More than the Sum

The whole is more than the sum of its parts.                                                                                       Aristotle

Chapter One

Brittany Larson sat cross-legged on the cold
floor of her living room at the foot of her Christmas tree, chilled to the bone and resisting the urge to throw in the towel before completing her self-imposed assignment. The putting away of the Christmas decorations on any given year inevitably invoked a sense of melancholy, and this year, it couldn’t be over soon enough.  Reaching up to secure her dark auburn hair in a twisty, she wound it into an untidy knot. Fiddling with her hair was a nervous habit that plagued her from childhood, and exhibited itself whenever she became overly stressed.

Each trip, or special occasion, she and Craig commemorated with something they retained that memorialized the special event; something they could hang on their Christmas tree—not necessarily an ornament, but some memento that was meaningful to them both.  Ticket stubs, special labels, corks and match cards from restaurants where they dined, photo’s, and invitations were all part of what had been carefully cut out, hole-punched, and tied with gold ribbons to be hung along with the ornaments on their Christmas tree.

Both she and Craig had been raised with strict adherence to the holiday and its traditions, but those observations were secular. Neither family was particularly festive, nor were they religious.  The couple resolved they would create their own traditions, making the holidays meaningful in a personal way.  So, beginning Thanksgiving weekend when they put up their Christmas tree, each passing year evolved into what was a special time for both of them, concluding the holidays with a private celebration on New Year’s Eve, sitting in their jacuzzi tub, filled with scented bubbles, and toasting in the New Year with Champagne. 

Overwhelmed by the trail of memories that were intent on distracting he
r, o
ne by one Brittany laid the collected items aside in a pile to be cremated later; each item seeming to cling to the tree as if somehow aware it would be reduced to ash in a few hours.  Tears spilled over without her giving them permission—it was impossible not to relive the occasions each one retained, and just as impossible not to question their validity

They met while living in the same apartment complex in Germantown, Maryland. Both were beginning their careers in the D.C area, where Brittany had grown up. Craig had moved to the area to attend graduate school, having grown up in Colorado.

Bright and early the morning after Brittany had moved in, her doorbell rang.  She opened it to find Craig,handsome,
t
all, with brown eyes, dark brown hair, and built,standing in the hallway, holding out an empty coffee mug, grinning affably.  “Hi, I’m Craig Larson, your neighbor from across the hall,” he said, gesturing to the open door behind him. “Would you have a cup of coffee to spare?” Brittany recognized it for what it was—a fairly lame line.

Brittany took the offered mug, leaving him standing, in the hallway, returning moments later to hand it back to him, now filled with coffee beans.  After he doubled over with laughter it dawned on her that
what he was hinting for was to be asked inside for a literal ‘cup’ of coffee.  A few moments later, over a freshly brewed mug of coffee, he explained how it was after smelling the aroma from across the hall that he’d decided to use it as an excuse to meet her.

Whatever their impression of each other might have been that morning his line proved successful and it wasn’t very long before they were sharing one apartment.  A year later they were married.

The only glitch in the pursuit of matrimony had been Brittany’s mother, who took an arbitrary and instant dislike to Craig. Alma made little attempt to hide it, often reminding Brittany how she disapproved of their lifestyle. Luckily, Craig and her dad hit it off instantly, and over time, Alma finally let her guard down, giving him a chance.  Craig’s
Coup de grâce would be going over to the Foster's home to ask for Brittany’s hand before proposing to her something that her mother said was, seemingly, uncommon.  Alma was impressed, and from then on Craig could do no wrong, to the extent that one might think she had introduced them.

***

The only remaining thing to do was to remove the angel from the top of the tree. Once the bling-encrusted adornment was in hand she couldn’t help but stare at it, wondering how she could have put something so tasteless atop the tree. “Worthless angel,” she scolded before wrapping it in tissue paper, assigning her a place in a box, along with the already shrouded ornaments.

Her incentive to be done was spurred on by a message that was left on her phone, alerting her that, “The Disabled Veterans of America will have a truck in your area on the twenty-eighth of December.  Please have your donations  labeled ‘Disabled Veterans’ at the end of your driveway by 7:30a.m..  Your donation is tax deductible.”  No doubt, since it was only the week after Christmas, they were hoping for gifts that had missed their mark, rather than untimely Christmas decorations, but for Brittany, it was an offer that was too good to refuse. 

With emphasis, she fitted the lid on the banker’s box, pressing it down tightly, and subsequently carrying it to the front porch where she placed it on top of the other previously filled boxes. Four boxes in all which she would ensure would be waiting at the end of the driveway  to be picked up the following morning.

Feeling somehow cleansed by the ritual, a cup of hot tea sounded good to her. For the first time in days she felt like she might be able to eat, although Christmas cookies and peanut butter fudge might have to do until she went to the store.

On her way to the kitchen she collected the trail of balled-up  Kleenex that were strewn across the floor, stuffing them in the pocket of her bathrobe. 
No more tears
, she chided herself, wondering how a future
Merry
Christmas was possible. Aware there was irony in the thought that it might be possible to donate away the painful reminders of a holiday gone bad.

