Page 11 of All in for Christmas

I step into the living room and grasp the doorframe.

It’s like sensory overload in here. Christmas music plays through the speakers while the TV runs in the corner, the bright colors of an animated kiddie show bouncing across the screen.

Aww, sweet . That looks like a real wood-burning fireplace with four stockings hanging from the mantel. No. Five. There’s even one for Scout!

A glowing Christmas tree blocks a front window, but I’m sure it provides a cheery view from outdoors.

It’s loaded with shiny lights and homemade ornaments with wrapped presents stacked underneath.

I walk over in a daze and lightly touch the Rudolph ornament Mom gave me.

Locate the snowman on a lower branch, and Santa with the toys across his back near the star at the top.

This is so surreal. How can those ornaments have landed in this reality ?

Then again, I’ve been catapulted here, too. Without much say in the matter.

I stare up at the ten-foot ceilings and plaster molding on the walls.

An old-timey chair rail rings the room with its broad-planked heart pine floors.

This house must be over one hundred years old.

It’s an antique! But with a bungalow feel and a charming ambience.

The glass panes in the windows shimmer, and I get the impression they’re original.

A second window behind a rocker overlooks the postage-stamp-size front yard, and I note the house has got a covered front porch.

Its railing and the entire lawn are coated in white, and more snow drifts from the sky.

I appreciate the tree-lined street and our neighbors’ houses.

They’re older, single-story cottages like this one.

Some have slanted tin roofs. None can be much more than fifteen hundred square feet in size.

And yet, this house has three bedrooms. Our modest master and two kids’ rooms across the hall, one barely big enough for a single bed, a dresser and some toys.

From the dollhouse in the corner, the other room with matching twin beds appears to be Eleanor’s.

A tiny full bath stands on our side of the short hall that leads here, and—though it’s equally small—we’ve got our own separate bathroom in the master.

The living room walls are painted off-white, like the walls in the rest of the house, and framed art prints showcase scenes in deep blues and yellows.

Van Gogh’s “Starry Night,” “Wheatfield with Cypresses,” and stunning “Vase with Twelve Sunflowers” complement the Ceylon blue upholstery and gold-and-navy carpet.

I noted Monet’s “Water Lilies” over our double bed in the master. Dean and I are clearly art fans.

Little kid laughter bubbles in from the kitchen through an open doorframe, as Dean chatters comfortably with Eleanor and Henry.

I don’t see any dining room in view, although I suppose you could squeeze a dining table at one end of this room if you became really determined about it.

You’d have to work around the low-footprint sofa and love seat first. As well as the coffee table and end tables facing the fireplace.

The front door near the rocker leads to the covered front porch. There’s a large welcome mat in front of it saying, “Love Lives Here.” And an entryway table holds a ginger jar lamp and two sets of car keys. A circular, gold-framed mirror with daisy-like petals hangs above the entryway table.

The scent of bacon frying floats toward me, and my stomach rumbles.

I switch off the TV to the right of the fireplace and Christmas music swells, no longer competing with the clamor of the television.

There are speakers on the jam-packed bookshelves framing the hearth, which are stocked with tomes of classic literature and contemporary bestsellers.

A few family photos are scattered around.

Me with my arm around Mom. Dean’s parents with our kids at a waterpark.

Dean with his sister, Jenny, doing something daring like mountain climbing together.

Dean and me with our kids, and Scout, on the deck of someplace sunny.

The ocean tumbles in the background and gulls dart through the sky.

I sigh at the memories I don’t have and investigate the cabinets below the bookshelves.

There are board games and puzzles in one, and kids’ building blocks and connecting toys in the other, stored in mesh bins.

The kitchen is surprisingly large, equal in size to the living room but on its far side, and opposite the bedrooms. Dean grins over his shoulder, cooking pancakes on a sizzling griddle.

“There she is!” He’s awfully handsome standing there in his sweatpants and undershirt, commanding the stove like a pro.

The fact that he hasn’t shaved gives him a sexy unkempt edge.

I think of his role-playing comments and go hot all over.

