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 By: Matthew John Meagher

Snow falls from a sunless sky. The aroma of bold brewed coffee wafts through the door to my room. I twist the knob on my radio. There’s always a game on. As I adjust the knob to the sports station, my little sister Peggy bursts into the room wearing her pajamas and carrying her ragged yellowed blanket. “He’s coming,” she yells. “Santa is coming tonight!”

Part of my duties as an older brother is to keep my baby sister happy. It’s an easy job. Some of my friends have little sisters and they’re annoying. But I like being around Peggy. She’s kind and confident. She’s only five but acts older. One thing that keeps her a kid is her torn and tattered blanket. She always drags it with her. It was a gift from Mom when she was barely walking. Gifts from Mom are the best. I love baseball, and last Christmas she saved up all year to buy me a new Sandy Colfax glove. She always finds a way to make us smile. 

Peggy jumps on my bed to get me up. “OK, OK,” I say. “I’m up.” I smile. My family has faced challenges this year as my father has suffered from some major medical issues that make his muscles weaken. He’s bedridden. Most of what little money we have has gone to his health bills.

“Now, get downstairs and let me get ready for the day,” I say to Peggy. She leaves the room in a skip. I put on my broken, brown leather shoes and tie the laces, which are still soaked from the yesterday’s snowball fight. I pull on some torn jeans, put on a shirt I’ve worn for days, and pull over a sweater that looks clean. Mom likes us to dress well for the holidays.

I follow the aroma downstairs and turn into the tiny kitchen with so little enough space that the chairs smack the counters. Our house is skinny and small, but our home is always full. And because Rochester, New York neighborhoods were built like this after the Second World War. We’re so close, we could have dinner with our neighbors every night. People in our town have a bond. It’s probably the hellacious Rochester winters. Days like today: cold, wet, with sleet. I hate going outside on days like this, but my mom asked me to ride along with her to pick up gifts for under the tree. I will enjoy the ride along. It’s time with just her. 

Other kids come to our house just to taste her cooking, and Mom is always cooking enough for one more. But lately, she hasn’t been able to afford to open her door. 

I was the first person she told about Dad. She has always found a way to empower me. She trusts me. I may be a teenager, but I have had to grow up because our family has faced so many challenges. We’re not the only families on the block struggling. Our Mom is our glue. And I am fortunate for that. 

Tire brakes screech. It’s our cab from the STAR Cab Company. We sold our car a few months ago. Mom says to me, “Put on your coat and gloves. Dad’s staying with Peg. We’re headed into town. Bundle up.” 

I put on my coat and gloves and follow Mom towards the STAR cab. Mom has always had confidence to her walk. With a pace, more like a stroll, Mom carries herself boldly. However, today, she stumbles though the slush in her heels. Ice crackles and breaks under each of our footsteps. Once we reach the cab, I open the back door, and Mom settles down on the seat with her purse on her lap. I sit next to her on the other side. Mom’s smile is warm. Whenever I feel nervous or scared, she smiles, and the anxiety disappears. Today though, she’s not smiling. Her hands tighten around the strap of her purse, and she stares straight ahead.

I ask, “Is everything OK, Mom?”

She responds, “Merry Christmas Eve, honey.”

Our cab burrows through the fog and sleet. The roads are covered in slush. We pass family after family after family who go in and out of stores with hands and arms full of gifts. I don’t envy the gifts. I envy their happiness. It’s been hard to smile this year. 

We approach Dr. Luce’s pharmacy. When we get to the front of the store, Mom shuffles through her purse. Eventually, she pulls out a few coins and asks our driver, “Will you wait for a moment while we get my husband’s prescription?”

The cab driver sighs and accepts the change.

“Thank you,” Mom says. “We’ll only be a moment.”

We leave the cab. Something is different about Mom. Something about her. Her walk.

She doesn’t stop to look at possible gifts down each aisle. She doesn’t say I can pick out a piece of candy. She walks straight towards the pharmacy counter.

We reach the counter and a man in a white jacket smiles down at us and says, “Merry Christmas.”

“Thank you,” she responds.

She pulls out her checkbook and says, “Just the usual for McCork.”

“Coming right up, ma’am.”

Mom places her hand on my shoulder. She looks down on me with a smile. A different smile. A sad smile. She says, “Honey, I wish I could let you get some candy.”

I say, “Mom, it’s just candy. I don’t care.”

“You’re growing up,” she says.

