How My Neighbor Stole Christmas

“You know, you never truly get over the first pucker of your nips when that mountain air hits you,” I say as I stuff my mittened hands into my jacket pockets while I survey the backdrop of freshly powdered mountains.

Taran, my sister, looks at me from over her shoulder and dramatically rolls her eyes. “It’s thirty-seven degrees—pretty nice for being at an elevation of over ten thousand feet at the beginning of December.”

“Pretty nice?” Good God, this is not pretty nice; this is frigid. “Guess I need to be grateful for global warming then, or else I think my breasts would be two pucks of ice on the ground right now.”

Taran stands tall with two duffel bags in hand. “Global warming is never something to joke about.” With that, she walks up the snow-cleared sidewalk to Aunt Cindy’s pink Victorian house.

In case you didn’t catch it from her tone, Taran is the uptight one of the two of us. Being the older sister has led her to adopt a starchy, prickly, slightly severe personality. She’s always dealing with a crisis, there’s always something to complain about, and nothing ever goes our way in the Taylor family.

Hence the five bags of luggage and trip to Kringletown, Colorado, for the unforeseeable future at the beginning of December.

No, this is not our hometown.

No, this is not the place I’d choose to visit in the wintertime thanks to my body’s affinity for the California climate.

And no, I would not jump at the chance to spend Christmas with my cranky, well-mannered, loves-a-good-lecture sister.

I love her, but she sure knows how to take the J-O-Y out of jolly.

Unfortunately for yours truly, Aunt Cindy had a recent fall—the telltale occurrence of many an octogenarian.

Once a spry sprite, known throughout her small town as the jolliest of them all, Aunt Cindy was on her way to remove a fresh batch of gingerbread cookies out of her oven when she, as she put it, felt a squeeze in her hip, then a seize in her left butt cheek, which in turn caused her to spin, wobble, and then fall to the ground. And because she’s a frail old coot, she had nothing to cushion the blow to the hip, and well…she broke it.

From there, you can imagine what happened. A broken hip to an elderly human is considered a death sentence—according to Aunt Cindy.

So of course, all hell broke loose.

Siren emojis went off in the family group text.

An emergency family meeting was called.

And before I knew it, I was staring at my computer screen, a shot of my father’s nostrils clouded in hair as the main image while he attempted to figure out “this Zoom thing.”

Mom sobbed in a sarong decorated with birds of paradise from her timeshare balcony in Cancún.

Dad consoled her while he wore a straw hat with a sunblock-painted nose.

Taran rapidly jotted down her issues on a notepad, like the good nurse she is.

And I sat back in my oversized, single-lady recliner, braless and snacking on a canister of chocolate-covered raisins I purchased from Costco that day, watching it all unfold.

“Something has to be done. Someone has to take care of her,” Mom squealed about her only living relative.

Did I mention, to me and my sister, she’s Great-Aunt Cindy? But what a freaking mouthful, so we just say Aunt Cindy.

But she means the world to our mom.

She’s the matriarch of a very small family on my mom’s side.Exclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.

And despite the adoration my mom has for this woman who has taken seriously the role of dedicated parent in her life, the Horbachs and the Lindons were just coming into town, and my mother couldn’t possibly leave her tropical paradise, because that would mean missing the pinochle tournament that was about to begin—she and Dad have been practicing and they were going to win it this year.

Which meant…I was brought into the picture.

You know, because even though I have a remote job editing Lovemark Channel movies, I have all the time in the world to tend to an elderly woman who broke her hip.

Now, just between you and me, I do have the time because I’m not currently editing anything—currently on a break with editing, putting me more in watch mode right now, leaning into the Lovemark holiday movie schedule—but they didn’t need to know that.

But it was decided that I, Storee Taylor, was nominated to take care of Aunt Cindy.

And frankly, I have no clue how to take care of an old woman with a bum hip—so probably not a bright move on the family’s part.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to help with the bags?” Taran asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Just getting used to the thin air,” I say and press my hand to my chest. “Oof, hard to breathe. You know, I think I might be experiencing altitude sickness, not sure this is the place for me to be. Perhaps we airlift Aunt Cindy to California.”

Taran whips the pillow I couldn’t live without into my chest and says, “You’re fine,” before picking up the bag of snacks I made her stop to get before driving into the mountains and heading back into the house.

She never truly mastered the art of good bedside manner.

Grumbling under my breath—breath that I swear I can see as I huff along the sidewalk—I make my way up the porch of the familiar Victorian house that we used to visit every Christmas before Mom and Dad purchased their Cancún timeshare—Bosom Bungalow. My mom’s “bosom” buddy owns part of the timeshare as well, and they think it’s a funny name. Ahhh, parents, aren’t they fun?

