Socks

 Nick grabbed my shoulders before we got in the car, turning me to face him. Snow drifted and settled on his eyelashes; his nose was running and his cheeks were pink. 

“Look, I’m telling you now so you can’t say it’s a deal-breaker later. My family gets really intense around Christmas. I have to be there, but you don’t,” he said. “We can make up a family emergency if you’re having second thoughts. Or say you got in a car wreck.”

“My stuff is loaded up, the dog is at the boarder’s, and I have the time off work. Christmas in a log cabin with you and hot cider?  I’m not missing this. Besides, your mom loves me.” I paused, suddenly anxious. “Your mom does love me, right?”

“She loves you. But she gets… things are different at Christmas. On a normal day she loves you. On Christmas, I don’t think she even loves me.”

“We’ve spent the last three years apart,” I said, trying not to whine. “It’s Christmas Eve. We’re engaged. I’m not staying behind alone. Whatever she does, I can handle her, so just trust me.”

Nick hesitated, then pulled me into a hug. “All right. I trust you. You brought your new socks, right? And the sweater I got you?”

“They should be in the overnight bag,” I said. “It’s our tradition, babe.”

“All right. If you’re sure, then let’s get going. I don’t want to get stuck on the roads after dark.”

Nick’s mood shifted as we drove, parallel the clouds clearing. There were about six inches of snow but the roads were clear and we hadn’t needed to put on the chains. The mountains floated in the snow, touching neither the sky nor the horizons, which widened as we drove north into a bluebird day. 

I had never been to their family cabin, which was just about ten miles south of the Canada border in the middle of nowhere, but I had seen pictures. The original cabin was log-framed and likely from the mid-1800s, but every generation had put on something new so it was a Frankenstein of additions. I was especially looking forward to cuddling Nick in a 90s sunroom, watching snow fall in our new sweaters. Every year, Nick got me an amazing sweater–not a kitschy fast-fashion thing, but a traditional Icelandic wool sweater. His family tradition was to wear them Christmas Eve, but we always wore them on New Year’s. He’d tickle my feet, teasing that the Yule Cat would get me. I was looking forward to finally being part of the family, but I felt the pressure. As much as Nick tried to hide it, I knew he was worried too. He had started tapping again over the last few days, one of his nervous tics that drove me absolutely insane. He tapped on everything (walls, himself, the dog) and there was no rhythm to it–I could have tuned him out if there had been. Instead, I sat on alert waiting for the next one. He sounded like a grandfather clock designed to disconcert.

The day continued bright as we turned off the highway onto a small forest road, snow banked in wells around pines. A few miles in, the trees opened to reveal the small cabin core, additions sprawled against it. I had been expecting reindeer statues and lights everywhere, but there was only a candle-lit tree in the front window. Nick parked and we walked to the front door, holding hands tightly.

“You made it,” said Mrs Agnarsson, “hurry in before the heat gets out. Those Yule Boys have been tricksters this year.” She pulled us inside and I tried to give her a hug, realizing my mistake when she walked into the kitchen. My arm hovered in the air before I smoothed my hair. Nick shook his head at me, holding back a laugh. “Told you she’s intense.”

“Come in, come in,” he said. “You head into the kitchen and I’ll put our things in my room. My brother should already be here.”

The kitchen was in the center of the home, which surprised me, but the layout of the house was unintuitive. Rooms appeared to have been added wherever there was space around the home. The original cabin was the center of a wagon-wheel and Mrs Agnarsson was the center of the cabin. Pots and casserole dishes surrounded her. This was the moment I had prepared for.

“Gleðileg jól!” 

“Yes, very good, please stir this,” she replied, gesturing to a sauce pan on the range. I walked over and started stirring, trying to make small talk while she largely ignored me. Ok. Well. Not great, a little rude after we had driven so far, but Nick had told me she got weird about Christmas. I kept stirring while she cooked around me, humming counting-songs under her breath as she moved things around the racks. The kitchen was becoming uncomfortably warm and I wondered how in the world she managed in there without windows. 

“Hallo hallo!” Nick came in, kissing the top of his mother’s head. He was trailed by his younger brother Chris, who grabbed a basket of rolls and moved it into the dining room, which was on the other side of the kitchen from the living room. “Mama, this is perfect, it’s time to eat. Come sit, we’ll heat you up some wine. It’s Christmas Eve!”

She muttered something in Icelandic, but allowed herself to be led to the dining room. I was a little worried about gender roles when I was immediately sent to the kitchen, but happy to see that Nick and his brother set the table without prompting. 

“So, Chris, what did the Yule Boys bring you last night?” asked Nick. The words were what I’d say to a child about the Three Kings or Tooth Fairy, but his tone was serious.

Chris, fully forty years old, ducked his head and avoided his mother’s gimlet eyes. He mumbled something I didn’t catch.

“Chris, what did the Yule Boys bring you?” asked Mrs Agnarsson, sternly. He took a small drink, then said:

“Rotten potatoes. In my shoe.”