When the pharmacist hands Dad’s prescriptions to Mom, she pulls out her checkbook. I love watching Mom write checks. Her handwriting is smooth and beautiful. It’s art. She signs her name in cursive with smooth loops and curves for each letter. 

She hands the check to the pharmacist. He hands her the receipt. She reads the receipt and the color in her face leaves. I have never seen this look before. I wonder what is going on. I wonder why she is so sad. I wonder.

Mom turns from the counter and rushes out of the store. I have to weave in and out of fellow customers just to keep pace with her. We exit the store, and the air is bitter. Thank God we have STAR Cab Company. Once we get inside the cab, the air warms. The driver turns around. He asks, “Where to, ma’am?”

“Hy Braverman’s Department Store,” Mom says. “I have some gifts on layaway.”

We approach Braverman’s, and again Mom shuffles through her purse for some spare change. She grabs the change, opens her palm, and hands it to the driver. Instead of disappointment, he closes Mom’s palm. He says, “I’ll be here waiting for you when you comeback. Merry Christmas.”

Mom says, “Thank you.”

We leave the cab and enter the store. A swarm of customers are fighting for nearby last-minute gifts. Mom weaves through the maze of people and heads straight to customer service. We approach the counter and see Sarah Braverman. She runs the store now that her brother has passed. The store was struggling until her arrival. After she finishes with a customer, she recognizes Mom and says, “Happy Holidays.”

It’s women like Ms. Braverman that make me feel like a kid. When she was my age, she was already a scarred soul. While I was complaining about my shoes being too old, she was dying to own a pair of her own. When I threw a tantrum for candy, she was starving for bread. And when I show up with Mom, she smiles. I don’t know if it’s the arched back; or wispy gray hair in combination with crow’s feet that stretch along her face, but she looks at me with a pained smile. That’s what the Nazis did. They took your life before killing you.

“Betty?” she asks. “Happy Holidays, yes?” 

“May I ask you if you have my packages?” Mom asks.

Ms. Braverman kneels under the counter to pull out two beautifully gift-wrapped packages. She begins to calculate the total price. The final amount shows on the cash register. I expect Mom to pull out her checkbook. I expect to watch her beautiful signature. I expect Mom to be Mom, but she’s not here. She reaches inside her purse and grabs her checkbook. Her hands shake as she places the book on the table. Her serene handwriting turns into scratch. The check looks like Peggy wrote it.

Before she finishes writing the check, she says, “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” I ask.

“Those gifts are for you and Peggy. I’m writing a check that won’t cover the cost.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“We can’t afford Christmas this year, Honey. These packages were for under the tree to look like Santa visited. But now, we’re going to have nothing.”

I have never seen Mom like this. Her eyes are puffy. Her makeup runs down her face. She looks like a widow, not a wife. She is about to apologize to Ms. Braverman, but then I stop her.

“Wait,” I say.

“What is it, honey?”

I look at the package with my name tag on it. I admire Braverman’s wrapping skills. I place the package back on the counter and push it towards Ms. Braverman. She is confused.

“Honey?” Mom asks.

“Let Peggy have her gift,” I say. “She needs Santa this year.”

Mom looks at me with a proud smile. She’s the happiest sad she’s ever been. She embraces me with a hug. 

Mom turns to Ms. Braverman and says, “Just the one, please.”

Ms. Braverman pushes my gift towards me. As she reaches out her arm, her cuffs pull up on her wrist. I see the numbers “122547” tagged with ink on her skin. She looks at me and says, “That was quite a gesture for such a young man.”

“Thank you,” I say. “My little sister is an angel.”

Ms. Braverman says, “I want your family to have these gifts.”

She gathers both gifts and prepares them for me to carry. Mom looks at me and her stunning smile warms me. I forgot this feeling. This feeling of home. 

Ms. Braverman says, “Merry Christmas, Betty.”

Mom says, “Happy Holidays, Sarah.” 

But before we leave Ms. Braverman says, “Here, have a Tootsie Roll.”

Matthew John Meagher is independently published. He is the Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Book Awards Winner in Best Juvenile/YA for his novel Irish Town. Irish Town is also the Colorado Author’s League Award Winner and has been distinguished as a favorite in the New York City Big Book Awards. Furthermore, Irish Town won first place in the Reader’s Views Literary Awards. His narratives are accessible for most levels of readers, while the content is engaging for all ages. In addition, Meagher has published short stories in both 34th Parallel Magazine (2020) and Fterota Logia Magazine (2021). He has a recent publication, “Tick,” in Empyrean Literary Magazine.