As I get close to the door, I can practically smell the warm gingerbread and freshly harvested pine—a combination of scents that I associate with one person and one person alone—Aunt Cindy.

Hate to admit it, but even though I’d rather be wrapped up in the comfort of my childhood twin-sized Barbie comforter while talking to my ficus, Alexander, about Lovemark’s lineup for the season, being here— the scents, the scenery, the snow—it’s making me a little—and I mean a little, just the tiniest, minute, so-small-you-can-barely-even-recognize-it bit—warm and fuzzy inside.

And I mean that, because this town and I…we have history.

Sordid history.

Embarrassing history.

The kind of history that has kept me away for ten years.

But my mortifying history doesn’t negate the fact that Aunt Cindy’s house has always provided a sense of comfort during the holiday season.

I’m just about to cross the threshold of the house when Taran buzzes out, a mission to accomplish. This girl is a workhorse, and when her mind is set on something, she doesn’t stop until it’s accomplished.

“If you’re going to stand still, mouth agape, please do it off to the side.” Her shoulder bumps into mine as she moves past me and heads to the car.

Sheesh!

“My mouth wasn’t agape,” I mutter before heading into the foyer of the old, creaky house that I know has been home to Aunt Cindy for longer than I’ve been alive.

This place is Christmas. It’s the pine garland-wrapped staircase and the battery-operated lights in the window. The delicately executed velvet bows strategically placed in every greenery-swathed doorframe. The single piece of mistletoe hanging in the living room leading you to the expertly decorated tree full of matching baubles and bulbs, ribbons, and the golden angel at the top. It’s the hand-crafted green-and-red quilts hanging like tapestries on the walls, the crystal stemware used as candy dishes full of pillow mints that melt on your tongue the moment they enter your mouth. And it’s the exquisitely wrapped presents under the tree decorated in matching paper, bows, and gift tags. Together, it’s a snapshot of my childhood, where Christmas made me believe in miracles, made me believe in magic, and gave me all the warm feelings about the holiday season.

But as I scan the house from the nonexistent entry rug where I’m supposed to dust off my shoes, my eyes fixate on the bare banister, the naked doorframes, the missing stemware—not a pillow mint to be found.

What the hell?

“Seriously, Storee, can you please make yourself helpful?” Taran says as she plops another bag of food on the floor.

“Where’re…where’re the decorations?” I ask.

“What?” Taran asks as she wipes the back of her hand over her brow.

She can’t possibly be sweating. I know she lives in Denver, but these are arctic temperatures we’re dealing with here.

I gesture to the empty space. “There aren’t any Christmas decorations.”

Taran looks over her shoulder and then back at me. “Correct.”

“Um…why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Taran says sarcastically. “Maybe because Aunt Cindy broke her hip, and the last thing she can manage right now is decorating her house so you can feel the Christmas magic the moment you walk in.” Ah, excuse me, Miss Rude.

She blows past me again, back to the clown car to unload God knows what at this point.

“A simple answer of ‘she hasn’t had time’ would have sufficed,” I call after her.

Yikes, she’s ripe.

I tuck my pillow under my arm, take off my shoes, and then head into the living room, the bare and very odd-looking living room.

I’ve never seen it like this before. Normally where the tree would go, there’s a pink Victorian chair in impeccable shape for what I assume is its age. The Happy Days nativity scene, which Aunt Cindy pays homage to every year, is not perched on the fireplace. No stockings hung, no logs by the fire, no cranberry garland draping along with her green damask curtains.

It’s just…plain.

And frankly, it’s scaring me.

I know I joked about a broken hip being a death sentence, but this decidedly barren room is making me feel like I’m visiting a mortuary rather than a place full of the Christmas spirit.

Also, color me confused because I didn’t think she ever took her decorations down. Naïve, perhaps, but this is Kringletown—well, just Kringle if you’re local—the most highly elevated Christmas town in the country. Year-round, instrumental Christmas music plays from speakers strategically placed along the main streets. Light post decorations are only switched out for a different style every month but never stray from the classic red, green, and gold hues of the jolly holiday. Twinkle lights are never taken down, hot chocolate never stops being pumped into visitors, and you can’t walk down the street without being told at least twice that Santa is always watching.

So pardon my confusion in thinking that Christmas decorations remain a fixed aesthetic in the homes as well.

Guess I was wrong.

The front door shuts, and Taran stands in the entryway, hands on her hips.

I turn toward her. “Why is it so quiet in here? Where’s Aunt Cindy?”

“With Martha and Mae at their house.”

