December 24th - Christmas Eve
My grandparents' house was an old wooden building with a garden full of pine trees and a fireplace my grandfather lit every night even when it wasn't cold. My grandmother Margie greeted me with a hug that lasted a full minute, and my grandfather Frank patted me on the back and said I was taller than last time, that if I kept this up, he'd have to widen the doorframes.
Dinner was like every dinner at my grandparents' house: too much food, too many questions, too many stories about relatives I barely knew. My little cousins ran around the living room, my uncles argued about politics, and my grandmother served the turkey with a solemnity that deserved an orchestra in the background.
I sat at the table with my phone hidden under the tablecloth, waiting for it to vibrate.
At nine o'clock, the message finally came: "My mom put up the tree. Haley says it's hideous. Luke wants to put up a paper star he made at school. Manny came with a poem about baby Jesus. It's a disaster. As always."
I smiled. I replied: "And what did you do?"
Alex: "Watched. As always. My dad tried to play a Christmas carol on the guitar. He was out of tune three times. My mom said next Christmas she's hiring a professional choir. My grandfather Jay laughed. Gloria hit him."
Me: "Sounds like a normal Christmas."
Alex: "It's a normal Christmas. Just missing something."
Me: "What?"
Alex: "I don't know. A person."
I didn't know how to respond. My fingers stayed on the keyboard, waiting for the words to come on their own. But they didn't.
My grandmother called from the kitchen. "Leo, come help with dessert."
I put the phone away and went to the kitchen. But all night, while cutting bread pudding and serving hot chocolate, my mind stayed in the Dunphy house, with the tree and the paper star, with the out-of-tune guitar, with Alex sitting in a corner, watching.
December 25th - Christmas Day
In the morning, my grandmother woke us with the smell of freshly baked bread and the promise of presents under the tree. My cousins opened their packages with screams of joy, my uncles exchanged ties and books, and my grandparents gave me a hand-knitted sweater my grandmother had been making since September.
"It's so you don't get cold in Los Angeles," she said, with a smile that didn't hide her pride.
"It doesn't get cold in Los Angeles, Grandma."
"Still. Just in case."
I put on the sweater. It was too big, but I wasn't going to say anything. My grandmother looked at me, and in her eyes I saw that tenderness and affection, like I was a small, cute puppy or baby.
"I love you, grandson," she said.
"I love you too, Grandma."
And at that moment, the phone vibrated.
Alex: "My dad gave me an electron microscope. He said it was so I could study marine biology. I told him electron microscopes can't be used to observe living organisms. He got sad. Then he gave me a book of poetry. I liked that one."
Me: "What poetry?"
Alex: "An anthology. There's a poem about distance. It talks about two people who are far apart but see each other the same, as if distance didn't exist."
Me: "And does it?"
Alex: "I don't know. You're in Oregon, and I still see you."
Me: "How do you see me?"
Alex: "With my eyes closed. It's easier that way."
I put the phone away. My cousins were still opening presents, my uncles still arguing, my grandmother still serving hot chocolate. But I was already somewhere else.
December 26th - The Punishment
The message came in the afternoon, while we were watching a movie in the living room. Alex: "I got my phone taken away for three days."
Me: "What did you do?"
Alex: "I don't know. The sofa caught on fire, and they thought it was a cigarette. They kept us hostage yesterday for observation. I ended up taking the blame. But in the end, we had Christmas, and we saw that the sofa caught fire from the sunlight reflecting off a decoration. That reaction already happened. Still, they're punishing me for lying."
Me: "That's it?"
Alex: "I also told her Haley was going to go bald if she kept using so much hairspray. That was Haley's own line, but I agreed with it."
Me: "Three days without a phone. How will I hear from you?"
Alex: "You won't. Until they give it back."
Me: "What if something happens?"
Alex: "Nothing's going to happen. It's just Christmas. And my family."
Me: "That's what worries me."
Alex: "I'll be fine. You too."
She didn't respond again. I knew her mom had taken her phone. I sat with the dark screen in my hand, feeling the weight of the days to come without news.
December 27th - The Gift
I spent the whole day thinking.
In the morning, I helped my grandfather fix the garage door. In the afternoon, I played chess with my older cousin. At night, I watched the rain fall on the garden, while my grandmother knitted another sweater and my mother read a magazine.
But my mind wasn't there. It was in the Dunphy house, in Alex's room, at her desk full of books and equations, in the box where she kept her poems.
And then, I had an idea.
"Grandma," I said, going into the kitchen where she was making tea. "Do you still have the recipe for the gingerbread cookies you used to make when I was little?"
"The star ones? Of course I do. Why?"
"Because I want to make them for some friends."
My grandmother looked at me. In her eyes I saw knowledge, a perceptiveness I hadn't expected. And a smile that didn't need words.
"Is it for a girl?" she asked.
"It's for a friend. And her family."
"Ah." She nodded, as if that explained everything. "Then we're going to make the best gingerbread cookies you've ever made in your life."
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Alex was grounded without her phone. Three days without hearing from her. Leo couldn't stop thinking.
And then, in his grandmother's kitchen, with flour on his hands and icing on his fingers, he had an idea.
"Is it for a girl?" his grandmother asked.
"It's for a friend. And her family."
"Ah." She nodded. "Then we're going to make the best gingerbread cookies of your life."
Did you expect Grandma to hit the nail on the head when Leo wanted to bake and it was for a girl? 🍪👵💕
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