The Christmas Pic

16. Jo

CHAPTER 16

JO

I’ll admit it: I’m secretly relieved that Emma and Max had to rush off on their charitable donation errand. Their absence spares me from any more of their expressive silent judgments about my latest (frankly indefensible) off-script turn of events.

As I park the freezing cold truck in my mother’s driveway, I peek at Ava in the passenger seat. She’s back in her pantsuit but with the reindeer sweater pulled over the top. After letting her hair down during our shoot, she’s tied it back in a messy bun. She notices me staring at her.

“Is this what you’re showing me? Suburbia? I’ve seen it on television, you know.”

I unlock the truck doors and we step out. There’s a light flurry of snow coming down, landing on both of our lashes. “Suburbia with a you-look-starving heaping portion of overbearing Midwestern mom.”

“Also as seen on TV.”

“Not like this.” I hold my arms out. “The Fisher estate!”

Please don’t ask me why I brought you home to my family. I’m not sure I have a good enough reason without some serious internal reckoning.

Maybe the good karma of Ava’s earlier sweater donation rubbed off on me. In spite of this golden opportunity to question my actions, Ava doesn’t bat an eye.

That said, her lack of interrogation leaves dead air, which I brilliantly fill with, “Pasties.”

“Sorry?”

“Pasties. My mom is making Pasties tonight. It’s a Michigan thing. They’re… transcendent. Figured you could use a home cooked meal?” I’m aware I’m asking it as a question. Please save me from myself, Ava Garcia-Greene.

“Pasties,” she ponders, like she’s tasting the word itself. “Okay then.”

In the same second as she flings open the door, my mother has already embraced Ava’s slight frame in a crushing hug. I gave Carol approximately fifteen minutes’ lead time, texting her that we’d have a dinner guest moments after my impulsive pitch to Ava, but you’d never know because she’s acting like Ava has just returned home from war.

My mom’s intensity can drive me up a wall, but hearing Ava had no idea who to send her Christmas card to pierced me like an arrow labeled Carol Fisher . Ava could benefit from that same level of overwhelming care and concern that I often find suffocating.

Carol takes a step back from hugging Ava, still clasping her upper arms. “I’m Carol, Jo’s mom. Welcome to our home! And Merry Christmas Month!”

“Ava Gar–Ava. Thank you for having me, Carol.” Is she… nervous?

My mom ushers us into the living room, where Lena and Matt are seated on one of the sofas. Lena has her swollen feet up in Matt’s lap and he’s giving her a massage. She waves to us.

Ava and I sit on the couch opposite them while my mom bustles around the kitchen .

“I’d get up but then I’d start panting again. I’m Lena, my footman is Matt.”

Matt gives a friendly grunt, then goes back to the task at hand.

“Hot chocolates!” Carol bursts back in, handing the first steaming mug to Ava before plopping a mega-mallow in.

“Thank you.” Ava goes to take a sip and before I, a Fisher hot chocolate veteran, can warn her that the water boils hotter in this household, she’s burnt her mouth. She winces, then catches herself and plasters on a brave smile for the family.

I nudge her with my knee. “It’s basically a rite of passage to start Christmas in this home with a scorched tongue.”

Ava relaxes a little.

My mom chortles. “Jolene is telling the truth! It still happens to me half the time. That electric kettle was a wedding gift and I swear it has some 1980s cocaine in its little engine, the darn thing heats up so fast!” A beeping sounds from the kitchen and she bounds away. “Got to check on the pasties!”

Lena snickers. “Speaking of cocaine in the engine, may I present our mother, Carol Fisher?”

Ava laughs, and settles back into the couch, blowing on her mug diligently.

“So Ava, how do you know Jo?” my sister asks.

Ava silently gives me the floor.

“She’s consulting on The Photo Truck. Whipping us into shape for the holidays.”

Lena’s surprised. “You can afford that?”

“It’s pro bono,” Ava interjects.

Matt’s head pops up. “From U2?”

“No, my love.” Lena wiggles her feet at him. She studies Ava. “Well, that sounds very generous of you. Jo could use the help.”

I try not to let my sibling's words sting, but defensiveness quickly swells within me. If you knew I needed help keeping Dad's legacy alive, why haven't you stepped up? I recognize it's not fair to think this way. She doesn't owe me her time and energy because I've chosen to shoulder this burdensome business–a business that can barely sustain itself, yet is inseparably tied to my sense of self and my connection to our late father.

“I’m actually learning a lot from Jo in return,” Ava tells Lena. “I do a bit of work in the photography industry and I get a lot out of seeing talented creatives in the zone.”

