Mother's Day At The Orphanage: Stories Without A Home

Cutting Christmas

By Sarah W. Shanok

My mother loves Christmas, but bless her heart, she’s never been very good at gift-giving: books I won’t read, too-tight turtlenecks—she just has a knack for bad knick-knacks. Christmas 2007 is a rare exception; she bestows to me and a serious boyfriend of several years a bounty of housewarming offerings—an ornate cheese plate, a tea set, a doorknocker—to mark our new shared apartment.

We’re broken up before summer ends that year. I’m left stranded, distraught, and stuck living at my parent’s house. Dragging myself from bed every morning I am greeted with soft, patronizing eyes and a weighty, “How are you?” that passes for parental compassion. I am despondent. But in response I assure them that slitting my wrists is not on the agenda that day.

Another Holiday season approaches and I remain emotionally gutted. On Christmas morning, siblings, in-laws, and next-generation kiddos are all in town exchanging presents with traditional glee. I’m looking on in some- what of a stupor and avoiding the gifts altogether, like the round-headed kid from the cartoons: “I know nobody likes me. Why do we have to have a holiday season to emphasize it?”

My mother prods me to open her present, lying at my feet. I reluctantly lift the flimsy white cardboard depart- ment-store box, the kind that usually holds scarves and blouses, and I’m caught off-guard by the weight of its contents sliding back and forth inside. I remove the lid to find a worn and wrinkled white plastic grocery bag, loosely knotted at the top. No tissue paper, no padding, just the bag. If it’s “the thought that counts,” it doesn’t look like much went into this one; but with a grin she begs me to go on and untie the bag. So I do.

I do a double-take—but there they are—a dozen or more mismatched, unsheathed knives! Not packaged in factory-sealed plastic or neatly ordered in a block, but rather, a loose, messy tangle pointing menacingly in every direction. Assorted sizes and styles; shiny and worn; sharp and serrated; long and skinny; short and fat—the tips of their blades catch and tear the plastic bag. Some have black plastic handles, others wooden. A few still bear price tags; some seem used.

“Show everyone!” urges my mother.

I force a smile, replace the lid on the box, and quietly put it aside, but she persists. My father joins in, attracting the attention of the rest of the Olan Mills family. Outnum- bered and defeated I open the box, take out my Christmas present, and hold it out at arm’s length. My brand new bag o’ knives.

There are a few I-don’t-get-its around the room and confusion grows on their faces; I can only shake my head in response. After months of feeling more alone than I have ever felt in my life, my own mother has just sunk me that much further. She may be the gifter, but I’m the one dealing with the disparaging questions in their eyes.

Determined that Christmas is over for the year, I word- lessly fly to my child-turned-adult-hood bedroom, holding back a flood of tears. I can still hear the crinkle and rip of paper packaging, but now my niece wonders aloud: “Wat’s wong wit Aunt Sawa?” I can hear my crestfallen mother reminiscing about how much I loved my domestic gifts the year before.

I decide this room will be my tomb, and I’m regretting not bringing the knives with me. I almost laugh out loud. My mother is a Freudian psychoanalyst; what was she thinking?