Pregnant For My Ex-Fiiance's Father

2

But it was decided that I, Storee Taylor, was nominated to take care of Aunt Cindy.

And frankly, I have no clue how to take care of an old woman with a bum hip—so probably not a bright move on the family’s part.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to help with the bags?” Taran asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Just getting used to the thin air,” I say and press my hand to my chest. “Oof, hard to breathe. You know, I think I might be experiencing altitude sickness, not sure this is the place for me to be. Perhaps we airlift Aunt Cindy to California.”

Taran whips the pillow I couldn’t live without into my chest and says, “You’re fine,” before picking up the bag of snacks I made her stop to get before driving into the mountains and heading back into the house.

She never truly mastered the art of good bedside manner.

Grumbling under my breath—breath that I swear I can see as I huff along the sidewalk—I make my way up the porch of the familiar Victorian house that we used to visit every Christmas before Mom and Dad purchased their Cancún timeshare—Bosom Bungalow. My mom’s “bosom” buddy owns part of the timeshare as well, and they think it’s a funny name. Ahhh, parents, aren’t they fun?

As I get close to the door, I can practically smell the warm gingerbread and freshly harvested pine—a combination of scents that I associate with one person and one person alone—Aunt Cindy.

Hate to admit it, but even though I’d rather be wrapped up in the comfort of my childhood twin-sized Barbie comforter while talking to my ficus, Alexander, about Lovemark’s lineup for the season, being here— the scents, the scenery, the snow—it’s making me a little—and I mean a little, just the tiniest, minute, so-small-you-can-barely-even-recognize-it bit—warm and fuzzy inside.

And I mean that, because this town and I…we have history. Sordid history.

Embarrassing history.

The kind of history that has kept me away for ten years.

But my mortifying history doesn’t negate the fact that Aunt Cindy’s house has always provided a sense of comfort during the holiday season.

I’m just about to cross the threshold of the house when Taran buzzes out, a mission to accomplish. This girl is a workhorse, and when her mind is set on something, she doesn’t stop until it’s accomplished.

“If you’re going to stand still, mouth agape, please do it off to the side.” Her shoulder bumps into mine as she moves past me and heads to the car.

Sheesh!

“My mouth wasn’t agape,” I mutter before heading into the foyer of the old, creaky house that I know has been home to Aunt Cindy for longer than I’ve been alive.

This place is Christmas. It’s the pine garland-wrapped staircase and the battery-operated lights in the window. The delicately executed velvet bows strategically placed in every greenery-swathed doorframe. The single piece of mistletoe hanging in the living room leading you to the expertly decorated tree full of matching baubles and bulbs, ribbons, and the golden angel at the top. It’s the hand-crafted green-and-red quilts hanging like tapestries on the walls, the crystal stemware used as candy dishes full of pillow mints that melt on your tongue the moment they enter your mouth. And it’s the exquisitely wrapped presents under the tree decorated in matching paper, bows, and gift tags. Together, it’s a snapshot of my childhood, where Christmas made me believe in miracles, made me believe in magic, and gave me all the warm feelings about the holiday season.

But as I scan the house from the nonexistent entry rug where I’m supposed to dust off my shoes, my eyes fixate on the bare banister, the naked doorframes, the missing stemware—not a pillow mint to be found.

What the hell?

“Seriously, Storee, can you please make yourself helpful?” Taran says as she plops another bag of food on the floor.

“Where’re…where’re the decorations?” I ask.

“What?” Taran asks as she wipes the back of her hand over her brow.

She can’t possibly be sweating. I know she lives in Denver, but these are arctic temperatures we’re dealing with here.

I gesture to the empty space. “There aren’t any Christmas decorations.” Taran looks over her shoulder and then back at me. “Correct.” “Um…why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Taran says sarcastically. “Maybe because Aunt Cindy broke her hip, and the last thing she can manage right now is decorating her house so you can feel the Christmas magic the moment you walk in.” Ah, excuse me, Miss Rude.

She blows past me again, back to the clown car to unload God knows what at this point.

“A simple answer of ‘she hasn’t had time’ would have sufficed,” I call after her.

Yikes, she’s ripe.

I tuck my pillow under my arm, take off my shoes, and then head into the living room, the bare and very odd-looking living room.

I’ve never seen it like this before. Normally where the tree would go, there’s a pink Victorian chair in impeccable shape for what I assume is its age. The Happy Days nativity scene, which Aunt Cindy pays homage to every year, is not perched on the fireplace. No stockings hung, no logs by the fire, no cranberry garland draping along with her green damask curtains.

It’s just…plain.

And frankly, it’s scaring me.

I know I joked about a broken hip being a death sentence, but this decidedly barren room is making me feel like I’m visiting a mortuary rather than a place full of the Christmas spirit.

Also, color me confused because I didn’t think she ever took her decorations down. Naïve, perhaps, but this is Kringletown—well, just Kringle if you’re local—the most highly elevated Christmas town in the country. Year-round, instrumental Christmas music plays from speakers strategically placed along the main streets. Light post decorations are only switched out for a different style every month but never stray from the classic red, green, and gold hues of the jolly holiday. Twinkle lights are never taken down, hot chocolate never stops being pumped into visitors, and you can’t walk down the street without being told at least twice that Santa is always watching.

So pardon my confusion in thinking that Christmas decorations remain a fixed aesthetic in the homes as well.

Guess I was wrong.

The front door shuts, and Taran stands in the entryway, hands on her hips. I turn toward her. “Why is it so quiet in here? Where’s Aunt Cindy?”

“With Martha and Mae at their house.”