“What?” I laughed. “Like the Three Kings do with oranges?”

Nick stared at me, a warning in his eyes. “No. The Yules Boys bring gifts if you’ve been good, but… dude. What did you do to get the potatoes?”

“Nothing,” said Chris.

I sat in silence with the rest of them. They stared at him while I looked at my soup, avoiding everything. Eventually he said:

“So, Noelle? You know we’ve been dating for awhile? Um. We kind of started dating before I broke up with Bianca. So… I deserve the potatoes. But don’t judge Noelle, she didn’t know. Still doesn’t know. And I really like her, but I won’t do that again. I forgot they’re always watching.”

His mother cleared her throat. “Chris. I raise you better than that. Even if they weren’t watching, you know that is wrong. Your gifts will go to the church and thank me that your punishments isn’t worse.”

The rest of the meal was uneventful. We ate, mostly in silence, and I took it as a no-score win. At least Chris was the one on her list, not me. The wine and the light played to make me think Nick and I were fine.

It was my fault, in the end. I can’t blame anyone else. Nick had asked me repeatedly.

We did sit in the displaced 90s glasshouse, a cross between a greenhouse and an antebellum wrap-around. Nick had his sweater on and told me to grab mine. My instinct was to push back–we were comfy and I didn’t want to get up, but this was the one thing he had brought back to me. New clothes to start a new year. 

“All right, I’ll be back in a minute,” I said. I found our room (his old room! Michael Jordan and Pamela Anderson posters on the walls) but the clothes weren’t in the bags. I pulled everything out; I felt weird putting our things in his dresser so I put everything in tidy piles on his bed. 

I yelled out, “Hey, sweetheart? My stuff is missing, is it in the trunk?”

Nick said he’d go out and check. I could hear his mother yelling, half English and half Icelandic. Things I couldn’t catch, but I kept my ear to the door. The vibe so far had been “no reason to be inhospitable” but I felt that as soon as there was a reason, I’d be taking our car back out to  Opheim. I had our bags emptied, my new clothes missing, but our toothbrushes by the sink. Deodorant next to the sink. If I was normal, everything would be normal. 

Nick hurried back in the room. “Where are your new clothes? Have you worn them yet? Tell me you’ve worn them.”

“I really thought they were in the car,” I said, “but it’s not like I’m going to be naked or anything. It’s all fine. And I didn’t wear them yet. I was saving them to wear together with your family. But I’ve got normal pajamas, so it’s not like I’m indecent. We can do it like we have the last couple years, at new  year’s eve. Is your mom going to freak out of something?”

Nick didn’t look at me as he answered. “So… you don’t have the clothes I gave you? You haven’t worn them at all?”

“No, that’s what I just said.”

Nick ran off through the twisted hallway. “Mama! Jólakötturinn!”

I almost shouted after him, but stayed silent as I crept through the halls. The place was a labyrinth, so I navigated using the photos and portraits on the walls. So many blondes and sailors, men with axes and women with pale eyes that had lost their differences. 

“Jólakötturinn” –Julia Catherine, it sounded like, Icelandic and English being distant siblings. 

I ran through the halls until I hit snow. The cold was disorienting, the wet more so. What happened?

Mrs Agnarsson had shoved me through an unexpected door as I followed Nick. 

She cursed me in both languages, ignorant girl, bringing a curse on them. I sat in the snow, wet seeping through my jeans as I stared at her, baffled. I looked to Nick, but he was standing by his mother in the doorway. 

“Nick, what the hell?” I yelled, pulling myself up. “Help me! Your mom just freaking assaulted me for no reason.”

He shook his  head as he stood between me and the door.

“It’s the Yule Cat,” he said. “You have to wear your new clothes, or it comes for you and takes you away.”

“You are insane,” I replied. “Literally insane. That’s a children’s story, you can’t really believe that. Let me back in. It’s Christmas Eve and it's freezing out here. I don’t even have my shoes on.”

He kept shaking his head as his mother yelled. “The Yule Cat is real, Trina. It’s real and if you’re inside it will break down the house to get to you.”

“Who even are you?” I yelled back. “Let me in! Come on, this is your ring on my finger. Let me in.”

Chris showed up behind him, drawn by the commotion, and blocked the other side of the door. Their faces were invisible from the back-light, but Mrs Agnarsson’s face was visible. I stared at her as I struggled to my feet. What was her expression? Disappointment? Anger?

“You know what, fine. Fine. You really believe this? Give me your keys. I’m out.”

“I don’t have to believe it,” Nick said. “It’s real.”

“Give me your damn car keys! I’m leaving. If a giant cat follows me, whatever, it’s not your problem.”

He tossed me the keys and I took off my ring. I hurled it in his direction, not really caring if it landed inside. 

“We’re done,” I said. I thought I would have felt something more–anger, betrayal, maybe even just sadness–but all I felt was cold. I picked up the keys and walked around the house to the car. 

Trees fell around me as I sped away.