December 25, 2020

"It could be worse."

"How?" I asked with exasperation. Not that I didn't know what he would say next. The joke was old, but Niall never tired of teasing me about it. He was slightly obsessed with "The Terminator*" movie and I knew what was coming.

"What if your name was Arnold Schwarzenegger? Imagine having to spell that moniker in kindergarten, hey?" he kidded, elbowing me in the side as he passed by with a basket of fresh-baked bread. Once placed on the dining room table, he turned to go to the kitchen for more, but not before winking at me first. "I'll be -!*"

"Ack," I laughed cutting him off. "Not again!"

I rolled my eyes and strolled over to our window seat. I moved our patterned cushions and folded my legs, perching myself against the wall brace behind me. Tracing my initials onto the fogged-up glass, worrying myself silly, I barely noticed the small, brown bird fly into the holly hedge outside my window. All the property was bare by this time of year and yet the holly shrub defied Old Man Winter, her prickly leaves protecting their delicate, crimson-colored berries nested inside.

I sighed, wishing that I could fly away as easily as the sparrow who lifted off, a meager catch of berries in her quivering beak.

"Aoibh---eann!" My mother's shrill voice called out from the adjoining office. "Aoibheann!" she hollered again, closer. (Pronunciation: Ay-Veen) She was headed my way. Maybe I could call up Arnold and have him do a little interference on my behalf. Niall's imitation of the Terminator's tagline came back to me with a grin.

Niall knew of my situation. I had to tell someone, didn't I?

There would be heck to pay when word of what I did got out. Always my confidant, though, I knew Niall would keep my secret.

"Oh, Aoibheann," Mother admonished me from the dining room entranceway. "Ms. Nollag just did those windows this morning, and now you've gone and smudged them up again."

"I'll clean them, Mother," I sulked, rising to go into the kitchen for some Windex and a paper towel. On my trip back, I found my mother standing over the bench pondering the letters I had scribbled there.

"Who is D. G.?" she asked, hawk-eyeing my approach, a crinkle in her brow as she thought over the last few weeks I'd been home. We sat down calmly at the table but my instincts were screaming for me to get up and run out of the room. Christmas at our house was small this year. Only my mother and I, plus Niall, were in attendance, the menfolk having gone off to fight in the war. Niall had a heart condition so he was exempt from the draft. No one had expected the Thanksgiving bombing of Argentina, least of all those living on our Gulf Coast. It seemed our Southern neighbors had been colluding with the Russians for months. Their intent: to take over the Western Hemisphere.

When the explosions rocked a small Texan town near Dallas no one was ready for the devastation that immediately took hold in our Southwestern region. I cringed just thinking about it.

Asking for the dish of creamed corn next to my mother, I tried to think up a lie while she scooped a tablespoon of cranberry sauce onto her plate. The last thing I needed was my mother butting into my life. Already having completed University and Graduate school, you'd think I'd be beyond this type of scrutiny, but not so. Not with my mother. Here was a woman bent on knowing all there was to know about everyone and everything.

"It's no one special," I fibbed, trying my hand at the impossible.

"Oh, no?" she replied skeptically. "So, if this D.G. is no one special, why is my 24-year-old daughter doodling his initials next to hers like a lovesick teenager?"

A small smile christened her mouth as she wrapped her arms around me in a supportive side hug. When she leaned into me, her ink-black hair mingling with mine, she whispered quietly, "What's he like? Is he-"

Just then, a knock at the door interrupted us.

"I'll get it," I heard Niall call out from the kitchen. He was so busy, though, what with getting our holiday meal on the table, that I felt bad. (Not to mention I was grateful for the excuse to put an end to my mother's pestering.)

I hastily called out to stop him. "No, no. I've got it, Niall. I'll answer the door."

Not hearing my response, Niall rounded our hallway, stopping in his tracks when I opened the door, a pair of black currant-scented candles for the table still in his hands.

A greenhouse delivery man stood in our foyer. A small avocado plant, decorated with tiny maroon and gold Christmas balls, glistened with tinsel in his arms. "Delivery for Mrs. Aoibheann Grier," he said.

It was all I could do to stifle my laughter as I took in the ridiculousness of this small plant, so out of place in our ever-cold climate. The name "Kevin" was written in purple crayon on a popsicle stick popping out of the plant's dirt. Knowing what it meant brought tears of joy to my eyes and I hugged the little pot of happiness next to my chest.

"What in the world?" I heard my mother gasp in surprise. Not thinking at first, I blocked her out and closed my eyes to savor this small miracle.

He was safe.

Thank goodness.

Wiping my eyes, I came back to the moment, reality swiftly kicking in.

"Excuse me, sir, but did you say Mrs.?" I heard my mother ask the delivery man. He was waiting patiently for me to sign for the plant.

Whirling around in a thunderclap, my mother pierced her eyes in my direction.

"Did he just say Mrs. Aoibheann Grier?"
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*Cameron, J. (1984). The Terminator. Hurd, G.A. Orion Pictures. United States.