.”
We took a seat on the couch and chatted in the glow of the lights from the Christmas tree until dinner was ready. My aunt had made turkey, and despite eating only small portions, I felt like I was going to pop when I finally put my fork down.