I was nineteen years old and living in sin with my boyfriend Peter. Mom was cool with our living arrangement, but Gramma would have had a heart attack. Peter kept surprising me. He had opinions about everything, wanted to know what I thought, and made me laugh—a lot. I’d been putting off getting Peter and Gramma in the same room because I loved them both. And Gramma was one unpredictable woman.
That year’s family Christmas gathering was happening in Santa Paula in my Gramma’s singlewide trailer. When I asked Peter, who was Jewish, to come to my family Christmas, he smiled and said, “Sure.”
“My Gramma’s a superstitious Catholic.” I wanted her to like him so bad. “She can’t know we’re living together.”
“I won’t tell her.” Josh frowned. “At least there can be one grandma in our life. My dad made the mistake of telling my grandma that I was dating you. He didn’t want her having a heart attack, so he told her you were Jewish.”
“Dang. Does she know your dad’s an Atheist?”
“Hardly. He’s more conflict-averse than a chicken in a fox pen.” We laughed.
“I don’t love telling you this, but my Gramma isn’t the cookies and milk Grandma.” When Gramma had met Anders, my last boyfriend, who I’d thought was so great, she’d hated him on sight and refused to ever see him again. She’d been right.
“Oh?”
“When she was eight, she saw the Virgin Mary in the metal mesh bit of the boarding house’s outhouse door. Neighbors lined up for hours to sit inside and pray.” I bit my lower lip.
Peter’s eyebrows rose.
“Then the sun shifted, and the screen went back to being rusty and fly-specked.” I held my breath.
“Well, that’s hard-core,” he grinned. “We visit my aunt for high holy days, but being Jewish doesn’t even get us a Hanukah bush, Dad being an Atheist and all. It’ll be fun to do it with you.”
“It’ll be interesting.” I gave him a long look.
***
My mom and I had always approached Christmas shopping as a financial challenge rather than a celebration of Jesus. We would seek out good enough presents from garage sales or thrift stores. But I always tried harder with Gramma’s gift.
On Christmas morning, Gramma’s cramped living room reeked of gingerbread air freshener. Mom, Peter, and I squished between the curved arms of her orange and brown plaid couch. My uncle and aunt sat at an awkward angle on folding chairs while Gramma had the throne with her rocker.
“So this is the Peter I’ve been hearing about,” Gramma said, fixing suspicious eyes on him. “I understand that your people don’t take Jesus as our Lord and Savior.”
“Gramma, let’s do presents, okay?” I knew Gramma could be distracted like the kids I babysat for. “Peter’s excited about your gift, and he helped me wrap it.” I thought I saw that twinkle in her eye that she got when she shocked people on purpose. I looked at Peter and he was smiling at her as if she’d told him he had great hair. He totally had great hair.
“Not so fast, Miss Lili; I want to know if you’ve gotten a proper job. Last I heard, you were banging on stranger’s doors.” She frowned lightning bolts at my mom. “Ruthie, I couldn’t believe it when you told me about Lili’s dangerous work.”
“Gramma, it’s not dangerous. I’m selling cleaning products in the nicest, biggest houses I’ve ever seen. My Fuller Brush manager gave me the Upper Eastside territory specifically because it’s safe. But he said I could only keep it if my sales were high.”
“Of all the nerve, of course you’d do a proper job.” Guessing when Gramma would change her mind was like rolling dice. She’d make you snort saying her neighbor was as gossipy as a magpie one minute, then bake her a pie in the next. “Did you keep the big house territory?”
“Of course, Gramma. In fact, Peter helped me decide to give you the prize I won in their national sales contest.” I handed her the gift. The floppy gift tag said, “To Gramma, With Love from Lili and Peter.”
Gramma settled back in her rocker with a proud smile and fanned herself. “Did you win the top prize?”
“The tippy-top, Gramma,” I said.
Gramma’s cheeks turned pink. I didn’t tell her I’d won two sets and didn’t know what to do with the other one. She beamed at Peter with her all-is-forgiven smile and patted the shiny green and red striped gift perched on her lap. Curly ribbons flowed onto her house dress like a waterfall.
Gramma carefully unwrapped her gift; she’d be re-using that paper. As a family, we were big on re-using boxes, re-gifting with occasionally hilarious results, and faking each other out with oversized packages hiding small gifts. Once past the paper, the unwrapped box had a picture of a set of knives on it. She probably thought it was just a box with something else in it, like a scarf.
Gramma opened the box and peeled back the concealing tissue paper. Her eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open when she saw the neat row of wood-handled knives. She hoisted herself up awkwardly, spilling the box and sending knives arcing into the orange shag carpet. Hands to her head, red in the face, she cried, “Knives, the gift of pain!” and rushed out of the room.
The rocker swayed and creaked in her wake. I shrugged at Peter and got down on my hands and knees and started picking up knives. I’d always loved her impulsive, I-don’t-care-a-fig-what-anyone-thinks-of-me attitude. But her fickle nature could turn cringeworthy when someone crossed an invisible line with her. Not a rare occurrence.
My mom jumped up. “I’ll be right back.”
I glanced up at Peter and saw his lips pressed together, stopping a laugh. My chest warmed.
The small talk that follows an embarrassing moment hadn’t started yet. Mom breezed back in, and our heads turned to her like December roses to the sun.
Mom said, “Honey, Gramma’s going to give you a penny. Like she’s buying your gift.”
“Why?” I asked.
“If she buys it, the bad luck will pass her by.”
Gramma walked back into the living room with her pocketbook clutched to her chest like a shield. Pulling out her flower-patterned change purse, she dug out a penny. She pressed it into my hand like a St. Christopher medal. Patting my cheek, nodding at Peter, she said, “Thank you, dears.”
“You’re welcome.” I didn’t know what else to say. Peter squeezed my hand.
Later, she hugged me and whispered, “Never give sharp objects as a gift, dear.”
“What about the music box you and Grampa gave me when I was eight? One of the legs scraped me bloody.”
“That’s different, dear, that’s the gift of music,” Gramma said, giving me her you-should-know-better face.
Five years later, I had an ugly leather wallet I needed to re-gift. Peter agreed; it had to go. That time, Gramma shouted, “The gift of moneylenders.” My mom looked uncomfortable and glanced at my frowny-faced aunt. Oops, re-gifting gone wrong, times two.
Ten years later, I was happily married to Peter and a full-time jeweler. I figured out the best Christmas gift ever. Since Gramma thought piercing your ears was body mutilation, she had a jewelry box filled with single earrings waiting for their mate to show up. I’d located good-and-grippy clip-backs for earrings, and I custom-made her a pair of beautiful gold, clip-on, pearl earrings.
Turned out I was a slow learner. When she jumped up that Christmas, it was “Pearls, the gift of tears.”
INSTANT NOODLES 