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Worse than awful! I picture those poor people, brought over here to do the country’s dirty work. And there’s the whole business of what was done to the people who already lived here, whose land was stolen and who were abused and degraded. There were so many terrible things done, with the smallpox-infested blankets and all that. I knew history wasn’t pretty, but I didn’t know the extent of it. I write a passionate paper about the need to learn from the past and make things better for tomorrow, and I turn it in for extra credit. I’m determined to get all A’s.
“Excellent work, Melanie,” my professors tell me. “Good job!” They count on me to know the answers to their questions and to always turn in my work on time. My dedication is rewarded with their praises, written in marker at the bottom of my assignments: “Perfect!” and “Another excellent piece of writing!”
I’m working harder, I realize, than I need to. I only need ninety-two percent for an A, and I’m getting close to a hundred in all my classes. Scott says I should relax a little bit and not put so much pressure on myself. But I like doing my best and impressing my professors. It makes me feel like I have what it takes to be successful.
Christmas
“Now that we’re back in Minnesota,” Scott says in December, “my mom expects us to come for Christmas.”
“Did she invite us?”
“Of course. We’re always invited.”
“Do you think she’s over it?” She hadn’t been very happy with us, the way Scott and I had gotten married in the basement of the justice of the peace’s house.
“Of course she’s over it. Come on, it’ll be good to be around family for Christmas.”
So after I finish up my assignments and turn in my last paper, I dig out the one cookbook I have from my past, a dog-eared Laura Secord that’s just like the one we had when I was growing up, the one we used to pull off the shelf every holiday and special occasion. I turn to the desserts section and scan the recipes: peanut butter cookies, pumpkin pie, fudge, Nanaimo Bars. They’re all associated with memories, and I can almost feel myself surrounded by family and friends again. Nanaimo bars in particular used to be my mom’s favorite, and I remember carrying plates of them over to people’s houses holiday after holiday, year after year.
I write a list of ingredients, make a special trip to the grocery store, and spend hours in the kitchen. When they’re finally ready, I transfer them on to a Christmas plate and hold them on my lap for the whole three hours up to International Falls.
On the edge of town, Scott says that things look the same as always. “This place never changes,” he says. “Stores open and close, but it’s always the same old Falls.”
His mom’s street is ablaze with Christmas lights. Every house has eaves and trees covered, and each has its own little theme going on. One is a Santa and sleigh theme, with mechanical reindeer moving their heads, spread across the front yard. The next is a nativity scene, with a lighted manger and a life-size Joseph and Mary and a sign that says “Jesus is the reason for the season.” The next is a garden of enormous plastic candy canes. Then his mom’s place, which has about two dozen potted Christmas trees, still in their pots, placed around the yard and adorned with hundreds of glittering white lights and dozens of bright red bows. We pull into the driveway and make our way to the door, carrying the tray of bars out in front of us.
Everyone tries one, later, when the stockings have been hung and the food is prepared for tomorrow’s Christmas breakfast. Scott’s mom hands out Tom and Jerry’s mixed drinks and sets a platter of baking on the coffee table. She’s the first to try a Nanaimo bar.
“They’re good,” she says.
Scott tries one next. “They’re really sweet!”
I take a bite. He’s right, they're sweeter than I remember.
Christmas morning is a flurry of activity. More presents have been put out since last night and are now halfway up the tree and piled out at least four feet. My sense of proportion tells me this will take at least four to five hours to get through, so we grab some coffee as Scott’s mom hands us our stockings.
It takes less than an hour. Gifts are coming at us from every direction; thank you’s are being called out all over the place. Wrapping paper and tissue paper and empty boxes are flying around the room.
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