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“I have my own Christmas tradition. It’s like the twelve days of Christmas, but it’s one day with twelve bottles of wine.”
The truth could only slip out because she trusted David and Patrick not to linger on it. David knew by now where not to touch. Patrick was learning, although his initial deer-in-the-headlights eyes from behind the counter made her thankful for David’s silencing glare. Twelve bottles of wine was, of course, an inhuman amount for anyone to drink in a day, but the point was that she couldn’t remember the last time she was sober for any part of Christmas Day. Usually she would have gotten started by now – mid-afternoon on Christmas Eve – but Johnny had roped her into his last minute holiday party preparations, and she just couldn’t bring herself to say no to the man.
The expectation of fanfare reminded her of the way her mother used to clip holiday spreads from catalogues starting in mid-November. Every year she made plans upon plans for the big day, with ideas of homemade alternatives for all the things she couldn’t afford, and a desperate need to hear her daughter’s enthusiasm for her ideas. Stevie learned quickly that these plans never came to fruition, though, because any moment that her mother wasn’t at work, she was bone-deep exhausted, high, or both. The closer the 25th got, the more stressed out she became, until finally, somewhere around T-3 days until Christmas, her mother would break, shouting that she gave up, that the world always expected too much of her, and that unless Stevie could help out for once, the two of them would never have anything nice.
Fine. Stevie would buy all the ingredients for dinner, and wrap some dollar store trinkets up for the both of them, and decorate their old plastic tree. On Christmas Day, her mother would ask, over and over again if she was having a nice time. Even back then, she couldn’t fake sincerity, so her repeated nods and forced smiles would inevitably cause her mother to retreat upstairs early, leaving Stevie bearing the weight of her mother’s unhappiness on her shoulders.
So, Stevie and the holidays did not mix.
The annual urge to press skip over the last two weeks of December was strong. While the rest of the world decked itself out in colourful lights and infinite versions of the same ten songs, attending a myriad of costly gatherings with people they loved to varying degrees, Stevie’s urge to hermit intensified. A grey cloud settled over her like clockwork, and some days it felt so thick she could barely look the cashier at Brebner’s in the eye. Really, it was ideal if people just didn’t acknowledge her again until January, but this year it seemed the Roses had other plans; they were nothing if not a constant thorn in her side.
She drove back to the motel with the two flats of wine next to her in the front seat and David’s directive to dig Maureen’s old decorations out of the attic. She knew there wouldn’t be much, but even as she ripped the duct tape off the sides of the box to reveal a few tangled strings of Mardi Gras beads and a fading plastic pumpkin, she felt the wisps of crushing pressure to make the perfect day out of nothing. To fix the life she knew her mom hated. She closed her eyes, running the beads through her fingers, thinking.
Returning to those feelings was not an option. She had spent all of her adult life burying them, dulling the sharp edges that used to scratch endlessly at her nervous system. She couldn’t go back, not even for Johnny, who was starting to feel more and more like a father to her with each passing day. So instead, she allowed herself to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, and hand the box to the Roses unaltered with a shrug of her shoulders and a satisfying “I told you so” to David.
Later that evening, when Johnny stormed out, Stevie’s heart was pounding, but she couldn’t ignore the relief she felt that for once, she was not the sole person left in the room.
Stevie took a backseat role as the party came together for real this time, citing her inability to discern the exact aesthetic the Roses wanted as her reason for avoiding any decision making. A strange warmth sprouted in her chest as she sat on the carpet, hot-gluing each branch of the broken tree back together, with David, Alexis, Patrick, and Moira working steadily around her. Things came together, and when other guests began to trickle in, Moira slipped away to retrieve Johnny.
As she glued the final branch to the bottom of the tree, a wine glass was pushed into her hand, and David offered her a hand to stand up. “The tree looks good,” he said. “Thank you.”
Stevie raised her glass in acknowledgement.
Johnny arrived, and as the Jazzagals began to sing, Stevie shuffled into a spot next to David and Patrick, gripping her wine glass as the scene unfolded around her. She had never been to a holiday gathering with so many people. She could feel her grey cloud cutting her off, making her feel like a stranger in the crowd, despite being able to see every single person she cared about in one room.
Moira had her arm around her husband. Johnny was smiling, his crows feet practically trailing off his face, eyes scanning the room over and over again like he couldn’t truly believe what he was seeing. David was curled around Patrick, his chin resting on his shoulder, their whispered conversation indiscernible over the singing. Stevie sipped her wine, the smooth voices of the Jazzagals washing over her, her eyes pooling with tears she didn’t understand.
