The Christmas Collector

She tried to ignore him throughout dinner, but the squatty monk held Jenna's focus in a fisted grip. He seemed to be mocking her with a half smile curled into round rosy cheeks, his hand resting on the wide shelf of his belly. Traditionally a symbol of self-sacrifice and frugality, he instead radiated sheer overindulgence.

The fact he was a mere saltshaker didn't lessen Jenna Matthews's anxiety. She shifted in her seat, forced down another bite of instant mashed potatoes. She knew without question the Friar Tuck collectible was new to her mother's house. In a brown robe, his hair forming a silver wreath, he stood amid the Thanksgiving dishes as if staking his claim. A matching pepper shaker and sugar bowl flanked him on the dining room table. Candlelight flickered over the trio, casting shadows across the floral vase and oval doily.

New vase. New doily. New condiment holders. All signs that Jenna's mother, Rita, had potentially relapsed.

But the woman gave no other indications. Over their holiday meal of turkey TV dinners—her mom's standard menu, now accustomed to cooking—she was rattling on about a film she had seen with a friend from her days in group therapy. Jenna feared those sessions might now be needed again.

"I just don't know why they insist on doing that." Her mother used a melodramatic tone for emphasis. "It ruins a perfectly good movie, don't you think?"

At the expectant pause, Jenna reviewed the discussion she had caught in disjointed pieces. "What does?"

"When they have those corny endings."

"Oh. Right."

"I swear, I can't recall the last time I saw a romantic comedy with a realistic ending. Some character always has to give an over-the-top speech in front of a reception hall, or even a whole baseball stadium. As if big revelations only come when you're holding a microphone." She puffed a laugh that jostled her hoop earrings. "Honestly. When have you ever seen that happen in real life?"

Forging a smile, Jenna shrugged, and her mother moved on to the next topic: a Thanksgiving conspiracy by US turkey farmers, based on her doubts over the pilgrims' actual supper. From a marketing perspective, Jenna hated to admit, the theory was intriguing enough to contemplate. She tried her best to listen, but her surroundings were of greater concern.

What other new purchases lurked in the shadows? She wrestled down the urge to spring from her chair and tear through the china cabinet on a hunt for more evidence. Perhaps she was overreacting.

Then again, she had witnessed firsthand how quickly a handful of knickknacks could multiply until they packed an entire mantel. A wall of bookshelves. Every drawer and cupboard in the house. And before long, you were drowning in a sea of objects no more satisfying than cotton candy: a temporary filler that, for her mother, eventually gave way to the reality of loss. It was this very emptiness that had devoured most of Jenna's high school years.

"Honey?" her mother said.

"Sorry—what?"

"I was wondering what you wanted for Christmas this year."

"Nothing." The reply came stronger than intended. "I mean...there really isn't anything I need."

"Well, then. I'll just have to get creative." She flashed a smile, accentuating the Mary Kay lipstick she'd worn since the early nineties. Her shimmery eye shadow matched her irises, a deep sea green like Jenna's, and created arcs beneath brown bangs teased to a frizz. Only once had Jenna tried to update her mom's fashion, citing her cowl neck sweater and stirrup pants, like the ones she wore now, as "Goodwill bound." The half joke didn't fly. Her mother had licked her wounds by buying six new bags of useless "stuff."

Of course, that was back in the midst of her mom's grieving, too soon after their family of three became two. Maybe, at last, she would consider a small change.

"I was thinking," Jenna began, gauging her approach, "I should probably get my hair colored in the next few weeks."

"Oh?" her mother said. "Are you going with a different shade?"

"Just getting rid of the gray." Jenna's stylist would faint from joy if Jenna ever agreed to liven up her shaggy brown bob with red or blond highlights, rather than simply disguising her scatterings of early silver. "Why don't you come along? Maybe try taking off a couple inches. You know, you'd look great with short hair."

Her mother's expression perked for a moment, the idea like a sun rising, then just as swiftly setting. She smoothed the ends of her shoulder-length do. "Maybe some other time."

At thirty-one, Jenna knew that answer well. Through decades of asking permission—hosting a slumber party, buying overpriced jeans—the meaning hadn't changed. Maybe some other time equaled No.

Jenna returned to her shriveled, gravy-drenched stuffing. The wall clock ticked slowly away. Every swing of its pendulum echoed against the marred wooden floors.

And from the table, that ceramic friar kept right on staring.