“The Bawhovier twins?” I ask, referring to the center of gossip in Kringletown. If you want to know anything—and I mean anything—about the town, Martha and Mae Bawhovier are the people to ask.

They keep notes; I’ve seen them. Stacks and stacks of town gossip disguised as leather-bound books on their bookshelves. One day, when they both die, I have no doubt Kringletown will archive said gossip books in the town library, revealing all of the innermost secrets of those who have lived through a lifetime of holiday festivities.

“Yes, they’ve been watching over Aunt Cindy for us. Were you not paying attention to the emergency family meeting?” Taran asked.

“Kind of blacked out after I was forced to be a caretaker for my foreseeable future.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Says the one who gets to go back to the comfort of their home while I have to sponge bathe an elderly woman who I’ve only seen wear a turtleneck and slacks my entire life,” I reply.

“It should be an honor for you.”

My eyebrows shoot up as I lean forward and whisper, “An honor to see Aunt Cindy naked? What’s wrong with you?”

Taran’s jaw clenches. “An honor to take care of a relative who has provided you with many wonderful memories throughout your young years. This is the circle of life, Storee. They take care of us while we navigate life at a young age, and when they become old and feeble, it’s our turn to repay them.”

God, she’s so…annoyingly right.

“Doesn’t mean I need to be honored to see her naked,” I say with a lift of my chin.

Taran shakes her head and then pushes a large black suitcase forward. It’s not mine.

“What’s that?” I point to the suitcase.

“That’s mine.”

Hope springs forward.

“Wait, are you staying?”

“I don’t think I have a choice in the matter,” she says. “I was going to see how this plays out, but from the few short minutes we’ve been here, I can confidently state that I can’t trust you to take care of Aunt Cindy on your own.”

I clasp my hands together in excitement. “Great, then should I just take off?” I thumb behind me toward the door. “I mean, weird that you brought me all the way here just to tell me that you’re going to take care of everything, but you have demonstrated a flair for the dramatic every now and then.”

“You’re not leaving—we’re doing this together.” She starts carting her large black suitcase up the stairs.

“Um, care to repeat that?” I say while moving toward the stairs to watch my sister manhandle her suitcase, which is three-quarters her size, up the wooden steps.

When she reaches the top, she stares down at me. “Depending on what the hospital says about my request for time off, there might be days that I have to drive back into Denver for a day or two of work. I need you to stay here with Aunt Cindy, but I refuse to let you do this alone, given your inexperience in taking care of anything.”

“Pardon me,” I say with a stomp of my foot. “But do you not recall how I’ve raised Alexander? He’s flourishing. And because Harriot, my neighbor, is taking care of him while I’m here, he will continue to flourish.”

“Comparing our Aunt Cindy to a ficus is not even close to the same thing, Storee.”

I cross my arms over my chest in defiance. “Says the person who bought Alexander a birthday present this year.”

“You asked me to grab some fertilizer when I came out to visit you. I highly disagree with calling that a birthday gift.”

“It was his birthday, and you brought it to him. I see it differently.”

With another roll of her eyes, she pushes her suitcase toward the red room.

“Uh, what are you doing?” I ask, heading up the stairs as quickly as my frozen legs will take me.

“Being productive…unlike you,” she says.

With my pillow still tucked under my arm, I reach the top of the stairs. “You know the red room is mine.”

Taran stands in front of the doorway, her five-foot-seven frame just an inch taller than me, but from the straight set in her spine and staunch attitude, she seems almost like she’s seven feet tall, staring down at me, the oblivious peon.

“The red room is bigger.”

“Well aware, as that’s why I always stayed in it.” I thumb behind me again and add, “That nightmare of a room is yours.”

“Nope, not this time,” she says.

I take a hesitant step forward. “Taran, you know I can’t sleep in there.”

“You’re older now—you’ll be fine.”

“I won’t be,” I say in a panic. “They…they come alive.”

“Oh my God, Storee, seriously, you need to grow up.” She pushes through the door of the red room with her bag while I chase after her, heat enveloping my ears and cheeks.

“I am grown up, and I’m even more hyper aware of what that room has to offer. The nightmares…the exorcism it needs to cleanse the air.”

Taran opens her suitcase and starts unpacking, loading up the provided dresser with her clothes. The red room is a familiar comfort with its red walls, red carpet, red curtains, and red bedding. Every Christmas, Taran and I would share this room, the trundle under the bed an easy pull out for her to sleep on. Originally, the nightmare room was Taran’s, and she was fine with it. Mom and Dad would sleep in the room next to the red room, but once Aunt Cindy turned that into her own personal gym, Taran started sleeping on the trundle in the red room with me while Mom and Dad took…the other room.