Color me flabbergasted. Did Ava compliment me of her own free will, and lightly come to my defense with my sister? Before I have time to relish this utopic Twilight Zone we’ve entered, my sister’s husband emerges from his own zone, the Lena’s-feet-zone, because he suddenly blurts out:

“Wait. Ava as in the Ava Garcia-Greene?”

Ava freezes, and I watch as her entire demeanor transforms in a split second. It's as though she tightens from within, instantly sitting straighter. “That would be me.”

Matt rises from the couch and walks over, shaking his head in awe. As he gets closer, his glazed red eyes make it clear why he’s been so slow on the uptake this evening.

He extends his hand, but fortunately, Lena intercepts with a quick, "Honey, that's a foot-hand."

Nevertheless, he towers awkwardly right in front of Ava, mesmerized. “Dude. You’re like, a mega super celeb.”

She’s not as smug as I would have expected. “Oh, thank you.”

Lena looks at me curiously, mouthing Gramsta? as I nod. She leans back, impressed. Matt rejoins her.

My mom reenters at that moment, taking in the vibe shift. “Did I miss something?”

I open my mouth, feeling weirdly protective of whatever fleeting anonymity Ava just had yanked away from her, but Ava intercepts. She turns toward my mom with a poised smile.

“I'm helping Jo with her business and Matt recognized me from my role at Gramsta. ”

A mix of confusion and curiosity plays across my mother’s features. “Well, I never heard of a Gramsta, but I’m glad you’re helping Jo.”

“It’s a company where I have a bit of a public role,” Ava explains.

“That’s wonderful,” my mom replies warmly, her gaze shifting back and forth between us. “Anyone who helps my Jo is a friend of mine.” She clasps her hands. “Well, follow me to the dining room, little chickens! Pasties are on the table.”

We spend dinner laughing and talking and feasting on my mother’s impeccable cooking. I occasionally catch Matt slipping stoned philosophical questions about the nature of celebrity to Ava between bites, but the focus of the evening is my mom. She captivates us with a rollicking story about juggling drag queen drama while producing the community theater's nativity play twenty years ago. Ava is more at ease than I've ever seen her.

After dinner, Matt lights up a joint–and the living room fireplace–while Lena pours us thimbles of sherry, a winter evening tradition passed down from my great-grandma Beth.

Ava sits beside me, sipping her sherry, her skin a bit flushed, either from the fire or the alcohol, or both. “Thank you so much for the delicious meal, Carol. I haven’t eaten home cooking in… Lord knows how long.”

My mother beams with pride. “My pleasure, dear. You’ve got a lovely way about you. You’re welcome here anytime.”

“Th-thank you.” I can tell she’s searching for something to take the attention off of herself. She spots a framed photo atop a cabinet and walks over to it, picking it up. My mom goes with her.

“Mm,” Carol remarks, “That would be the day Roger bought the truck. I thought he was being a damn fool. ”

Ava traces the photo through the glass. “Chrissy used to be a milk truck?”

My mom laughs. “At the time, I thought Chrissy should stay a milk truck.” She’s lost in thought for a moment, then crouches down to open the sliding door of the cabinet. She pulls out a thick leather-bound photo album and brings it over to the couch. Ava sits back down with us.

Mom turns to the first page, where there’s a second print of that framed photo, and a few other shots from Chrissy’s early days–shots of my dad hanging drywall and hardwiring the back of the truck for the studio.

Ava studies the album as my mom flips through the pages.

“How did Roger come up with The Photo Truck?” she asks.

“Roger always dreamed of becoming a photographer,” my mom begins. “After college, he moved to New York to apprentice with a renowned fashion portraitist. His talent was apparent, and the competitive environment took advantage of his hard work. He was so run-down that whenever he came home to visit, Jolene’s grandma Helen would put him on bedrest.”

A knowing look crosses Ava’s face. “I think I might have needed that kind of intervention at times.”

“Oh, I believe many of us could,” Mom chuckles softly, patting Ava’s knee reassuringly. “When Helen got sick, he moved back to Harmony Springs permanently, though he thought it would be temporary. He was completely broke, so of course, that’s when I locked him down!”

Ava laughs, stealing a glance at me. My heart jumps.

“He eventually saved up enough from freelancing to buy that old milk truck. Roger was handy and he converted it into a mobile studio all by himself. He became the town’s go-to for Christmas cards and eventually expanded into weddings, babies, headshots, you name it. That Chrissy isn’t just a studio; she’s a testament to his resilience.”

