Vodka Yonic features a rotating cast of women and nonbinary writers from around the world sharing stories that are alternately humorous, sobering, intellectual, erotic, religious or painfully personal. You never know what you’ll find in this column, but we hope this potent mix of stories encourages conversation.
When my parents got divorced, I thought, as most silver-lining-seeking children do, of the obvious perk: two Christmases. I imagined I’d have not one stocking, but a pair. Not one goblet of eggnog, but a gallon. At 13, I was willing to trade the ease of walking down the stairs to a family intact for a few extra parcels under the tree. That’s kid logic for you. I also remember thinking, as my mother pulled me in for a too-tight hug, that the divorce would give me something juicy to write about.
Before the split, we’d throw the kind of Christmas Eve party that backed up the whole street. The later you arrived, the farther you’d have to walk, mailbox to mailbox, holly bush to holly bush. There would always be at least one old lady who’d arrive an hour early — some elderly aunt or friend of my grandmother’s, a fur-coated, bourbon-bearing cheek kisser who would sit on our good couch while my mother finished blow-drying her hair and we picked up sticks in the front yard — but 6 o’clock snuck up on us. My sisters would rush to apply their mascara in the tiny upstairs bathroom, I’d roll up my white stockings, and when the first car arrived in the driveway, I’d bound down the stairs, velvety. From that moment on, there would be no sitting. No moment alone. We were surrounded by every uncle, neighbor, infant and godmother in Nashville who, somewhere around 10, would start to congregate around the piano. We’d sing “Silent Night” as fast as we could. We’d run that piano ragged. Eventually, friends would beg off to midnight Mass or pass out for a long winter’s nap, and I would slip into my pajamas. Standing at the top of the stairs, I’d beseech the last of the tipsy carolers to leave, hoping their departure would hasten Santa’s sleigh.
On Christmas morning we took turns opening our presents — Playmobil castles for me, clothes for Corinne, puzzles for Graham — until our living room crackled with crinkled paper. My mother took dutiful notes; my father searched for batteries. My uncle, who lived behind us, would tumble over in a terrycloth robe in search of coffee and cast-off candy canes. Together we would eat sausage pinwheels and relish the bounty of another crowded, chaotic Christmas.
We still had the party for a few years after my father moved out, but Christmas morning was different. Instead of lounging around in our pajamas, we said goodbye to our mother and the sausage pinwheels and drove to my father’s condo. I remember how cold my red Jeep was when I was 16. How empty the streets were. Coasting down a deserted West End Avenue, I thought, nobody’s driving because they’re all at home with their families. If my parents had never gotten divorced, I would never have known this version of the street.
But that’s just it. As a child of divorce, you occupy a middle space. The empty West End, the sore spot between your old life and your new life. When we arrived at the condo, my father and stepmother Val offered us another set of stockings, another stack of gifts, just as I’d imagined. Val made us breakfast casserole. She had beautiful gift tags and elegant handwriting. It was all very generous. But those first few years, it still hurt. I wanted the doorbell back, the pile of coats on my parents’ bed. I did not want to know how quiet a street could be.
Now that my sisters have children, every Christmas is different from the last. Some years we’re in Dallas, where Graham and her three girls open presents in 70-degree weather. Some years we’re in Knoxville, where we bundle up for a Christmas morning jog. I realize now that those 10 minutes in the car with my sisters going from Mom’s house to Dad’s were also precious. We were freezing, sure, but we were in cahoots. Someone would find the Christmas tunes on the radio, and flying through green light after green light, we’d compare presents. What did you think of that sweater? Can I trade you for those socks?
In the space between our parents, we found ourselves lucky to have one another, a living memorial to the good years they spent together. It is a gift that, year after year, we will continue to unwrap.