“Fine, I’ll just sleep on the trundle,” I say, finding my way around it.

“No, you won’t,” Taran says. “I’m going to be away from Guy for a while, and I promised him I would…keep in touch.”

My nose crinkles in disgust.

Guy is Taran’s boyfriend.

I don’t know much about him, but I can tell you this—I don’t like the way she said “keep in touch” like there was a sexual innuendo attached to it.

“Ew,” I say. “Please tell me you’re not going to be doing dirty things in Aunt Cindy’s house.”

“What I do in my room is my business.”

“Do it in the other room, then. I’m sure you’d appreciate the audience.”

Her eyes snap up to mine. “The Wi-Fi is better in this room, you know that, and given that you’re single and can’t be relied on to take care of our aunt by yourself, therefore uprooting me from my life, I’ll take the comfort I need to make it through the next few weeks.”

“What about my comfort?” I say, pointing to my chest. “Do I not matter?”

She gestures to where I clutch my pillow. “You have your special pillow, so you have all the comfort you need.” With that, she pushes me out of the room and shuts the door on me.

“You’re rude!” I shout, and then turn on my heel like a chastised child. I stare at the door to the other bedroom, my skin already itching from the thought of it.

Perhaps…just perhaps, she redecorated and has turned what was once a hell-on-earth room into a peaceful sanctuary. With scent diffusers o n a white oak dresser, sage bedding draped over a cloud-like mattress, and a Hatch alarm clock on the nightstand peacefully setting the tone for every night…and gracefully waking me up in the morning.

One can only hope.

I close the space between me and the room and then, on a hope and a prayer, open the door, eyes closed.

Please be redecorated.

Please be redecorated.

I peek one eye open only for my hopes and prayers to come to a crashing halt as I go eye to eye with Josefina.

And Felicity.

And Molly.

And Addy.

And Kirsten.

And that perfect bitch, Samantha.

There are multiples of them, all set up in different dioramas. The six “queens” of the American Girl dolls, as Aunt Cindy would say, are all in their original outfits and posed in cases overlooking the floral canopy bed, but the duplicates are spread around strategically, offering a taste of historic opulence from the good ol’ days…and not-so-good ol’ days.

Molly in her velvet Christmas dress, rocking in the corner.

Felicity in her “saves the day” white gown, with a basket of fresh-cut flowers.

Addy acting as the puppet master of her puppy puppet show.

Josefina with her turtle and her piano, playing a ditty for the other girls.

And Samantha…oh, Samantha with the perfect hair, crimson bow, and batting eyelashes. The absolute worst, propped up next to her white fluffy bed and red trunk, looking through her clothes like the princess of the Progressive Era that she is. Sure, she’s an “orphan,” but she lives with h er rich grandmother in upstate New York—compare that to freaking Addy, who had to pick her own birthday date because she didn’t know when it was. Samantha had it good.

But I digress. This room was made for torture.

It was decorated with horror in mind.

It’s a room shrouded in American Girl dolls, accessories, scenes…and they’re all staring at me.

All begging to be touched.

To be rotated.

To have their arms and legs lubricated with innocent child play. But instead of fulfilling their fates as toys, they’ve been set up for a life of boredom as decorations. And I can see the anger in their eyes. They were destined for so much more when they were manufactured, only to be brought to a home where they were to be looked at, not touched.

Treated just the same as a wall sconce, stared at for its beauty but never truly, properly used, these dolls have pent-up energy, deep-rooted depression, and I know for a fact they come alive at night.

And don’t come at me and say I’m being dramatic, because I’m not. I will stand here right now and swear on my left nostril that when I was eleven, one of the dolls winked at me.

Actually winked.

One guess as to which doll it was.

It startled me so badly that I screamed bloody murder, ran down the stairs, and tripped over the Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town rug that’s usually in front of the door, causing me to slide right into the wall and break my wrist.

I still have the pain during cold, wet nights to prove it.

So pardon me for not wanting to sleep in a room that has caused me to nearly lose a wrist.

“Your clothes aren’t going to unpack themselves,” Taran calls from her open door across the hall. “And we need to get this place settled—Martha and Mae are bringing Aunt Cindy back to the house in about an hour.”

I turn toward Taran. “You know, we should really play rock, paper, scissors to see who gets the red room. It would only be fair.” I hold my hand out in position, ready to play. “Best of three?” I ask with hope.

“It’s adorable how delusional you are,” Taran says and then powers down the stairs, picks up the food bags, and heads to the kitchen.

Well, that’s one way to squash the tidings of joy.