Page 1 of Milked for the Holidays

CHAPTER 1

JESSICA

Frigid wind whips about my face, nearly blinding me as I struggle with the trunk. Baubles of all sorts hang off of my arms and shoulders, making me festooned just like a run-down Christmas tree. Heaving a sigh, I blow out my breath, my lips curling into a smile at the steam pouring from my mouth.

After a few more tugs, the rusted hunk of metal pops open, allowing me to deposit my goods. The old trunk heaves and groans and I press down, forcing it to latch. After bobbing up and down a few times, it finally gets the message and stays shut… but for how long?

With a low grunt, I turn around and rest my back against the curve of the trunk and breathe out again. Rounding my lips out into an O, I huff out the air, sending puff balls drifting into the air. How many times did I pretend to have a cigarette when I was younger?

Mom would always chide me, saying ladies don’t smoke. It was my little secret, a game I played whenever she wasn’t looking. But she knew. She always knew.

Glancing up at the waning sun, I squint against the soft flakes as they assault my lashes. For the first time in the last six months, a chuckle bubbles up, rusty at first, but slowly warming into a cheerful sound.

So many memories surround me like a warm hug, almost as if I can feel her arms around me again. Closing my eyes, I picture our snowball fights when I was a kid, milk and cookies for Santa until I was ‘too old for that baby stuff,’ and finally, mugs of hot cocoa as we sat together in companionable silence and watched the snow blanket the earth.

They’re much better than the most recent memories, which continue to plague me every time I go to sleep. Heaving another sigh, I don’t even care to watch as the steam curls up and disappears, the faint tendrils drifting up to the sky. As much as I want to stay outside, to let the chill freeze my skin to match my insides, I have to go home.

Mom’s final wish was for me to never forget the magic of Christmas. It’s not so magical without her, though. And as much as it hurts, I have to face the empty house at some point.

Who knows, maybe I can find a new way to spend the holidays? Not all traditions have to be passed down through family. I can find my own way to celebrate.

Yeah right.

I push myself away from the car and make my way to the driver's seat. At thirty-five with no prospect of a family and not even a hint of a child to pass anything down to—fur-babies excluded—it feels a little late to come up with some new thing. Thankfully, there’s still stuff in the freezer to eat, so I’m not heating up some lonely meal for one. That’s certainly not something I want to make into a tradition.

My heart clenches as I crank the car, praying it actually starts. Pursing my lips, I apply my foot to the gas and pump as I turn the key. The faint whine as it struggles to choke to life fills my ears, while my gut begins to churn.

With all the money going to the funeral and upkeep on the house, a new car is the last thing I can afford right now. At least until the insurance comes in. And even then, I don’t know how far that will stretch after taking care of all the medical expenses looming over me.

My throat threatens to close as images of bills and past due notices flash before my eyes. Hell, I even eat in the dark with candles to save electricity. Resting my head on the steering wheel, I allow a few tears to drip from my eyes and slide down my nose, blurring my vision.

If I can just hold out for a little longer. The most it should take to determine cause of death should be ninety days, but it feels like it’s taking an eternity. But I guess that’s my fault for allowing her to die at home in peace instead of in a hospital.

My phone rings, but I ignore it. No doubt it’s another creditor looking for money I don’t have right now. It might be friends checking in on me, but I don’t want to deal with that just yet, either.

Again, I turn the key and resist the urge to stomp my foot against the gas pedal when it refuses to crank. “Please,” I manage to croak out into the chill. “It’s Christmas. Just… Please.”

Up until this point, I’ve managed to hold myself together. I’d hate to lose it over this hunk of junk that should have been decommissioned years ago. Turning my face, I rest my cheek against the worn leather and breathe in the familiar scent.

Though very faded, I can just barely catch a whiff of her perfume. Granted, it’s overshadowed by the stench of oil and age, but it’s there underneath. Soon, just like the food waiting for me in the freezer, it will be gone. All I’ll have left are these memories and traditions.

Pulling myself back up, I tip my head up to the roof of the car, once more whispering my plea. Whether or not some benevolent being is smiling down at me, or there really is Christmas magic, the car cranks with barely any protest. Relief floods my system as a smile eases across my face.

Perhaps this bodes well for the holiday? Shoving out all thoughts of being alone, I stare out the window as I drive home. All the houses twinkle and sparkle, their decorations outdoing the next neighbor.

When Mom was still healthy, we gave them a run for their money. Every year we plotted out our plan of attack, just as well as any general strategizing for battle. Though there was never an official winner, we always knew it was us.

Cars would stop on the side of the road just to see our wild displays. And on the odd occasion we were late putting things up, people asked. They checked in to make sure we were okay.

It still warms my heart with how many people still flock to my door with goodies and meals, just checking in on me to make sure I’m okay. I’m not, but I can at least put on a good face. It’s what Mom would have wanted.

Pausing at the driveway, I stare up at the bare bones of the house. Not one decoration in sight. Next to me, on either side, my neighbors host all sorts of decorations—Santa, reindeer, snowmen, and even a massive Nativity scene encroaches on my yard, just barely staying on their side of the property line.

They offered to decorate for me, to do something to make it look festive. But I couldn’t do it. It was Mom’s and my thing. No one else could do it like her. No one else could make it magical.

Maybe next year, after the wounds heal a little, I can decorate again. But for now, I just don’t have the heart. That is, if I even decide to stay. I’m still debating selling the house, ridding myself of the pain.

For now, however, I’ll just dream of what it could have been if she was still with me. This year, I’ll make myself content with bringing some holiday magic on the inside. Just enough to warm the place up.