Santa and Mrs. Claus? Seriously? I wish I knew what that entailed. Beyond the broken thong. Obviously.

Scout bounds around Dean, staying close on his heels but without getting underfoot, miraculously.

I like this domesticated side of Dean, the daddy.

If only I could keep him, but that would mean giving up too much.

My education, my job, my literacy outreach program that’s finally taking off, everything I’ve worked for.

My soul aches. My ability to help Mom through her current medical crisis and in her golden years.

I have to be there for her, like she’s been there for me.

Dean pries two flapjacks loose with his spatula and slides them onto a plate on the counter, which is already piled high. “Almost ready.”

“Great.” I take a sip from my near-empty mug, spotting the coffee pot and sugar bowl on the counter to the left of the kitchen sink and the right of the refrigerator. Naturally, my daily schedule’s not posted there. A stick-figure drawing made in crayon hangs on the fridge instead.

The drawing shows a man and a woman, two kids, and a fluffy white dog.

The awkward childhood lettering above them says “My Family.” The F in “family” is written backward, resembling a flag.

My heart catches in my throat. Eleanor must have drawn this.

It’s darling. A touching family portrait.

A wave of melancholy washes over me, but I push it aside.

Foolish to regret what I’ve never had. How much sense does that make?

Dean takes a pancake from lower in the stack and deposits it in the dog dish on the counter.

“This one’s for you, boy,” he says, and Scout barks eagerly.

Dean places the dog’s dish by the side door, which contains a pet door in its lower panel, guarded by large rubber flaps.

I peer out the window, seeing a short stoop with brick steps and an iron railing, all covered in snow.

There are paw prints going up and down the stairs and trailing toward the drive.

The pup wastes no time in inhaling his pancake and happily licking his chops, then he paces over to the table where Eleanor and Henry sit near the back of the room.

Dean’s poured them both orange juice. Eleanor’s in a regular chair while Henry’s in a booster seat.

Scout situates himself on the floor, stretching out between the kids with his head partway under the table.

Snow pours from the overcast sky in the window behind them, blanketing the picket-fenced backyard and burying a wooden kids’ playset with swings. The wall to their left houses two Cézanne prints: “Still Life with Apples” and “Three Pears,” which perfectly suit the kitchen.

Dean turns off the gas burner and moves the hot griddle aside. “Mind carrying this over to the table?” he asks, holding out the plate loaded with pancakes.

I set my coffee mug on the counter and take the plate from him, happy to be of help.

“Sure.” Their doughy scent fills the room.

“They smell delicious.” I spy the advent calendar suspended from its green ribbon on the wall and nearly drop the pancake plate.

A wave of heat crashes over me, then an icy chill rushes through my veins.

Relative to the refrigerator, it’s hanging in roughly the same place as mine back home.

How is this happening? How, how, how, how?

“It’s great, isn’t it?” Dean asks about the advent calendar. He places syrup and butter on the table as I stand there gawking. “I’m so glad we picked it up at the holiday market last week.”

“Last week,” I say, feeling dazed. “Right.”

“That vendor was very mysterious,” Dean goes on. “A calendar that can predict the future and change lives.” He chuckles and admires his family. “What’s to change here?”

I lift a shoulder and stammer, “Noth-nothing.” Certain things are eerily the same.

Like the star at the top of the felt Christmas tree on the advent calendar, exactly where I placed it last night.

Other items have been added too, emptying all the pockets numbered one to nineteen.

Today’s the twentieth in both places, as far as I can tell.

My heart races. If the other place still exists.

No. I can’t bear to imagine what that means.

I couldn’t have had my entire life wiped out in the blink of an eye.

Or more like, in a solid night of heavy Z s.

I set the pancake plate on the table then go to refill my coffee.

I need all the caffeine I can get this morning.

Dean carries over the crispy-looking bacon on a plate lined with paper towels, joining the kids at the table.

The minute he sits, he slaps his forehead.

“Forgot the silverware. Hon?” He sees me standing by the refrigerator. “Will you grab some?”