Ava is visibly moved by the story. “Inspiring,” she murmurs .

Mom nods. “He was. Roger believed that everyone deserved beautiful memories, regardless of their means. And that’s exactly what he gave them, year after year. Forty, now.”

“The truck has been around for forty years?” Ava asks, baffled. “Starting a truck business in the eighties is visionary.”

“Oh yes,” Mom smiles to herself. “He was ahead of his time, Roger.”

“Thank you for sharing all of that, Carol,” Ava says, unusually solemn.

Unbidden tears suddenly well up in my eyes. Grief is such a peculiar creature. I can spend months talking about my dad in everyday conversations, seeing his photo daily in the truck and plastered all over the walls of the backhouse, and be fine. But then, out of nowhere, a single poignant moment hits me like a gut punch, and suddenly the well of grief becomes an endless abyss, leaving me wondering if I'll ever find my way out.

I sharply suck in a breath through my nose, trying to force air into my belly. My mom is caught up poring over the photo album, but I see Ava glance my way in my periphery. I turn my face to mask the swell of emotion currently playing out for anyone to see.

Ava stands up abruptly. “Carol, I think the sherry is heating me up a bit too much. Would you excuse me for a moment?”

“Of course, dear.”

Ava begins to walk out of the room, then turns around. “Jo? I fear if you don’t join me I’ll be wandering suburbia the entire winter trying to find my way back here.”

I kind of doubt Ava Garcia-Greene could ever truly get lost–heck, she’s probably microchipped–but a brisk walk sounds ideal right about now.

We step out into a magical December snow globe. Thick pillowy layers of snow have smoothed the edges of every hedge and curb. The delicate flakes that coated our lashes earlier have turned into a heavier snowfall. The world around us is on pause, caught in the stillness of the evening. Neighborhood Christmas lights cast a soft red-and-green glow as we walk, our crunching footsteps the only sound.

Ava breaks the quiet, her breath puffing out in front of her as she speaks. “Can I ask you more about your dad?”

I’m surprised because most people treat my dead father like The Game we all played in the early 2000s–acknowledgement is poisonous (also, you just lost The Game).

“Sure.”

“Well, I mean… what happened?”

“He got sick five years ago. He was open about it–he didn’t believe in adding to his own suffering by trying to hide it from loved ones. So in some ways we had a lot of time to prepare for what was coming.” I push through despite the swell of emotion. “But after he passed, I realized there’s no such thing as being prepared for someone dying. It’s a sort of finality that I think we can only feel when it actually happens. You can’t pre-feel those feelings.”

Ava considers this. “You can’t prepare for a reality you’ve never known.”

“Exactly.” I peek at her. She’s already gazing at me, her eyes full of something… foreign. I’d like to search her eyes for longer, but I feel a pull to keep telling her about my father. “Toward the end, he couldn’t even pick up a camera anymore. But he was still so in love with that truck. I’d drive him around for as long as he could manage. On one of those drives, he told me that Chrissy was mine and to take care of her for him. He died a couple days later.”

I sneak another glance at her and am instantly in shock because Ava’s eyes are shiny. Rather than sad, she’s fiercely angry.

“It’s so unfair.” She dabs at her eyes with the belt of her coat. “I would totally sue God on your behalf if that was a thing.”

I choke out a laugh because it’s such an absurdly Ava thing to say. “Nobody needs to sue God. I think that’s the nature of life. Grief and death are part of the mix, the reason everything else gets to exist–joy, life, birth.”

We walk in silence for a bit, Ava’s gait quickening. She’s ten paces ahead of me before she realizes I’m no longer by her side.

“Why do you always have to walk so fast? You’re supposed to be enjoying this,” I laugh.

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t even…” She trails off, toying with the chunky gold ring on her left hand. “You’re a little bit wise, Jo Fisher.”

“I mean, I was once all three wise men, Ava Garcia-Greene.”

Her laugh is light and twinkly like a sleighbell.

“So,” I press her, “how was your first pastie?”

“Divine. Your mother is a divine cook. She’s like… an Easy-Bake Oven Mom.”

I huff. “What does that mean?”

She shakes her head. “I dunno. I guess, like, she has all the standard mom ingredients and they got baked at an appropriate preset temperature and she came out… fully formed.”

I blow rings in the fog. “Trust me, she can be a lot.”

Ava laughs. “Oh, don’t worry, I picked up on that.”

“What’s your family like?” I ask. “Who’s missing you for the holiday?”

Ava pauses. “I’ve spent the last ten Christmases alone or with Max. Growing up, it was me and my mom, and we had a falling out right before Gramsta took off. On Christmas Day, actually.”

