Little Brown Bear

Rachel dug furiously through the plastic bin, tossing items carelessly over her shoulder. A heap of varied seasonal items – a witch hat, fishnet stockings, pastel plastic easter eggs, a kiss me, I’m Irish! pin, and a mini menorah – lay at her feet. Her fiance was supposed to fly home for the evening’s festivities, but his flight was delayed six hours, courtesy of Tropical Storm Harold. Rachel did not deem this a strong enough reason to push back tonight’s allotted Christmas decorating time, even if it meant she would pull a muscle carrying the tree downstairs by herself. Schedules were to be strictly obeyed, not changed.

She paused after catching a familiar glimpse of brown. It was a little bear. Not just any little bear, but her Christmas bear. It was an ugly little thing, a sloppily painted piece of wood, cut into a cookie-cutter bear shape, complete with a plaid bowtie, a drawn-on smile, and unsettling googly eyes.

She recalled her first encounter with him a few years back, when she’d been drinking just a little too much tequila at Christmas and spotted the bear on Aunt Missy’s tree. Not the main tree, of course, but the small one meant to greet visitors. She remembered pleading with Aunt Missy to take home the bear – who would even miss it with dozens of other ornaments hanging on the tree? And she remembered Aunt Missy scoffing – no, you can’t have my Christmas bear! But Rachel yielded much power as the favorite niece, so Aunt Missy acquiesced.

Her mind then flashed back to every Christmas she could remember since she was a kid: bitter cold frost, barely a sprinkling of snow on the ground, hours of driving throughout the Chicago suburbs – they had to see everyone, right? And of course, Christmas Day at Aunt Missy’s house.

Almost instinctively, she was transported to that life-changing call nearly six months ago, when she was informed of Aunt Missy’s sudden passing. How audacious of her to think she could reminisce on holiday memories without also feeling the shock and pain of that dreadful day. It was like a punishment, striking her every time she dared to think happy thoughts. Like a thorn to a rose. Prick, prick, prick. Ouch.

She remembered the call as if it were yesterday. She was in an Uber en route to the airport, ready to jet off to sunny Cancun. 

Do I still get on the plane? Should I find a flight to Chicago instead?

Just go, her mom told her. We will have to deal with it all when you get back. There’s nothing to do right now. 

It felt wrong, but she selfishly preferred it to her alternative: spending a week in Chicago doing nothing but thinking about the loss, letting the grief wave over her, probably sitting on the couch, right next to the spot where she died. Yeah, a beach chair would suffice.

Wiping her tears with the complimentary airline napkins, Rachel popped in her airpods to watch the show she had downloaded for the two-hour flight. A rather gruesome murder mystery – good choice, Rach!

She remembered shopping in the Cancun mall for a black dress and heels - how did it come to this? Apparently the girlies in Cancun rarely needed a black dress, and if they did, it was for the club. Rachel held up a prospective dress, noting the mesh cutouts at the chest and midsection – certainly not funeral chic.

That evening, about halfway through the trip, the shock and pain of the news hit her hard for the first time while she was in the shower. She slumped to the ground, balling and weeping and wailing as the droplets pelted her face and body. The horrors of the situation struck her over and over again; it was dark and deep and gutting and accompanied by a swarm of displeasing thoughts. How could this happen? And to her, of all people? What a traumatic way for the kids to find her! She had just gotten her passport for the wedding…

Only way to fix this is a shower beer!

On the plane to Chicago, the gut-wrenching pain became stronger. It was like a giant bowling ball sitting on her stomach, and it pressed deeper the closer she got. She tried to relax – Missy’s already dead, what was she dreading so much anyways? But she knew. Once the plane touched down, it was real.

The night before the funeral, the guilt began to take over. Why didn’t I visit more? I wish that dinner had gone differently. I wish I was a little nicer to her. I wish she was a little nicer to me. I should’ve picked up the phone more. Why was I such a bitch to her that one time when I was nine? But mostly, I wish we had one more day together.

The funeral came, and then it went. With it came the culmination of every feeling inside her – shock, sadness, guilt, pain, horror – all working together to squeeze the bowling ball tighter and tighter and tighter, still. To survive the day, each family member had selected a vice and stuck to it – Rachel reached for a trusty Xanax, which whittled the bowling ball down to the size of a golf ball for the rest of the day. She could handle a golf ball.

Flying home, a false sense of relief washed over her. That’s how life is supposed to work, right? Something bad happens, and you deal with it. Once you get through the hard part, it’s all okay again. But this time was different. There’s no way to fix it, no way to undo it. Missy was gone, and nobody could bring her back. There was little comfort in that.

Rachel traced her fingers over the bear, forcing herself back to the present. This bear – such a stupid, pathetic little thing. In seconds, it had transformed from a forgotten piece of junk to the single most important item in the house. 

Struck with an idea, Rachel ran to fetch the tree from the attic, not bothering to clean up the pile of crap surrounding the bin, and within thirty minutes, the tree was fully assembled in the corner of the living room.

She dragged over a bar stool from the kitchen island. She clutched the bear tightly, climbed atop the stool, pulled a rather risky move to lean closer to the tree, and placed the bear at the very top. She slowly navigated her way to the ground and walked back to admire her work.

That stupid, ugly, pathetic bear made for the perfect angel, didn’t it?