I shudder as I think about anyone seeing the mess, such as potential buyers, should I put this property on the market, or friends and relatives Rick might be entertaining in my absence, for the sole purpose of cementing the rumors about me. “Debbie dances to a different drummer,” leaving people who hear this wondering what Rick could mean. For God’s sake, did Rick go to school to learn his craft of subtle manipulation? To me it’s not even subtle.

Besides what I can see, the house feels cold and empty. My family is nowhere to be found. Quickly, before Rick or Kelly might walk in the back door, I get in my brand new Jeep Cherokee, which has been parked in the garage for months, and drive to the closest motel. I refuse to stay in the house that has become a tomb, possibly mine.

In the morning I call Alison, to find out what the plans are if any, and she tells me Christmas dinner will be served in her home. “Just relax Mother, and allow me to wait on you for once.” However she doesn’t ask where I was the night before, nor is she concerned about where I might be now… Our conversation consists of a mere few minutes. Alison is speaking to a stranger, it seems, who happens to be in the area and, being away from home, needs a Christmas meal. My daughter tells me what time I should be at her house and then adds; “We have all decided not to buy you any gifts, so I hope you’re prepared for this. But, if you want to buy Clayton something, here’s his list…” and she rattles off three or four items that she and Jeff have decided to not purchase. I had already planned something for Clayton, so I disregard her ideas.

As far as my daughters are concerned, I’m not feeling much like even caring about buying them anything, especially now that Alison has made it clear she and her sisters have organized nothing for me. Besides, I’m so sad I’m barely functioning. Noticeably I’m now called “Mother” instead of the usual, “Meré.” And, I’m not sure how I’ll spend my Christmas Eve Day, alone in a motel in a city surrounded by everything familiar, yet with no one to talk to who’s pleased to see me. I can’t even join in on the holiday spirit and shop. “What would I be shopping for?” I call Christiané, but she’s not home of course. She’s celebrating with her family. I’m comforted by the knowledge; had she been aware I was going to be in town, she would have been overwhelmed with joy to see me, as I would be to see her. In the evening I find myself at the gigantic, gorgeous, European Kirk In The Hills Presbyterian Church and landmark in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, for Christmas Eve service with Rick and Kelly. They sit together whispering like school children, leaving me to find seating elsewhere.

It’s very crowded, however I couldn’t feel more alone, as I gaze past seats of happy families together at my beautiful Kelly, dressed very much as if she were me, in an expensive black designer outfit, as her blonde hair wisps over her shoulders, appearing as her father’s wife. She’s cold and distant towards me. It’s sickening and I’m crushed at the same time.

What strikes me further: for twenty-four years of Christmases I’ve wanted to attend this church on this night, while Rick refused to even think about it. This year, now that Rick has ostracized me from his and my families’ lives, he makes a point to attend this Christmas Service. It is clear that he has come not for me, but for Kelly. It’s also clear to me that Rick is again trying desperately to kill me. If he can destroy me emotionally, maybe I’ll commit suicide… I know this because Rick believes and tells everyone that my mother committed suicide, which is interesting since he has never met her. She passed away four years before I even married this once love-of-my-life ass.

“Why don’t you meet Kelly and me at the Kirk around 7:00 PM?” Rick asks. “It’s our new tradition. Afterwards, you can join us for dinner if you want. By the way, do you know where all my guns are?”

Again, I feel like a weary traveler who’s found a family, allowing me to sneak in on their holidays for just a moment. Yet, if this were a fact, I believe I’d feel more welcomed than I do. And, now I feel like Rick might figure out how to blow my head off. He’s never asked where his stupid guns are in his life. Frankly, I’m becoming used to the way Rick is treating me, but watching my children treat me the same way is heartbreaking. As close as I’ve always been to Alison and Lexi, I have been closer still to Kelly, since I was her only playmate before she started school. On this day and into the night I realize that I’m nothing more than dead to my family. What’s worse, I’m an unwelcomed ghost.

