“I decided to just get the flowers from Safeway,” Mom yelled from what I guessed was her bathroom. “That way you could get here sooner.”

I set my bags down in her hall, which was only four-square feet, and smelled cloves and what might improbably be mincemeat.

“Well, I didn’t get here sooner. I was at the florist when you texted.”

Her reply was flush, and I shrugged off my coat and exchanged my boots for slippers, set a gift bag on the couch, and winced at the annual display of garish cheer. The open space kitchen, dining and living rooms were littered with plastic ivy and bright red berries, with tree lights taped around the balcony railing. “Did you bake?”

As I glanced at the scented candle, she shouted, “What?”

I set out the rest of my haul on the counter next to the plastic-sleeved bouquets: bottles of wine, fancy chocolates from the office gift exchange, and the murder mystery game Mom wanted for the party.

“There’s no room in the fridge,” she said in between sprays of hairspray.

I hugged three bottles of white and opened the balcony door, setting them in the snow drift. I dreaded her Christmas party, but of course, I helped her. I helped with everything she claimed to need help with, even though I knew most everything was an excuse to see me. I didn’t mind. On every trip to the mall, every quest for the right birthday card, I tried to make up for what was missing.

As I unwrapped the murder mystery game, my eye caught something strange in the living room. Instead of grandpa’s painting of the Three Sisters, there was a cheap multi-frame collage of my nephew decorating Christmas cookies, icing sugar on his nose.

I just sent her those pictures that morning. I imagined her standing on the couch with a hammer and nails, hurrying to get it up before I arrived. Tonight, one of her friends would ask who the handsome young man was. Mom would make the most of it, inventing stories about the child she’d never met. It was pathetic, in the true pathos sense of the word.

My mind went to last Christmas when she was determined to send gifts to my brother, his wife, and my nephew. I half-admired her gumption after he’d hung up on her that year and every year before that. When her parcels came back “Return to Sender,” we stoically loaded them in my trunk. But outside the Goodwill bin, illuminated by my headlights in the falling snow, I saw the awful contortions of her face as she sobbed, shoving each parcel through the slot.

I shook myself and turned away. We were throwing a party, dammit. I started a holiday CD and tackled the flowers, one of those tasks Mom deemed beyond her. I trimmed back the leaves and cut the stems to different lengths and wondered why she bought pink carnations. Maybe they were on sale. Not exactly a Christmas flower. People tend to think they’re fillers or cheap picks for Mother’s Day, but I’ve always liked them. They smell of cinnamon and have a secret, goddess-like name: dianthus.

She finally appeared with a stack of red napkins and a green tablecloth. I saw her two weeks ago, but it might as well have been a year. She startled me, she was so pale. Maybe it was the blush up to her temples. Her hair, streaked with silver, was in a French twist.

Together, we draped the tablecloth evenly and splayed the napkins.

“Who’s all coming from your singles seniors brigade?”

“The usual girls.” She heaved a stack of plates from the cupboard to the table, “I’m counting on you to explain the game.” She pulled out her step stool.

“Wait, Mom. What do you need?”

“A vase,” she said as if it was obvious.

I handed her the big one from the top cupboard. She took it with both hands and slowly moved it to the counter. I stood high above her, and she seemed tinier, like a true old lady. I guess she was getting older. I was too. Vase filled, I set it by the wine. I cut the broken stems short and arranged them in a candy bowl that I carried to the coffee table.

She pointed at my gift bag on the couch. “What’s that?”

“Take a guess. It’s Christmas.”

“But it’s so fancy.” She disappeared and returned, handed me a shoebox with a cheap bow on top and made me sit on the couch with her to open it.

It was Grandma’s china vase, a bust of a Gibson Girl with earrings that dangled low and had hair swept up under the brim of a non-existent hat. I turned it over in my hands, looking through the hole where the hat would be. The hollow smelled of dead plants and rust and I was suddenly six again, watching Grandma transform my fistful of dandelions into a millinery delight.

“Thank you, Mom. I forgot all about this,” I said, thrilled at the thought of filling it with carnations right there and then, but if I took even one flower from the bunch, the rest would flop over.

Mom said, “I was thinking about who should get what when I die, and I wanted to make sure this went to you. I figured, why wait?”

“What a lovely holiday sentiment.” Of course, I knew I’d get everything in the end. My brother would reject everything from her, sight unseen. “Your turn.”

She carefully unwrapped the many sheets of tissue paper to find the box and touched the small diamond earrings inside with reverence.

“I read somewhere,” I said through my suddenly tight throat. “That women of a certain age should always wear something sparkly, to light up their eyes.”

I felt stupid saying something so trite, but as she put them on, her eyes did sparkle.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” She hugged me longer than usual, then released me. She pointed at the closet, “There are gifts in there for them. I thought you could say they’re from Santa.”

