Free Once Upon A Christmas Eve: A Novella by Katie Klein

around and cheating on Mom that divided us, but her cancer—his not knowing what to do or how to act around us after the fact.
    “I know. I’m sorry. I got tied up at The Christmas Room and then my friend Jonathan invited me to spend some time with his family. You remember Stacey Andrews? She’s his aunt.”
    “I remember Stacey. Good family. Nice to meet you, Jonathan,” my dad says, closing the distance between them, shaking his hand.
    “You too, Mr. Hall.”
    “We should, um, go find everyone else?” I say to Jonathan, words emerging as more of a question than a statement. More concerned than confident.
    We stumble upon Sam in the hallway—the two of us nearly the same height; same black hair, though she keeps hers smooth and straight, eyes a lighter shade of blue. “Where were you? I totally thought you were going to bail on me,” she hiss-whispers.
    “You know I wouldn’t leave you and Mom hanging,” I reply. “Anyway, I was at the Andrews’. This is Jonathan.”
    “Hi, Jonathan,” she says. Then, to me: “If I would’ve known you were gathering reinforcements, I would’ve assembled my own army.”
    “She’s not that bad, is she?”
    “I don’t know. I’m kind of avoiding her,” my older sister admits. She looks at Jonathan. “I don’t know how much Livy told you,” she begins.
    “It’s fine. He knows everything. But we can’t ruin this for Mom. It’s just a couple of hours,” I remind her.
    My sister’s arms cross her chest. “Yeah, except she insisted they stay the night .”
    “Oh my God.” I groan, feeling my forehead, searching for signs of fever, a headache, expecting my temples to start pounding at any moment. “You’re kidding me!”
    “I wish.”
    “Jesus,” I mutter. “Okay. Whatever. We can do this. We’ve handled worse.”
    My mom stands on the third rung of our step stool in the kitchen, removing the good china from the cabinet above the refrigerator. “Sam? Livy?” she calls, holding out a plate. “Some help, please?”
    “I can take them.” Amanda sets a glass of red wine on the counter behind her—wine that I’m sure arrived with Dad, since Mom emptied the house of all its alcohol immediately after her diagnosis—as if the two were somehow connected. I’m not sure if the current bottle is a friendly gesture, a peace offering, or something to help Amanda get through this night.
    Mom passes Amanda the plates, one by one. “Sam? Can you wash and dry these for me? I’m not sure the last time we used them, and Livy? Set a place for Jonathan, okay?”
    The contrast between my mother and my dad’s girlfriend is startling. Mom’s thin frame. Scarf hiding her bald head, the patches of dark hair just starting to regrow. Paler than before, face slightly swollen from medication. Amanda’s ivory pantsuit and gold jewelry, blonde hair pulled back into a neat bun at the base of her neck. Together —if such a thing even exists—if not overdressed and uncomfortable in this house.
    “Hi, Olivia,” she says, smiling brightly, baring all of her straight, white teeth. “It’s so good to see you again.”
    I force my own smile. “Yeah. Um, glad you and Dad could make it.”
    There is something behind those perfectly lined eyes that I don’t see until they meet mine for the first time. Something like fear. Uncertainty. As if in her glorified imagination this is as far as the evening went—greeting everyone—and now that this part is over she doesn’t know what to do next.
    “So . . . how was the drive?” I manage to ask.
    “Oh, traffic was unbelievable.”
    “Did you take ninety-five?” Jonathan asks.
    “We did. It was bumper to bumper.”
    “This is my friend, Jonathan. He’s from Hamilton, too,” I explain, sending a lifeline that relaxes her features, washes her in relief—something to have in common with someone else. 
    “Really?”
    “Yeah,” he replies. “I’m at school there, but my family and I aren’t too far outside the city. I