Christmas Morning I awake in my motel room feeling alone; someone has reached deep into my chest and removed my heart, then stomped on it and didn’t walk away before spitting in my face. I’m thinking to myself, “Such betrayal, after twenty-four years of a life most would envy? It’s gone poof just like it never existed. I’ve never heard about a story such as mine. There isn’t even a Dominick Dunne tale that could match this.” My emotions are soaring from, “I hate my family; I despise Rick; I hate myself; I want to die,” to “I must stay strong; be a good person, remain a lady and by all means believe in you, Debbie.” I spend hours reading my metaphysical books and writing affirmations in my journal, finding a positive, “No one knows where I am, so I’m at least safe,” then smile through my tears. “But, I want to know why this is happening to me!”

I call Larry back in Sun Valley for some kind conversation, laughter, joy and support. I can feel the twinkle in his eyes when he answers the phone. Disregarding Christmas all together, he immediately starts relaying new ideas he has been thinking about for the business. Then he tells me he’d received two phone calls: one from Finland and another from Japan on Christmas Day. “They were both asking about your clothing.” I had to admit I hadn’t thought much about anything but pain in two days, while tears flowed profusely upon my lap. “Debbie,” Larry continues, “just come back here now. That environment is going to kill you. Nobody can tolerate what you’re putting up with. Besides, I’m concerned about what Rick might do next.” I cling onto his every word.

Then Larry adds, “You should hide Rick’s guns.” I’ve heard this but don’t acknowledge what he says.

While I dry my tears I respond with, “You’re right, but I’ll at least spend the day at Alison’s today, while I give Clayton his tepee and have dinner. I hear through the grapevine that Rick is flying out tomorrow for Sun Valley to stay at the cabin, so I’ll come back the day after. I have no idea what I’ll do with him in the house! I’m actually more afraid of Rick now than ever before. He’s acting like a Ted Bundy, and I refuse to be alone with him.”

Larry then says, “Well don’t be. Do what you feel must be done and let me know when your flight is coming in. I’ll pick you up. You can stay here at my house while Rick is in town or find a motel in Ketchum…your choice.”

Feeling human again, I respond with, “Great, I’ll see you soon. Thank you for being in my life. I don’t know what I’d do without you!”

Hours later I’m ringing the doorbell at Alison’s quaint, white, newly built, English Tudor home, on a court in a subdivision, in West Bloomfield, Michigan. The rest of my family is already here, chatting and laughing about the gifts they’ve received, as if there were no crisis in our lives at all. I can hear them all through the door, as I struggle with one hand to check out my make-up, hair and the red, vintage Thierry Mugler dress I have on, using a compact mirror I’ve pulled from of my small, black, suede bag. All the while my grandson’s wrapped Christmas gift is being squeezed between my body and under arm…my camera and purse are hanging off my neck. I feel like Lucy Ricardo.

When Jeff, Alison’s short, jock of a husband, finally responds to my call, startling me for a second as he violently swings open the front door and offering a cold greeting of “Hi, come in,” I’m in the middle of accidently dropping my grandson’s gift on the wet porch. I respond, “Oh, hi Jeff, sorry. Merry Christmas. As you can see I’m dropping stuff all over the place out here.” Then I laugh as I bend over and pick the gift up, nervously saying, “This is for Clayton. Can I give it to him now? I’m really excited to see his little face light up when he opens it. I just know he’s going to love it. Besides I want to give him a great big hug.”

I haven’t seen my grandson in months, after all, and I’ve missed him terribly. I fear he may not even remember me. Jeff instead grabs the bright, red-wrapped box from my hands, haphazardly tosses it under the tree in the living room, saying, “Clayton is busy now he’ll open it later.” At the same time he has turned away from me and goes galloping down through the hallway towards the family area, leaving me standing alone – as if I’m the cable man waiting for directions – with my Canon Camera and purse hanging off my shoulder. I feel ridiculous.

