Christmas in the Middle Ages

I was the first one to get up this Christmas. The kids wallowed in teenage lethargy and I was more than a little disappointed that they didn't invade my room before sunrise, dragging blankets and stuffed animals with them, to jump on my bed and make me get up. I made coffee for myself, dunked the last of Santa's cookies, and inspected the stockings again. As I was reading yesterday's paper, I heard Brittany get out of bed and take a shower while John slept. Eventually they both came downstairs, Brittany perfectly groomed and beautiful in a sweater and jeans, John still wearing pyjamas.

We spent the morning unwrapping presents, listening to John preach about the evils of possessions. He put half of his presents in a garbage bag to donate to Good Will. Brittany stacked hers in rectangles of videos and CDs. They both gave me books, mostly paperback classics, and Brittany gave me a seashell, wrapped in dolphin-print paper and a straight yellow ribbon. Three years ago she would have rolled it like a piece of candy, twisting the ends and choking them with curly ribbons. Because she's old enough to go to the beach by herself now, and to have a complicated love life, she put it in a box, leftover from some expensive piece of jewelry she doesn't want to remember getting on Valentine's Day.

Even John was silent while I opened and admired the shell. We watched it pulsing, spiraling, unspiraling, respiraling, turning itself inside out. Brittany told me that she hoped it didn't smell like seaweed, and that she had soaked it in bleach to get rid of anything living in it. I sniffed it and smiled at her, assuring her that it was perfectly sanitary.

I put the shell in my pocket, found my shoes, and told John to go get dressed. We went to Cracker Barrel for breakfast because no one really felt like cooking.

While we waited, I was constantly aware of the trembling weight in my pocket. It felt like the shell was purring, and I was tempted to give it a name, like a kitten. After we were served coffee, I took it out of my pocket and balanced it on the empty butter dish. It spun itself off the edge of the table when I looked away, bouncing twice on the hard floor before cracking evenly in half. I caught Brittany's eye; she looked apologetic, but not tearful. John glanced away. I picked up the pieces and fitted them together, hoping the shell would spring to life again, but it remained motionless, its formerly iridescent lining now flat beige. I ran the ball of my thumb along one of the sharp edges, and decided not to put the pieces back in my pocket. I put them next to my plate while we devoured pancakes. John thought that the shell was some kind of charm, like a monkey's paw, and told me that I should burn it when we got back home. While he lectured, Brittany stared at her bacon and grits, trying very hard not to blink. She flinched when I patted her knee under the table.

I left the dead pieces of shell in a pile of change on the table, and we drove off before the tired waitress picked up her tip, maybe slicing two of her fingers.

Back at home, Brittany dragged out her suitcases and started packing to go back to school, even though she had another week of vacation. John went back to bed, I think, although he could have just been sitting in his room, staring out the window at the winter.