While You Were Pretending

Chapter Three

Flames crackling in the fireplace, heat still on throughout the house, I actually have to open the living room windows. Mom laughs a little, pushing up the thick sleeves over her oversized sweater. “It is a bit toasty, huh?”

Dad walks in with one of his hand-crafted favorites, a wood tray, holding a pitcher of lemonade and extra glasses. “This should help.”

She kisses him on the cheek, then goes back to fanning out the silver tinsel in her hand. “How was the Pullman’s this afternoon? Is Peyton happy to be home?”

I reach into her hand for a few strands of silver, “Not as happy as I am.”

Which is true. We are one of those still-together parents and only-child families where we’re like The Three Musketeers, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. As much as I love school, and getting a scholarship to a university was phenomenal, I’m a little bummed I didn’t get to do the first two years at the local community college. And as much as I can’t wait to travel the world, I understand the value and sanctity of home.

Mom gives me a look from under her wispy black bangs. Having been an only child herself, having been family-less until she met Dad, she totally understands how powerful the sense of belonging can be. She used to tell me she fell in love with Dad’s family just as much as him.

Dad hands mom a glass of lemonade, then asks, “What’s going on with Peyton? Is Joey causing problems?”

I chuckle, “Always. But, actually… it’s Jackie.”

Mom hovers by the tree with a pallet of ornaments, “What does Jacqueline have to do with anything?”

Sitting on the bench in front of the bay window, I hold my sweating glass in my lap. “She’s coming to town, apparently.”

My parents look between themselves. Dad, like always, chooses not to comment in a gossiping manner. Mom, on the other hand, is slow and thoughtful before responding, “And how is Peyton feeling about this?”

“Not great. Sometimes it seems like all the work she’s done, all that time spent in therapy, hasn’t done shit.”

Mom sighs, “Well… all we can do is try and support her.”

I turn to look into the dark street, watching the falling snow glide through the air. “I know, I am.” Mary jumps into my lap and loudly purrs as soon as I start petting through her long fur. “It just seems like Peyton is going to use me as a buffer while Jackie’s around.”

“I know she’s your best friend,” Dad comments softly while decorating the higher parts of the tree. “But you can say ‘no’ to her.”

Mom reaches into the bin on the coffee table, pulling out the stain-glass star. “Holidays can be stressful… just make sure you’re not being too selfless.”

But then subject is dropped quickly. Continuing tradition, the three of us gather around the finished Christmas tree. Dad has turned off all the lights and Mom holds the tree light’s switch in her hand. There’s a “one, two, three” and our tree is lit! The soft yellow glow filling the room, bringing a calmness and serenity.

This time of year – this tradition is probably where my love of string lights comes from. When I couldn’t sleep, I would stealthily make my way downstairs to find the tree still lit. Sitting in the armchair, in the comforting glow, I would find that my busy mind would actually quiet. Whether it’s the ones strung around my room or the Edison Bulb in my glass lamp, I much rather live in the dim, golden illumination. It’s easier on my eyes, it’s easier on my mind, it resonates the winter vibe of pure hearts and quiet nights. Something seemingly so insignificant has become a fundamental part of who I am.