The Christmas Road Home

by Donna Poole

Which is true? You can’t go home again, or the greatest adventure of our lives is finding our way back home?

One hour and fifty-nine minutes. That’s how long it took to fly from Boston to Detroit. “Under two hours to fly to a different planet,” Darla muttered, “and wouldn’t you know, Mom and Dad would be late picking me up.”

Holiday music filled the crowded airport lobby. Travelers rushed to get to their destinations this Christmas Eve morning.

 “I’ll be home for Christmas,” the old song crooned. Darla wished she had earplugs. Detroit was only the beginning of what was sure to be an almost unendurable week. The ride to the family home south of Jackson, Michigan, would take thirty minutes longer than the flight from Boston to Detroit had. From experience Darla knew the trip would be filled with Mom’s irritating, optimistic chatter. And the questions! Mom’s questions never ended, but Darla dreaded most the one question she knew Dad would ask.

Who was it who said, “You can’t go home again?” Maybe they should have said, “Only a fool tries to go home again.”

Darla retrieved her bags, found a seat, and sighed. This wasn’t where she’d wanted to spend the holidays. She and her friends had planned to party through Christmas and then go to Times Square in New York to celebrate New Year’s Eve in style.

Darla almost wished she’d refused when Mom had called asking her to come home for Christmas and to stay for Grandma’s memorial service on December 31.  

Grandma. In spite of her black mood Darla smiled, visualizing her short, white-haired, grandmother. Darla could almost smell Grandma’s Christmas cookies. Every Christmas of Darla’s childhood had been spent at Grandma’s house, and at Corners Church.

Finally. There were the parents, hurrying toward her. She stood to accept Mom’s hug.  People always smiled at the contrast between her and her mother. Mom said Darla, at five-eleven, looked like Beauty in Beauty and the Beast, and that she looked like Mrs. Potts—the little talking tea pot.

As a little girl, Darla had sung, “Mommy’s a little tea pot, short and stout,” until Dad had made her stop. He’d feared she’d hurt Mom’s feelings. Darla still referred to Mom as “The Tea Pot” when she talked about her to her Boston friends.

As always, Darla felt half-amused and half-embarrassed by Mom’s looks. The way Mom dressed did nothing to enhance her five-foot frame. Even on tip toe she couldn’t quite reach Darla’s cheek.

Darla bent for Mom’s kiss. Then she felt the crush of Dad’s arms. They didn’t feel as strong as she remembered. She was surprised at the amount of gray in Dad’s hair and at the many wrinkles that lined Mom’s face. She glanced again at Mom’s cheeks. The pink cheeks she remembered were gone. Mom’s face looked pale and fragile.

The ride home was emotionally exhausting. Darla bit her lip more than once to stop from snapping.

“No, Mom, Devon and I have no plans to get married.”

“Yes, Mom, I know The Boston Globe is New England’s largest newspaper. I’ve worked for them for two years.”

“Yes, Mother, I keep my doors locked when I’m driving around the city.”

 “No Mom, I don’t eat three healthy meals a day. You have no idea how demanding my schedule is.”

Finally! Blessed quietness. Mom slept, her head leaned against the window. Darla noticed how the sunlight made Mom’s hair look even grayer than it had in the terminal.

Dad cleared his throat. Oh no, here it came. “The Question.”  Might as well get it over with. 

“I’m retiring the first of the year,” Dad said unexpectedly.

“What?” Darla bolted up in her seat. “You told Mom not to talk to you about retiring until you were seventy-five! Dad, why retire? You love your job!”

“Guess this is as good a time as any to tell you. Mom needs too much help now. I’m retiring to spend what time she has left with her.”

  “What do you mean ‘what time she has left?’ Does anyone in this family ever tell me anything?”

Dad’s voice was quiet “I wanted to wait and tell you in person. Mom has lymphoma. Stage four.” 

The size of the lump in Darla’s throat surprised her. She hadn’t felt close to her parents for years. Truthfully, she seldom thought of them except when she skimmed their too long weekly letters. Darla hadn’t been home for five years, and Mom and Dad had never visited Boston.  Darla was just as happy they didn’t come. The parents meeting her Boston friends? 

Darla didn’t know what to say to Dad. The car was silent except for Mom’s soft snores. Darla texted Devon the news of the lymphoma.

