Laura Mathis faces the first Christmas after her teenage daughter was killed by a drunk driver. From The One-Percenter, a dark tale of revenge, forthcoming.
Laura avoided the Black Friday crowds by waiting a week. Stores still had deals, and she shopped wisely, picking between Target, Wal-Mart and even K-Mart for the lowest prices. She bought presents and spent the afternoon wrapping them. Only four, two for her, two for Paul.
Next up was the tree. It wasn’t the tree they’d used since Jessi was born. This one she nabbed on sale from K-Mart. An Imitation Tree, according to the box, lights already strung around the branches. She set it up in minutes and tossed the box by the backdoor. Paul was at group therapy. She forgave him for the plates. Maybe he had a point. But life moved on, that’s what Paul had to understand. He’d come around. If Christmas didn’t help, something else would.
Laura sat on the floor crosslegged like she did Christmas mornings when Jessi was small, telling her which presents to open and whether they came from Mommy and Daddy or Santa. Laura admired the tree. None of the ornaments from the old one: a card Jessi made in preschool, pictures of Jessi from ages 3 to 7, a picture she’d of herself in a rocketship, heading to the moon to visit the moon man. No train either. Every Christmas, Thomas the Engine circled the tree singing Christmas carols and Jessi liked to chase it.
Laura got up and grabbed the box and headed to the backyard. The shed lurked in the corner and the grass crunched under her shoes. Paul hated mowing but once a week each summer he pushed their little mower around the backyard, stomping through the backdoor sweaty and irritated.
She unlocked the shed and threw the doors open. Sixteen years’ worth of stuff. She set the Imitation Tree’s box at the edge and grabbed the doors. A thin rectangle of light slanted across boxes and piles of old stuff. Laura’s eyes followed it. When Jessi learned to talk she also learned to want. Three-year-old Jessi Mathis had trouble doing what she was told, no trouble telling them she wanted an Elmo doll or anything with Mickey Mouse on it.
A neighbor’s dog barked. A truck rumbled down the street.
Laura stepped inside the shed. Memories rose in the dark, each a siren’s call to nowhere. Jessi’s old stroller. Little pairs of shoes. Her heart ached as she held each pair and for each pair she remembered when and where she’d bought them. Here was the Sesame Street pair they found in the discount bin at Wal-Mart. Here was the pair Jessi always wore to the playground. This pair? She liked the green shells. Green was her favorite color. And the red pair? Those were the shoes she first velcroed on her own. She insisted
let me do it
and Laura’s days as Super-Mom began their fast decline. Laura told herself the story of each pair and once she let go of the last pair she was breathing heavy. She steadied herself on the lawnmower.
It’s done. There’s nothing else you can do. What are you going to do? What do you think Jessi’s thinking right now? Mom, you’re better than this. Tell yourself that and get up. No one’s going to help you.
Laura’s breathing settled. “Mom. You’re better than this.”
