The Christmas Secret. Lee Mckenzie

dried her hands on a towel and hung it on the handle of the oven door. “I see that. You’re doing great.”

      “It’s always best to start with the outside edges and work your way in.”

      While Sam pondered that as a possible metaphor for her life, she packed two bottles of water, a sandwich and an apple in her insulated lunch bag. “I left some tuna salad in the fridge for you, and Mrs. Stanton said she’d drop by to see you at lunchtime.” Mrs. Stanton was the neighbor across the hall. Years ago Sam had given the woman a key so she could come in at lunchtime to make sure Tildy had something to eat. Sam so often dreamed of moving into a decent apartment, maybe even a house with a back garden that might tempt her mother out of her reclusive existence, but what if the upheaval was the tipping point for Tildy’s fragile mental state? That worried her, and more important, there’d be no Mrs. Stanton to keep an eye on her.

      Sam retrieved her work boots from the tiny hall closet, slipped into her jacket and picked up her clipboard from the hall table. “I’m leaving for work, Mom. Do you need to do anything before I leave?”

      “Oh. I’m afraid we’re out of milk. The queen is coming this afternoon and she likes milk in her tea. Not cream. It has to be milk, you know.”

      Sam sighed and returned to the kitchen. “I bought milk yesterday.” She opened the refrigerator. “It’s right here, see?”

      Tildy’s glossy red lips spread into a smile. “Oh, thank you, dear. The last time she came, she caused a royal fuss because there was only cream.”

      Sam never bought cream, but that was the thing about fictional events. A person’s memories could be anything she wanted them to be.

      “She liked the cucumber sandwiches, though. And I’m out of cigarettes. Could you pick some up for me on your way home?”

      “Sure.” As soon as hell freezes over. Her mother had been out of cigarettes for fifteen years. Sam had stopped buying them after her father left because they couldn’t afford them, she was tired of smelling like an ashtray and she worried her mother would set the place on fire.

      From time to time Tildy still asked for them and it was simpler to say yes than to remind her that she didn’t smoke anymore.

      Sam slipped an arm around her mother’s narrow shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. This morning she was still wearing her chartreuse satin dressing gown but as always she had teased her thinning silver hair into a poofy do and rouged her cheeks to match her lips. The tang of hair spray that shellacked her mother’s hair in place made Sam back away. “What are you doing today?” she asked. Aside from entertaining Her Majesty. “Any plans?”

      “I’ll finish the puzzle.” She turned her attention back to the jigsaw pieces spread across the kitchen table’s worn Arborite. “And then I have to get ready for tea. I’ve decided to wear the green-and-gold plaid silk. You don’t think it’s too flashy, do you?”

      Not if the queen is color-blind. The dress her mother referred to wear was every bit as hideous now as it had been forty years ago. “Everyone loves your plaid dress, Mom. You’ll look beautiful,” Sam lied, carefully sidestepping any mention of Elizabeth II.

      “Yes, I’m hoping she’ll like it, too,” Tildy said. “It’s in terribly bad taste to upstage the queen.”

      Of course it was.

      Her mother’s delusions were richly populated with royalty and Hollywood stars, and occasional appearances by the Pope. Sam could almost understand her mother’s preoccupation with the likes of Robert De Niro and Steve Martin, even the British monarchy, but the significance of those papal visits eluded her. Her mother wasn’t even Catholic, although she could almost pass for pious in the habit she’d fashioned from an old black robe, a dingy white pillowcase and a rosary of pink plastic beads.

      “I’ll see you tonight, Mom. If I’m late, Mrs. Stanton will drop by again.”

      “That’s nice.” Tildy straightened then and stared down at Sam’s feet. “Why are you galumphing around my kitchen in those boots?”

      “I’m going to work, remember?”

      “Will you be back in time for tea?”

      “Sorry. Not today.”

      First thing, she had a meeting with Claire and Kristi, then she had to stop at the building supply store. The rest of the day would be spent avoiding AJ while she stripped wallpaper and patched the walls, and Kristi cleared countless decades’ worth of clutter out of the kitchen. If all went well, Sam would be home in time to fix dinner. If not, she’d have to call Mrs. Stanton and ask her to take Tildy a plate of whatever she and Mr. Stanton were having tonight. Her mother barely ate enough to keep a bird alive, and although Sam wrote her neighbor a check for a hundred dollars every month to cover the cost of food, she hated asking for favors. On the plus side, her mother had never shown any inclination to cook for herself, so at least no one had to worry about her starting a fire in the kitchen.

      “See you tonight, Mom.”

      Tildy snapped another puzzle piece into place.

      “I love you.” Sam always said it, but her mother never reciprocated. No one ever had. Not her father. Certainly not AJ, and yesterday she’d discovered why. He hadn’t loved her. He’d been married to someone else.

      Today was no different. “Don’t forget to buy milk,” Tildy said without looking up.

      Sam didn’t reply, she just sighed as she let herself out of the apartment, locked the door and knocked on the one across the hall.

      “Good morning, Sam,” Elizabeth Stanton said when she opened the door. She was a tall, boney-looking woman, fiftyish with salt-and-pepper hair, married to a man fifteen years her senior. “How’s everything this morning?”

      “Same as usual. Mom’s working on a puzzle right now. I left some tuna salad in the fridge and bread to make a sandwich, if you can get her to eat one.”

      “She usually will, as long as I cut the crusts off. I’ve got some leftover pumpkin pie from Thanksgiving so I’ll take her a slice of that, too.”

      “If she calls to tell you we’re out of milk, just tell her you’ll bring some over at lunchtime. There’s plenty in the fridge, but she keeps forgetting about it.”

      Mrs. Stanton displayed a prominent overbite when she smiled. “I take it she’s having tea this afternoon?”

      “I’m afraid so.”

      “It’s harmless,” the woman said. “You should count your blessings for that because you can’t say the same for everyone who has her condition.”

      “You’re right.” She had trouble seeing it as a blessing, but as curses went, it could have been a lot worse.

      “I’ve been hoping the new medication will make a difference.”

      “I am, too, especially for your sake, but you need to give it some time.”

      “I know.” That’s what the doctor had said, too. “I’m starting a new job today but I’ll try to be home in time for dinner.”

      “Have a good day, Sam. Let me know if you’ll be late and I’ll run across with some dinner for her, too.”

      She closed the door, and Sam trudged down the hallway to the stairwell, leaving one set of problems behind and setting off to face another.

      Will scooped a forkful of his eggs off his plate as AJ walked into the kitchen. “Daddy, I eating green eggs an’ ham. See?” He held up the food, then popped it into his mouth.

      “I see that. It looks delicious.”

      After Will had fallen in love with the Dr. Seuss story, Annie had cleverly concocted a recipe for scrambled eggs with chopped ham and spinach. “Good way to get some greens into him,” she’d said, and as usual