“So The Tea Pot’s going to whistle her last tune?” he texted back. It was exactly the kind of sarcastic, dark humor that had drawn Darla to Devon, but now it made her inexplicably angry. She turned her cell phone off and shoved it into the pocket of her jacket.

The trip took an eternity. Ann Arbor. Chelsea. Jackson. Spring Arbor. As Darla well remembered from her college days, there were still thirty minutes of car travel left before they reached her parents’ farm at the end of a dirt road.

Dad slowed as they passed the college. It looked even smaller and quainter than Darla remembered. She’d tried to forget her years there. If anyone asked where she got her education, she always said NYU, where she’d done her graduate work in journalism.

“Do you want me to stop at your old Alma Mater?” Dad asked.

“Don’t bother.” Darla sighed. “Let’s just get home and get this week over with.”

Dad glanced at her in the rear view mirror. His eyes looked sad. That was another thing Darla hated about coming home. It seemed she always said or did something to hurt Mom and Dad.

“Here,” Dad reached back over the seat and handed Darla an ad ripped from the paper. “I thought you might want to see this for what it’s worth.”

Darla couldn’t help it. She laughingly read out loud: “Wanted. Experienced journalist for the Hudson Daily Reporter. Salary based on experience. Benefits.” She remembered as a kid snickering at a story the paper had carried on its front page, “Calamity Cow Causes Car Crash.”

So the “Daily Blues,” as some called it, wanted to hire a reporter? Darla was surprised the paper hadn’t gone belly up years ago. When even Newsweek couldn’t survive the upheaval in print journalism, how had that little newspaper survived?

Hudson was only about ten miles from her parents’ home. Did her dad really think she’d return home and work for that nothing newspaper? Ludicrous! She crumpled the ad and put it in her jacket pocket. Her fingers touched her phone. Should she text Devon so they could mock her Dad’s idea together? Somehow, she just didn’t feel like it.

Darla carried one suitcase into the house, and Dad carried the other. Mom held his free arm. Darla knew she should say something to Mom about the cancer, but what? They’d never communicated well, not even when Darla had been a child. Mom was all the things Darla secretly despised, a stay-at-home Mom, with no higher education, and church as her only social life.

Darla felt she’d walked back in time when she stepped into the farmhouse. The tree was in the same corner. As usual, the top was crooked, and the tree topper had the same crack she remembered. The scent of pine filled the air. Darla sneezed. She’d forgotten about her allergy to pine.

Looking around, Darla sighed. Every nook was filled with something red and green. Her eyes widened at the array of home baked goods that filled the kitchen counter. She hoped her parents didn’t expect her to eat those. It took strict discipline to stay in her size six clothes. Dad saw Darla’s glance and smiled proudly.

“You think that’s something?” Dad said. “Wait until you taste the turkey, the ham, and the pork roast Mom has in the fridge.”

“I’m a vegan!” Darla hadn’t meant to sound so angry.

“What’s a vegan?” Dad asked.

How could anyone not know the definition of vegan? Darla tried to be patient. “I don’t eat anything that causes an animal to suffer. I don’t eat meat, eggs or dairy.”

“What do you eat?” Mom sounded stupefied.

“Veggies. Lots of veggies. And no baked goods.”

Mom took a long look at the counter. Tears came to her blue eyes. “I think I’m going to go take a nap,” she said softly.

Dad helped Mom into the bedroom and returned to Darla. “Sit, young lady!” he thundered. Darla almost laughed, but she sat. “Your Mom has been cooking for days for your visit. She has so little energy, and she used every bit of it to prepare for you to come home for the holidays.”

“OK, well I’m sorry.” Darla almost winced at the weak sound of her own voice. She spoke louder, “I’m a vegan by conviction. I’m not going to change just because Mom cooked!”

Dad’s face reddened. “By conviction!” he thundered. “Since when do you have any convictions about anything? You don’t even bother attending church. And do you think Mom and I are stupid? We know you and Devon are living together. And that last article you wrote for the paper on abortion? That made Mom cry. We prayed none of our friends would see it.”

Darla could feel her heart pounding in her head. One of her migraines was starting. “This isn’t going to work,” Darla said. “Home for Christmas? What a joke! This place isn’t home. I shouldn’t have come here. We live in two different worlds, and there’s nowhere left for us to meet. I’m flying back to Boston.”

