Tis the Damn Season | ✓

fourteen: annie

"Something to do with an allergen in whatever it is that makes Christmas trees smell like Christmas trees," Mom says. She shoves her face into the branches and sniffs deeply. "These ones don't smell."

I frown. "But the house always smells like a Christmas tree at Christmas," I say. The word Christmas is starting to sound funny. "Is this a new allergy?"

Mom laughs. "No, honey. The smell is from a candle."

"Oh my god. My childhood is a lie."

"I don't think you dad or I ever actively lied about his conifer scent allergy," she says, tutting. Then, quietly, to herself, she adds, "Might not have married him if I'd known."

"Jesus, Mom."

"I'm kidding, hon, I'm kidding, obviously." She moves to a different tree, inspecting every branch as though looking for evidence of dropped needles or structural instability. She might as well have a hard hat and a clipboard, the intensity with which she's examining each tree. "It's not like his allergies are a sign that he's incompatible with my favorite time of year, not at all."

"Because they're not," I say slowly.

"He's allergic to gingerbread, too."

I gasp and spin around to face her. "How do I not know this already? He told me he just doesn't like it."

Mom shrugs. "I think he's embarrassed."

"Embarrassed to have an allergy?"

"Two allergies," she points out. "Two very festive allergies. I'd be embarrassed."

"Mom. He can't help it."

There are no more revelations before we find the perfect tree, just over seven feet tall and bushy enough to fill the corner of the room without crowding it, and every branch meets Mom's high standards. We get it netted and into the car with a hand from a tall, broad guy with the dimensions of a Christmas tree himself. He makes Mom and me look like a pair of pathetic little weeds the way he practically foists the tree into the car with one hand. Cooper thinks he's helping, pacing in circles around the car and barking at the tree.

We're home by ten thirty and my hunger kicks in half an hour later, the moment the tree is secured in its stand in the living room. Mom has boxes of ornaments and tinsel and yet more lights, ready to turn the Nordmann fir from a tree into a work of art. Cooper's curled up at the base, his head resting on his front paws. He looks like something out of a saccharine festive commercial, like Santa's about to fall down the chimney and offer him a treat.

"Sustenance first," I say, backing away from it with a sheen of sweat on my forehead from the effort of getting the tree into the house. There are a few needles on the floor from trauma to the branches because between us, Mom and I barely possess the necessary strength to have gotten the tree upright. It was a struggle.

"What're you after?" Mom asks. "I need to go to the store, there's not much food in the house."

"Toast?"

"Sorry, hon, I had the last of the bread this morning."

"I take it that means no bagels either."

"I'm afraid not."

"Cereal?" I ask. She pulls a face. I grunt. "This is unacceptable, Mother, I'm a growing girl."

Mom scoffs "You're thirty."

"Hey! You take that back. I'm twenty-nine!"

"And eight months," she says under her breath, grinning when I catch her eye as I head to the kitchen.