The Good Son by Carolyn Mills (best novels for teenagers .txt) 📕

“It’s not the same,” she sniffed. “It means I have to sit around all by myself on Christmas now. My son too far away to make the effort, my daughter too selfish!”

“Selfish? How is me offering to work on Christmas selfish? I’m doing it so other people can actually spend Christmas with their kids and their wives.”

“Well, maybe I’d like to spend Christmas with one of my kids!”

“I’m not a kid anymore. It’s different and you know it.”

It wasn’t as if I liked the idea of having nothing better to do on the holidays. Besides, Mom wasn’t going to sit around by herself like she claimed. She had plenty of friends who, when they heard she had no one to spend the day with, would promptly invite her to join them. I wasn’t so lucky.

I showed up for my shift on Christmas Day wearing a green sweater, which was my way of being festive. There were only four of us working and no one was particularly happy about being there — including me. To top it off, the weather was crappy: windy, cold, and wet.

Instead of sitting in front of a fireplace drinking eggnog, I was stuck in a building where the cold cement walls only mirrored the dreary atmosphere outside. Grey. Damp. Heavy. Even the stupid bits of tinsel strung up in the lunchroom looked pathetic. George O’Brien, the Super assigned to the Christmas shift was nursing a hangover. He disappeared into his office and we didn’t see him until after lunch when he emerged onto the floor bleary-eyed and rumpled.

“All rested up?” David asked him. “Do we get to take turns having naps today?”

“We can take turns getting fired,” O’Brien said. “Or we can all shut up and get the hell to work.”

David raised his eyebrows at me, but I kept my mouth shut. That was the one thing I was good at: keeping silent.

JANUARY BROUGHT WITH IT MUCH colder temperatures, and every time it snowed, the same people who had been praying for snow in December began complaining. My mother prime among them.

“You can’t keep coming here in the morning to shovel me out,” she said. “I’m going to hire someone. Besides, as soon as you’re gone, the sidewalk just gets covered again. I’ve never seen so much snow!”

“It’s like this every year. And you say the same thing every year.”

“I do not! And there is more snow this year. I heard them talking about it on the radio. We’ve had a record snowfall for January.”

I didn’t mind the record snowfall. There was something immensely satisfying to me about shovelling out a driveway and sidewalk in neat, precise rows. My mind would numb as I lifted shovelful after shovelful of heavy snow, muscles burning in the cold. Often, I kept going, shovelling out the houses on either side of me. Then I’d get in the truck with Champ and head over to do Mom’s.

When I got home from work, depending on how much it had snowed during the day, I would head outside and do it all over again. My one neighbour, an older man who had recently had knee surgery, gave me a bottle of Baileys as a thank you. On many nights, I poured myself a healthy portion, over ice, to enjoy with whatever I’d thrown together for dinner. Usually I took my food to the living room and watched TV while I ate. Mom never let us eat in front of the TV growing up and I still felt a flicker of defiance every time I balanced my plate on my lap and turned my body to face the screen.

When I was done eating, like a good girl, I dutifully carried my dishes to the kitchen and washed them. At the very least, Mom could not find fault with me there. My kitchen was spotless. Then, knowing that I would likely be up early to start shovelling, I made sure not to stay up too late.

Sometimes I went to bed just to escape my own company.

WHEN RICKY ANNOUNCED TO ME that he was going to be a father, I felt nauseous. But since I genuinely liked Erika, for her sake, I tried to be happy. It’s actually strange when you think about it: I’ve liked all of my brother’s wives. At any rate, when Leah was born, like any good sister, I went with Mom to meet the baby. I congratulated my brother with an awkward half-hug and followed him to the living room where his jaundiced daughter was lying in a bassinet by the window. Her yellow skin was dry and wrinkled.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Ricky asked.

I nodded, all the while wondering how he felt about his baby being a girl. Did seeing her cause regret to pool around his heart, giving him the sensation of slowly drowning? Even though I’d tried for years to disconnect any memories of Amy Nessor from my brother, the idea of him having his own little girl seemed wrong to me. I didn’t want to think about it, but I couldn’t ignore the unease that crawled up my spine after seeing Leah for the first time. Ricky looked happy enough, though. Erika, less so. She looked exhausted. Defeated.

Erika started to stand as soon as she saw us, but my mom stopped her with a hand. “No, no. Don’t get up. You just sit tight and relax. Goodness knows you need it.”

“Do you want to hold her?” Ricky asked Mom.

“Oh, can I?”

I excused myself to use the bathroom, then stood in front of the mirror trying to even out my breathing. When I returned to the living room, Mom was sitting beside Erika, with Leah bundled in her arms. She looked so happy, gazing down at her granddaughter, and I couldn’t help but contrast the expression on her face with the one on Erika’s.

The thought struck me then and there that it wouldn’t be long before Ricky