I can’t imagine how lonely the past decade of Christmases must have been for her. “I’m sorry. Christmas shouldn’t be spent in isolation.”

“I’m a tough cookie. I’ve been alright.”

I can’t hold back. “Unsolicited advice from someone who truly knows nothing? It might be worth having a talk with your mom. Someday you won’t be able to, and winning the argument won’t matter then.”

She’s silent for a moment, then nods.

I scoop a handful of fresh powder off of a neighbor’s half-height brick wall as we walk past and begin to subtly pack it into a snowball. I let her stride a few feet ahead of me, and then lob it at the back of her coat.

Ava whirls around, her face filled with surprise. “You did not. This is cashmere!”

I laugh. “And this is frozen water!”

But my laughter is quickly stifled by the look of outrage on her face. “Okay, wait, I’m sorry, I know nothing about luxury knit–”

SPLAT. Without warning, a hastily made snowball collides with my face, leaving me sputtering and blinking through snow.

“Okay, you’ve got an arm on you, Gramsta!”

“You thought people were only afraid of my personality?”

“Bring it on, then,” I challenge her, already scooping up my next snowball.

She sprints away from me, laughing as she dodges behind a tall oak tree. I charge after her, my boots crunching in the thick snow, my breath forming clouds in the cold air.

Ava peeks out from behind the tree, her eyes glinting mischievously. She slings another snowball, which whizzes past my shoulder. "You're going to have to be faster than that!" she calls out.

My adrenaline kicks in. "Oh, it’s on!" I declare, packing another ball tightly. I make a feint to the left, then sprint to the right, releasing my snowball. It arcs beautifully through the air and taps her shoulder as she tries to make a break for another hiding spot. "Gotcha!" I shout, triumphant.

Ava stops and scoops up a handful of snow, her movements quick and precise. "Nice shot, but you're still one behind!" With a playful snarl, she launches a counterattack, her snowball hitting me square in the chest.

We run through the snowy landscape, the friendly fire of our snowballs writing a temporary truce in the winter air. Every hit brings a burst of laughter and mock indignation, every miss a promise to aim truer next time.

We battle all the way down my mom’s block, ending up at the small playground I grew up going to with all the neighborhood kids.

Stopping to catch our breath, Ava packs another snowball, but doesn’t throw it. She holds it up. "Truce?" she asks, a slight pant to her voice.

"Truce," I agree, nodding, too winded to continue. But instead of dropping her last snowball to the ground, she impulsively slings it at me from a foot away and I stumble backwards, landing flat on my back.

Winded, and staring straight up at the night sky, Ava looms over me, peering down, a slightly guilty expression on her face. “I occasionally have poor impulse control.”

I extend my arm toward her. She reaches down with her manicured hand to help me up, but her delicate Pilates-toned muscles are no match for my arms, conditioned from hauling fifty-pound Pelican cases around like they're featherweights. With a playful tug, I pull her down instead and she lands beside me with a yelp.

“That was fair,” she admits.

“You’ve got much to learn about the tactics of a snowball fight, my friend,” I tell her.

She lets out a little snort. “We’re friends now?”

I move my limbs up and down in the snow. “Well, at least our snow angels are.”

Ava mimics my movements. “I’ve never made a snow angel before.”

The stillness of the night recloaks us as we catch our breath, laying in the imprints of our angels. I turn my head to her, on the ground next to me. She stares back at me, her expression barely readable. Challenging, almost.

It could be an illusion of the falling snow, but I swear she bats her eyes at me.

Our faces are close enough that the mist from our breath collides in the space between us. Despite the freezing temperatures, there's an electric charge in the air, a magnetic pull that draws my head closer to hers.

For a moment, time slows, and we're the only two people in the world. Our eyes lock, and there's a silent question hanging between us.

I watch in real time as her pupils dilate. She’s staring at me so intensely it’s like I’m really seeing her for the first time.

As our lips almost touch, Ava sucks in sharply and I snap out of whatever bewitching wintery spell I was under. She awkwardly fiddles with the ring on her finger as I draw back, unable to look her in the eye.

The cold seeps into me, commingling with the fluttery anticipation of our almost-kiss and I shiver.

“We should head back. Warm up,” I suggest, standing up hastily, still avoiding her gaze.

Ava quickly gets to her feet, pointedly ignoring the hand I offer. Her expression is as closed-off and professional as it was the day she spilled coffee on me.

“Reality beckons!” she declares with forced cheer.

What have I done?