Milk and Cookies

The house is blanketed in a suspenseful yet comforting silence, that is uniquely felt on special occasions. My eyes flutter open and I roll my head to the side to read the glowing alarm clock. It reads 12:01. It’s officially Christmas morning. The room is now beginning to take shape as my eyes adjust. The little pockets of light that were buried under the dark revealing themselves. My husband is sleeping on his side, facing away from me. He’s tucked under the covers, his shape nearly indistinguishable. For a moment I linger in the silence and darkness. A part of me wants to just slip quietly from the bedroom and go downstairs, but the obligation of devotion begs me to make one last attempt.

I prod him gently on the shoulder. He groans and his body stretches as he eases out of sleep. I whisper sweetly, “Honey, it’s Christmas morning.”

He turns to me blinking, his face appearing sullen in the dark, “but it’s not time to get up.”

I clenched my jaw, but did not speak. I waited to see if he’d remember. He sighed “Right… the milk and cookies.” For a moment we are quiet. He takes a moment to search for the same words I’ve heard many times before.

“Can you take care of it?”

His eyes are already closed again. It’s as if I hadn’t actually woken him up, and I’m talking to an automated voice message.

I respond gently, almost tenderly “I really would like your help”

He groaned again.

“The kids are getting older.” I was pleading now.

“This might be the last year we do this”

He scoffed, grumbling under the blankets, “So? When I was a kid I was lucky if I got anything for Christmas at all.”

In the darkness I could visualize the expression on his face.

Puzzled. Agitated.

There is no point in pushing him, but the words spill from my throat before I can stop them.

“This is about their childhood, not yours” He lies still and the silence stretches between us. I rise out of bed and the sound of my feet on the carpet finally stirs a response from him.

“Look, I’ll still be there to watch them open presents in the morning”

I bite my upper lip, and head to our walk in closet. The lightbulb flickers on. The sudden brightness making me alert. I reach for the presents from Santa on the closet shelf and carefully place them in a tower on my forearms. I turn off the light and leave my husband in the darkness to go back to sleep.

The frosty lights from the tree guide me down the stairs. I place the presents under it, making sure the bigger presents are in back. On the base of the brick fireplace is ceramic plate adorned with chocolate chip cookies and next to it, a glass of milk. I don’t have the appetite to eat them. I use a fork to cut bite shapes from the cookies. I dump the crumbled pieces in the trash and dump the milk out in the sink. I ceremoniously arrange the cookies with fabricated bite marks on the plate, and place the empty glass next to it.

My husband and I used to hold back our laughter as we created our perfect little crime scene for Christmas morning. We’d take turns biting out of the cookies, licking the crumbs off eachother’s fingers. He’d close his eyes in bliss and compliment my baking. He’d use his work boots to make foot prints on the floor with ash from the fireplace while I placed the presents in delicate order. We’d slow dance next to the tree to the rhythm of eachother’s heartbeat. The only sounds between our hushed laughter were of us breathing, and the hum of the fridge.

Then, when daylight came, we’d wait by the tree, with our arms around eachother. When the kids gasped and pointed and jumped for joy at the sight of what we did, he’d give me a wink.

Tonight I’m alone. I sit on the cold bricks of the fireplace, my hands supporting me. Car headlights shine through our front window and the light travels across the room slowly like a searchlight. This is the first Christmas that feels like an ordinary day. The associated routines have gone from celebrated traditions to dreaded chores that I’d rather not do. Right now, there are people outside driving to work. There are stray cats and raccoons wandering the streets, their eyes glinting as they search for food. The earth is turning as always, and soon the sun will be visible on the horizon, staining the walls of the living room pink. My son is 7 and my daughter is 8.

On the Saturday after Thanksgiving, her and I were decorating the tree. She asked me if Santa was real. I was standing on my toes on a stool, reaching for a branch to hang a Stitch ornament. I looped it through the branch and sat down on the stool.

“Why do you ask that, honey?”

“Kids at school said he’s not real.”

This was the kind of question that you prepare for every year, but you don’t have a perfect answer for when it comes. There’s never a perfect way to lie, to prolong the inevitable of her learning the truth.

I faced her disappointed eyes, large and keen behind purple rimmed glasses that she’ll soon swap for a sophisticated black.

“Of course he’s real, sweetie. Remember the scooter you really wanted that we couldn’t afford?”

That had been my hardest piece of evidence for years. She nodded and a faint smile appeared on her face. It masked the immense disappointment of the truth that loomed over them, but I had held my daughter back for one last Christmas.

My hands are wet. I look down at my glistening palm and rub my face. I did not realize I’ve been crying. I should go back upstairs, in case one of the kids gets too excited and tries to take a peek at the presents. Yet, I can’t will myself to get up. I gaze absently at the wall, every so often car lights dancing by. The hum of the fridge silencing my thoughts.

In what feels like a short time, the darkness stealthily slips away from the walls. The living room is bright, and the house stirs with the rush of morning anticipation. The cover of darkness no longer a barrier from the Christmas festivities. The kids whisper in the hallway, deliberating on their strategy. Is it time to go downstairs yet? Are mom and dad awake?

I rub my face with my hands to make sure I don’t appear exhausted. Then comes the familiar drumming of feet down the stairs. They rush to the tree and squeal.

“Look mom! Santa came!”

My daughter diligently picks up the plate and glass, taking it to the kitchen. It has served its purpose for the occasion. Now, it’s just another thing to be cleaned up.

They start rummaging through the colorful boxes of pink and gold, reading names and sorting the inventory. I brace myself for the question I know is coming.

“Mom, can we open presents now?”

They look at me with wide, excited eyes.

“Eat your breakfast first”

I make the kids bowls of cereal and sit them at the table. The carton of milk reminding me of the evidence I erased just a few hours ago.

I call up the stairs. No answer. Back in the bedroom, I see him under the covers, wrapped tightly like he is a present for me to unwrap.

“John?” He’s snoring. I push his shoulder, “John, wake up, the kids are eating cereal. We’re opening presents after”

Don’t miss this I want to say you said you’d watch them open presents.

“Can’t they wait?”

“They’re eating right now, but they’re getting really hyper. Can’t you just come downstairs?”

My voice is now strained as I hold back my desperation. Not for him to come downstairs, but to care about this as much as I do.

He groans again, it’s muffled by his pillow as he clings to the bed in protest.

“I’m really tired. You woke me up at midnight, you know”

For a moment I’m too shocked to respond. Words bubble up in my throat but cannot surface. I want to ask him why he stopped caring, or if he ever cared in the first place. I want to know why things are changing, and at what point I’m supposed to give up altogether. I inhale and the words become lodged in my throat. Right now, I just need to get this all over with.

“It’s Christmas, John. They’re excited”

He groans one last time and pulls himself out of bed. His face is puffy and his eyes glassy. He walks with heavy, labored footsteps, like a wounded horse being whipped.

The sounds of clinking dishes in the sink alerts him to their excitement.

They shrill from downstairs

“Hurry daddy! Hurry!”

“Okay okay!” He quickens his pace and a jovial smile greets them in the living room.

I sit criss cross infront of the tree. My husband stands with his arms crossed, beaming at our children, who are emphatically sorting their gifts by name. The labels from Santa are written in a medieval style cursive, unrecognizable as my own handwriting. I pull out my phone and press record just in time, as the kids begin tearing through the paper. The scraps are tossed aside and slowly fall to the floor.