“Of course,” I said in the same off-handed tone and took the bags and the shoebox to her room and out of the party’s way. When I came back, she was still sitting where I left her, staring at her hands.

She said, “I won’t give up, you know.”

“I know,” I said, and hoped that’d be enough to wrap the matter up.

I sat down and focused on adjusting the tipping carnation blossoms. The music switched to “Jingle Bells,” and I checked the clock. Her guests would arrive any minute. There was no point talking about this, just like there was no point in my trying to pass off her gifts as mine. The best I could do was what I always did—take lots of pictures and when no one was watching, give my nephew a hug, and whisper that it was from Grandma.

“Do you think he’ll ever forgive me?” she asked.

Forgive her? Had I forgiven her? I focused on one carnation’s plump green calyx and whorl of petals.

“I don’t know,” I said, and realized the petals weren’t pink. Up close they were white with red streaks.

The doorbell rang and Mom jumped up to greet her guests.

“Just throw your coat on the bed,” she said.

I got to work and pulled out the platters of cold cuts and cheese and filled glasses of red.

“What lovely earrings,” one woman said.

“Thank you. They’re from my daughter.”

I pretended not to hear. I was still hearing her question in my mind. I remembered the white wine was still outside and I stepped onto the balcony in my slippers. I closed the door behind me and took a deep breath. The chill was so crisp, it took me back to that day all those years ago. Me, in my nightie and slippers, at the end of the driveway, impervious to the cold as I begged her—silently or not, I don’t know—as she put the car in reverse, and without one look at me, drove away.

Now, I can believe there was more to what happened than my dad’s version. She probably had good reasons for leaving him. But my brother and me? As I stood on that driveway, I knew that was it. She wasn’t coming back. We weren’t worth staying for.

Snow fell on my lashes, and I blinked away the past. She couldn’t know what it was like without her. The adrenaline that stayed in my veins, keeping house, keeping order, keeping it together. She’d never know. There was no way to say it, and even if I could, what would be the point? I brought two bottles in and noticed Mom was looking at me. I set the bottles down, avoiding her, and rubbed my arms. We’d get through this Christmas like we did every other.

Her friends were studying the rules of the game, declaring how they’d murder each other. The glasses were being refilled, and the chip bowls were half-empty.

“Let’s get this party started,” one woman said, and held up the game as the stereo crooned “Silver Bells”.

“Just a minute.” Mom tapped me on the shoulder and curled her finger for me to follow. She opened the bedroom door where someone was taking a call. There was someone in the bathroom, so she opened the door to the storage closet, the only other space. She pulled the metal chunk of chain to light the bulb overhead, revealing cardboard boxes, rolls of wrapping paper, and an old TV.

“Mom, what the hell are we doing in here?”

She suddenly grabbed my arms, trembling.

“Mom—”

“I’m sorry.” It sounded like she was forcing air through a tight hole.

She held on to me like she’d fall. Her mouth was open in a terrible grimace, and her gums were glistening. She sucked in air like a drowning woman.

“Mom, it’s okay.” I wrapped my arms around her, feeling her tiny, bony shoulders. We stood in the dim light, in the scent of cardboard and dust.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“Please, can you tell him for me? Tell him I’m sorry?”

In the stillness of the closet, my voice filled the air like a bell.

“Yes.”

I didn’t know how, but I would.

We heard voices calling and Mom blew her nose. She gave me a long, hard hug, wiped her eyes, then hurried to rejoin her friends. I stayed in the closet, and rubbed my face, suddenly tired. I couldn’t do it anymore, this back and forth, this perpetual bearing of unwantedness.

The women were shouting over each other to be quiet. The game was about to begin. I turned off every light but one, handed a card to each woman and cleared my throat. “When I turn off this light, the victim will be murdered. When I turn it on, the game begins.”

I turned the light off and then ten seconds later, turned it back on to find Mom on her back on the kitchen floor with her yellow lettuce knife sticking up, wedged in her armpit.

As the game began, I locked myself in the bedroom and dialed.

He picked up.

“I’m bringing someone tomorrow,” I said, and tried to control my voice.

“Who?”

I never brought anyone. I took a breath and felt my heart beating hard in my chest.

“No.”

“Yes. Listen, she said she’s sorry.”

I couldn’t explain the storage closet. I couldn’t promise what the “sorry” covered. I didn’t know and I would never ask. I waited for an answer, debating on what to say next.

“Do it for me,” I said, as if he owed me for all that laundry, all those school lunches, and nights together, silently watching TV.

Then came a faint, “Okay,” and the call ended.

I sat on the bed next to the pile of coats and picked up the shoebox. I took out Grandma’s vase and ran my thumb over the painted cheek. The hollow no longer held a fascination for me.

I took the vase past the slightly drunk women and my still-murdered Mom and set it on the coffee table. I plunged my hand into the candy bowl and created a hat of white and red.