The phone rang, interrupting her reverie, and the computerized voice  announced it was her mother calling. Brittany was avoiding talking to her, but she knew a conversation was inevitable, only not today. She wasn’t up to it—perhaps tomorrow, but, Dear Lord, please not today.

***

The nightmare that had become her life, began a few days ago, on Christmas.

On any previous holiday, Brittany and her husband, Craig, would have slept in Christmas morning, eaten their breakfast in bed, staying in their pajamas until it was time to go to Brittany’s parents. They considered their laid back approach to the holiday one of the luxuries of not yet having children. But, when Brittany woke up Christmas morning, Craig wasn’t in bed next to her
. Perhaps he’s going to surprise me with something,
she thought. Not wanting to spoil that possibility, she crept down the hallway, pausing at the top of the stairs. She heard his voice talking to someone, presumably on the phone.  More curious still, she tip-toed down the stairs, wondering what could possibly be so important for him to allow it to intrude on their holiday.

The door to his office was tightly shut, which was also unusual. He rarely, if ever, closed it—but, perhaps, she thought, it had something to do with a surprise for her, so she didn’t knock, but waited outside.  He came out a few moments later looking agitated and was unable to contain his annoyance at finding her standing outside the door. He was already dressed for the day, wearing tan slacks and a sweater. There was no surprise for Brittany, and the rest of the day continued just as badly. Craig was preoccupied  and offered no explanation for his uncharacteristically rude behavior, other than becoming increasingly more distracted and edgy as the day progressed.

They  delayed their arrival to her parent’s home until as late into the afternoon as possible, hoping to minimize any unnecessary friction between Brittany and her mother. Visits with her parents
had always been arduous, to put it nicely, but Christmas was not the time of year to break tradition; particularly due to the fact that her parents and brother were the only family who lived near them. Craig’s parents wintered in Florida, so that celebration would wait until Craig and Brittany flew down to see them. Usually they would go sometime in late February or early March,  timing the trip during the best weather for beach outtings.

The tension between her and her
mother lurked beneath the surface like a chronic illness, incurable and uncomfortable, although not  yet fatal.

Somehow, for Brittany, being with her mother caused her to revert backward into childhood behaviors, one of which was to be perpetually looking behind her, attempting to dodge bullets she couldn’t see. Many  of these
bullets
consisted of seemingly unintentional remarks that would inevitably find their target, which was, of course,her daughter.   Her
mother was able to deliver her jabs with such prowess that her intended targets often did not recognize they’d been hit until much later, when they saw their own blood on the floor. Those were the words Brittany would use when trying to describe what her relationship with her mother was like to anyone perceptive enough to notice the undercurrents, and curious enough to inquire. 

Brittany, aided by Craig’s semi-objective observations, could acknowledge she was overly sensitive, and because of it she was also aware that she had erected a substantial wall between them of her own.   She knew without being reminded that the wall had gone up, at least in part, because she had never acquired the skilled mental footwork necessary to offset one of her mother’s inevitable and well-executed jabs.

On the other hand, Craig was able to enjoy a cordial relationship with her father, free from the baggage that Brittany perpetually carried around. Despite the tension between mother and daughter, the men engaged in lively conversations about politics, their livelihoods, sports, and business. Most endearing was Craig’s ability to appreciate the endless retelling of her dad’s favorite jokes.  Their banter served as a necessary bridge that quite unexpectedly allowed even Brittany and (Mom's Name) to participate  in the discussions; otherwise, any time together would have been unbearably tense and awkward. She found it particularly sweet
that Craig and her dad
hit it off so well.  While Brittany was fond of her father, they weren’t close, and regrettably, her distancing was aided by his lifelong ability to sidestep any circumstance that required him to stand up to his wife.

Earlier that year, and quite unexpectedly, Brittany’s father passed away from a massive heart attack, putting Brittany and her mother on uncharted waters. There was no avoiding how this year the holiday would be predictably tense. Brittany was braced for a very uncomfortable day and counted heavily on Craig's help filling the awkward silences that she knew would be inevitable. Over the months since her father’s death, Brittany had become increasingly more defensive after a continuum of innuendos directed  by her mother, which implied that Brittany had not been there for her.  Brittany helped wherever she could, but no matter what effort or consolation she offered, it was deemed as insufficient. It was a “damned if you or don’t” scenario for Brittany, and there was no escaping it.

At some point early in their marriage, Alma and Theodore Foster succeeded in putting away personal animosities and carved out terms they could both live with, and it had worked to keep their marriage intact.  Theodore traveled extensively working for the American Red Cross, and Alma did what she wanted with her time and their money. When they were together, they coexisted civilly. 

Ted'sjob description was to coordinate international marketing and fundraising. The Red Cross’s home offices were in Washington D.C., and strategically located  to put them in position to stroke the necessary players in power to gain financial favor. They were able to lobby effectively to both parties for funds, in turn making them look good. It had been a satisfying career for him on every level.