Free Where You Are by J.H. Trumble

She never shops in that store; apparently, she should. The card is signed by both of my aunts and my grandmother.
    For me there’s an emergency roadside kit and two tickets to the Iron Maiden concert at the Pavilion. Metal music is not really my thing, but I love the outdoor amphitheater, and at least it’s not The Beach Boys or Chicago or Jimmy Buffett. It’s that kind of venue. I actually like both gifts, but not nearly as much as the car stereo Mom gave me this morning. I have to install it myself, but I’m cool with that. I don’t look at Mom as I thank everyone.
    Dad doesn’t open his own gifts. They are piled all around him on the couch. Aunt Whitney sits on the floor in front of him, opening them one by one, exclaiming over each like he’s a two-year-old.
    â€œOh, wow, a saint’s bracelet. This is beautiful.” She moves her fingers from square to square as she indentifies the saints thereon and their heavenly assignments. I can feel Mom’s smirk from across the room. When she’s done with muster, Aunt Whitney says to my dad, “Here, let me put it on your arm.”
    Another gift. “Oh, look what Mom got you. This throw looks warm too.” She tosses it over Dad’s lap.
    Grandma tucks it under his leg. “You’ve always loved owls,” she says thoughtfully, “even when you were a little boy.”
    It’s hard for me to imagine my dad as a little boy, or my grandmother as a doting mom.
    There’s a new LSU cap, which Aunt Whitney places on Dad’s head. His face is slack on one side, and when he crooks a weak smile, the look is ghoulish. There’s a marked increase in his sluggishness today, almost a catatonia. Whether it’s the cancer or the morphine, I don’t know. Probably both.
    I can’t watch anymore. I head up to the media room. The cousins are playing Rock Band. I settle onto a couch in the back, behind the captain’s chairs, and pull out my cell phone.
    â€œAre you texting your boyfriend?” Franny asks with a knowing grin. She thinks my being gay is so romantic.
    â€œYeah,” I say.
    Â 
    Andrew
    Â 
    The first text hits my in-box during Christmas dinner. It’s just the three of us—Mom, Dad, and me—so we don’t stand much on ceremony. We’re eating in front of the television, our plates balanced on our laps, doing our traditional Christmas thing—watching It’s a Wonderful Life.
    I fish my phone out of my pocket just as James Stewart crashes his car into a tree during a snowstorm. I don’t recognize the number. I view the text anyway.
    Hey.
    Hmph. I thumb in a reply. Who is this?
    Robert.
    I smile to myself. I’m surprised, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just a little pleased.
    Robert! Merry Christmas, my friend.
    Merry Christmas to you too.
    You caught me right in the middle of turkey and a movie.
    Oh. Sorry. What movie?
    â€œIt’s a Wonderful Life.” Have you had Christmas dinner already?
    Just about to. I’ve never seen the movie. Any good?
    The first 20 times, yes. Now, it’s just kind of habit.
    â€œIs that Maya?” Mom asks.
    â€œNo. It’s a student of mine.” When she doesn’t respond, I look up at her. “His dad is dying of cancer. I think he’s a little traumatized by the whole thing, poor kid.”
    â€œA boy?” she asks. I detect a hint of something in her voice, a slight disapproval, perhaps, but I dismiss it as a figment of my imagination. “Yeah. A senior. He’s one of my AP Calculus kids.”
    I slip my phone back in my pocket and take a bite of stuffing, ignoring the vibration.
    Are you with your family today?
    Yeah. In Oklahoma.
    Oklahoma? Really? Drive or fly?
    Drove.
    Is it cold there?
    So cold the snowman out front is begging me to take him inside.
    So cold Santa had to jumpstart Rudolph?
    When I put on my coat to take out the trash, it wouldn’t go.
    So cold the