“Maybe that would be best.” Dad sighed. “We’ll take you back to the airport in the morning. Perhaps you’ll stop thinking of yourself long enough to go to the Christmas Eve program at church with us tonight?”

Selfish? Dad thought she was selfish? She almost told him how much she’d donated to Planned Parenthood last year but realized just in time Dad wouldn’t consider that a point in her favor.

“Speaking of church,” Dad began.

Darla interrupted hastily. She already regretted her bitter words and didn’t want to argue anymore with Dad. “I’m going to do like Mom and take a little nap if I have to go to church tonight.”

Lying on the twin bed in her old room, Darla tried to sleep in spite of the pounding headache. Had she ever been that girl who loved pink gingham? Everything in the room looked like cotton candy. Pink was now her least favorite color.

From downstairs Darla could hear Christmas music playing and Mom and Dad talking softly. Her angry words with Dad must have prevented Mom’s nap. Was that noise Mom crying? Darla buried her head under a pillow. She would get through church. She would spend the night. She would fly back to her world in the morning and bury this one in the past where it belonged. Home for the holidays was just an outdated phrase; it had nothing to do with her.

Surprised that she’d slept so long, Darla woke. Downstairs Mom and Dad were waiting supper for her. No meats or treats were in sight. Two large trays of veggies and fruits sat on th counter.

“Are fruits okay?” Mom sounded timid.

“Oh Mom!” Darla reached down, hugged her, and realized Mom’s clothes no longer covered a plump frame. Mom was so tiny Darla could feel her bones. Darla pulled away, shocked.

 “You didn’t tell me about the lymphoma.”

“I didn’t know what to say,” Mom said simply.

Darla nodded. She understood that, the not knowing what to say.

The three of them walked together through the snowy parking lot and into Corners Church. This part of Michigan enjoyed a white Christmas only fifty percent of the time. For some illogical reason, Darla was glad that it was snowing this year. She liked hearing the snow crunch under her feet. 

The white frame church was even smaller than Darla remembered. Just like every year of her childhood, there was candlelight, laughter, and music. The children in the play forgot their lines, just like they always did. Grandpas dozed and Grandmas looked proud. Babies fussed and were comforted. The same wreaths hung in the same windows. The same ridiculous Charlie Brown Christmas tree stood in the same corner. Its only ornaments were construction paper handprints. Must be the children were still tracing their hands to make Christmas ornaments.

Could it be? Darla leaned forward and peered at the tree. There it was—the handprint she’d made so long ago. It was the only one with a big yellow smiley face on it. At age seven, Darla had decorated everything with that silly smiley face.

Mom leaned close and whispered, “Do you remember the year you had to be Joseph in the Christmas play because there were no boys? You hated that. You wanted so badly to be Mary.”

From somewhere deep inside laughter bubbled. Mom started chuckling too. 

“Shh,” Dad whispered, but he was grinning broadly.

A little boy, reading, stumbled over the words in the old King James Bible, “And she brought forth her first born son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.”

I still believe those words, Darla thought, as a little girl placed a blanketed doll in a crude manger. That’s one thing Mom and Dad and I have in common.

Suddenly she no longer felt angry. Darla knew she couldn’t leave before Grandma’s memorial service. She leaned over and whispered to Dad, “I’m going to stay through the holidays.”

 Dad poked Mom, winked, and grinned. Had he known all along she wouldn’t leave?

I’ll answer Dad’s unasked question before I go to bed, Darla thought. It will make him happy. “Yes, Dad, I’ll look for a church when I get back to Boston. It’s not going to be anything like Corners Church, but I’ll start going back to church.”

She knew what her Dad would say. “Well, that’s a start.”

She wasn’t going to argue with him or Mom again, not about religion, or politics, or vegans. She was just going to enjoy being home, home for the holidays, perhaps for the last time.

Or . . . perhaps not for the last time. Darla reached into her jacket pocket and fished out the crumpled ad. It wouldn’t hurt to stop at the paper and just talk to them for a minute…. Had Dad just winked at Mom again? She watched him a minute, but he and Mom were staring straight ahead, holding hands, and smiling at the little angels with crooked tinsel halos who were singing quite off key, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, good will toward men.”