Everything was okay. There was so much love in the room she felt like it might reach out and strangle her. She felt loved, and she felt alone. She wanted to stay here with her family, and she wanted to go home alone and open the first of her twelve bottles of wine.
“Are you crying?” said David, shifting his head towards her without untangling himself from Patrick. “Because it looks like you’re crying.”
“We ran out of red,” she murmured, fervently blinking back tears.
“Mmm,” said David, like he was delighted to mock her lapse in stoicism.
David’s teasing, though grounding, didn’t stop her from feeling trapped in the middle of her sudden tornado of mixed emotions. She allowed herself to slip away into her head, just for a moment, willing the tears to dry.
She almost jumped when a firm hand rested on her shoulder, pulling her back into the present. Patrick was gone; it was just David, squeezing her gently and gesturing towards his own room across the way. He pulled a joint from his pocket. “Let’s take a break.”
By the time the Roses held their first big holiday party after moving out of Schitt’s Creek, the holidays felt, on-average, less prickly to Stevie. Sure, the grey cloud inevitably returned sometime in mid-December, but she was learning to work through it. The Roses always invited her to their celebration at the motel, and it felt comforting to be in the presence of her loved ones who were still so dysfunctional in so many ways. It was the comfort of an imperfect holiday without any pain behind the imperfections – at least for her.
Stevie had been slightly surprised, at first, when David called her up to ask about booking flights to LA. “Why am I going to LA?”
“Mom and Dad’s holiday party, obviously.”
“When is that happening? I didn’t get an invite.”
“Yeah sorry, I think my Dad’s secretary is on leave or something. But you’re coming. We might as well book flights together.”
“Do I have a choice?” she asked. It was mostly a joke. She hadn’t seen the Rose’s new place yet, and with a party this big, she wouldn’t have to do anything but show up. Plus, despite the near-daily work related calls, Stevie couldn’t deny that she missed them – Johnny especially.
“What do you mean? You don’t want to come?” said David, and she couldn’t help but notice an unexpected note of panic in his voice.
“I’m kidding. Relax.”
“Okay thank god,” said David. “It’s just… Patrick’s not coming. Or he is, later, but someone has to keep the store open till the 24th, and we promised Louise time off, so he’ll have to miss the party.”
Stevie hummed. David had often talked about the lavishness of his parents’ parties, in a tone reminiscent of better days. But over the years as their friendship morphed into something inseparable, David began to share some of his struggles – hesitantly, at first – from that time period. At this point, Stevie doubted whether any of those parties had ever been fun for him at all. He was dripping with money and privilege, but he couldn’t seem to escape an endless pattern of bad relationships, nor could he wrap his hands around any of the significant mental health issues simmering beneath the surface.
It made sense that he wasn’t itching to jump back in.
“Let’s fly out the 22nd. Check your texts. I found a good deal,” said David.
The party was bustling. A floor to ceiling silver tree drew attention in the great hall of the Rose’s new house, and music flowed through the hallways from what sounded like a live pianist. Stevie and David hung their coats in the giant hall closet, and wandered through the house, no one Stevie recognized in sight.
“Where are you parents?”
“Um. They’re here somewhere, probably. And Alexis is usually late to these things.”
Stevie spotted the bar and decided for both of them that that would be their destination, David apparently void of any better ideas. They sat on bar stools and ordered their drinks, Stevie marvelling at the sheer size of everything around them. She knew for a fact that this place was smaller than their last, but it still blew her mind.
It shocked her how out of place David looked. He was sipping his drink absently, biting his lip hard in between, and his eyes were flickering in all directions like he was looking for something.
“You good?” nudged Stevie.
“Mmmm,” was his only reply.
Stevie was intrigued by the party. It was fun, the idea of a big gathering where she could basically be anonymous, have a few drinks, and actually enjoy the holidays without any strings attached. But David looked more agitated now than he had the time Patrick’s phone died on him during a six hour hike. “We could just find your parents and duck out, you know. It’s not like we won’t see them tomorrow.”
“I can’t do this,” said David, running his fingers through the sides of his perfectly coifed hair. “I can’t do this, I can’t...”
At this point Stevie couldn’t tell if he was talking to her or himself, but everything about his demeanour was starting to make her nervous. She reached out for his arm. “Come on, let’s take a break.”
To her relief, he slid wordlessly off the stool, linking his arm in hers and following her to the front hall, where they both found their jackets and slipped outside. The party became a muffled, distant sound as they walked across the lawn towards the gardens.
“It’s okay if it’s hard to come back to this,” said Stevie.
“I knew this was going to happen.”
“It’s okay.”
“The only reason I managed these parties before was because of the pills,” said David. “But, um. I don't do that anymore.”
Oh. “Well. I have this,” she said, pulling out the joint in her pocket. She knew David probably had one on him, too, but… well, it was their tradition to share.
“God yes,” said David, taking it and her lighter from her. "That, I can do." They passed it back and forth, the tension letting up between his eyebrows with each drag.
They walked along the landscaped paths, arms still linked. She and David fit so well together because on some level, they both understood each others’ prickly resistance to life. It felt strange for Stevie to be on the other side of the holidays, where she wasn’t the one who was a mess this time. At the same time, she often felt like David had surpassed her in terms of general competence in life. She quietly admitted to herself that it was very comforting to see that David hadn’t fully healed, either.
Stevie sat in a plush armchair in the Brewer’s living room, gaze lost in the flickering fire, pointedly ignoring the stocking on the far right side of the mantle with her name embroidered on it. Her hands were wrapped around a steaming mug of cocoa, and soft holiday jazz played in the background behind the murmur of voices. They had just finished Christmas Eve lunch (which apparently was a thing) and were chattering while waiting for Patrick’s extended family to arrive. David and Patrick were deep in conversation about the store, which Stevie was thankful for, because it meant Marcy and Clint weren’t talking to her.
She had never felt so welcomed in her life. Marcy had hugged her as soon as she arrived, and asked her about everything in her life like Stevie was her own child. David had warned her on the long drive over that it would be like that. What she didn’t understand was how he had grown into it so seamlessly. He accepted their love in a way that seemed like he’d been doing it for years, and so while Stevie had thought she might have a partner in feeling like an outsider, she was sorely mistaken.
David and Patrick were Stevie’s family. She had a room at their cottage, and seamlessly fit into their lives. But they weren’t touchy like this, at least not all the time, and it had taken years for them to get to where they were. And, well – they took care of each other, sure, but not in a parenting sort of way.
It wasn’t that Stevie hated being cared for this way. It felt warm and fuzzy, when she let it, in a way that wasn’t terribly familiar to her. But that was exactly the problem; she didn’t know how to react to it, and being at the Brewer’s was a constant stream of having to react to the unfamiliar.
Stevie took the last sip of her cocoa and stood up to rinse her mug out in the sink, welcoming the break from people. Immediately, Marcy stood up. “Let me grab that for you, dear,” she said, taking it and leaving behind the conversation. Stevie plopped back down into the chair, feeling trapped. She chewed her lip, reaching for another excuse to slip out and maybe grab a glass of wine.
Her own tradition felt achingly appealing at that moment.
She went to the bathroom instead, hoping she'd be gone just long enough for Marcy to clear out of the kitchen. She washed her hands twice, staring deep into her own eyes in the mirror, trying to pull herself out of her head, away from her suffocating cloud.
When she finally opened the door, David was leaning against the wall scrolling on his phone. He looked up immediately. “You okay?”
She rolled her eyes. “Do you normally stalk people outside of bathrooms?”
“What makes you think I’m not in line?”
“Well by all means then,” she said, moving out of the way. Predictably, he stayed put, folding his arms. Maybe Marcy’s hovering was rubbing off on him. It felt less suffocating when he did it, though.
“You looked like you needed a break.”
“I need wine. I’m hoping the kitchen is clear.” She started in that direction, David’s footsteps following behind her. It was blissfully empty. She corked a bottle and grabbed a wine glass out of the cupboard, filling it precariously close to the rim.
“It gets easier,” said David. "First year I was here, I had to convince Marcy to change the ambience music to jazz. She had carols playing 24/7," he shuddered. He watched as she leaned against the counter, continuing to sip her wine. “I went for a lot of walks. Picked off most of my cuticles while I was sitting around here. Even had a panic attack the one time Patrick was out with Clint. I was alone in Patrick’s childhood bedroom, and Marcy found me.”
“Sounds like the opposite of helpful…”
David shrugged. “She’s actually really good with that sort of thing. And she means well.”
“I know she does.”
“I know you know. And I also know how it feels right now.”
“Maybe I’m not cut out for this,” said Stevie softly. “I think I’m killing the buzz.”
“Well, your energy is a lot. But no one is judging you. Trust me, they dealt with me and I'm still invited back.”
“You’re married to Patrick.”
“And?” said David. “You’re basically married to us. In a platonic whatever sort of way.”
Stevie smiled despite herself. Somehow, she’d ended up with this goofy man and his golden-retriever husband who refused to let her go. While the Brewer’s were more akin to the family she’d fantasized about having as a child, she’d had no idea that this was exactly what she needed.
“Anyway,” said David, handing her a joint, “despite my marvelous evolution into a loving family man, I also need the occasional break from this." He gestured liberally at the space around them. "So bring your wine; we'll sit on the porch.”