I’m thinking, “I’m in the twilight zone with hundreds of Ted Bundys, and I’m a ghost.”

I now realize that I have been invited to arrive late for this excruciatingly uncomfortable family holiday event, when I hear Alison, barely audible, announce that dinner is served. “Hey ma famille, le diner est servi.” And, not in her best French, so I have to giggle.

As I stroll slowly, somewhat shocked, after Jeff into the open family room and kitchen area where the breakfast table is set, looking like a Tupperware Party, I catch, in my next view, both Alison and Clayton in the kitchen. Allison is dressed raggedly, her hair in her face, and she is stressed, fighting with a steaming hot turkey straight from the oven, as if it were still alive. Clayton is attempting to swing from the chandelier in his pajamas while Jeff supports his weight upon his shoulders. I’m astonished!

At the same time, I feel like an idiot dressed as I am, yet I know my girls love clothes as much as I do and can’t understand why Alison would dress for Christmas looking like a homeless person! I’d always remembered all my girls being excited about the holidays as we’d shop together buying their Christmas outfits…and all they ever wanted for Christmas were clothes, clothes, more clothes and skis. If I were she, I would at least pretend to be happy to see my mother, and no child of mine would hang from a chandelier, much less in their pajamas in the middle of the afternoon, on Christmas!

Then I hear Clayton say happily, “Hi Mimi,” as he continues his attempt at swinging. I smile at finding that he still remembers me and sing, “Oh sweet pea, come on and dance with me, come on, come on, come on and dance with me.”Clayton giggles and says, “Not ow Mimi, in a minute, I’m doin’ somethin’.”

My next view takes in Rick, Kelly, Lexi and David – Lexi’s adorable young redheaded husband. Also I see Jeff’s recently divorced mother and his three siblings, with their spouses or partners, seated in the family room. They’re all dressed in unkempt jeans and sweatshirts, looking as if they just came in from gardening, acting like they just finished a twenty-four pack of beer at the football game. Rick is posed in his arrogant position of arched back, sneered facial expressions and glassy eyes, rubbing his hands together like an evil cartoon character. Sarcastically he says, “Glad you decided to join us Debbie,” as he now shoot-swings his tongue across his lips, over and over. With his right hand fingers, he quickly swipes his philtrum just under his nose…exactly three times. It’s always three times when Rick performs this ritual, “upper lip-swiping thing.” I’m surprised he doesn’t have a bleeding rash!

Rick sounds just like his arrogant father, Dick, while his body couldn’t weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds…far less than the last time I saw him. He looks exactly like his superficial mother, Shirley, would if she were balding. Alison, 30 and soft-spoken, is now the spitting image of me years ago, with her petite stature and fine, dark, shoulder length hair. She barely acknowledges me, but as if we had been together yesterday says, “Good, you’re here. Now we can eat.”

Alexis “Lexi”, 28 and out-of-character-for-her- arrogance, looking very much like me also, only shorter and very petite , with sandy blonde, long hair, merely mumbles out, “Hi, Meré,” with a coldness I’d never heard from her in my life. Kelly, 21 as haughty as she can be, and still another spitting image of me, only much taller with very blonde, long hair, says nothing. She saw me last night and said nothing too, while her body language mimicked her father’s position and still does today.

I quietly stand up, grab a small spoon from a place setting next to me, and walk around the table dropping spoonfuls of molded salad onto each plate, straight out of the salad mold, as Alison directed. From across the room, like a shot put, I throw the empty mold into the kitchen sink as it clanks against the stainless steel, returning to my seat at the table thinking, “I taught my daughter to entertain graciously, and she loved it. What the hell is this?” What’s worse, no one reacts to the horrible sound of the mold hitting steel, except me, and I’m just trying to fit in.

Clayton now runs across the room and throws his little body over my lap saying, “wove vu Mimi,” giving me a kiss on the cheek, then darts off towards the end of the table and crawling up into his highchair all by himself, pulling the tray down over his head and turning his eyes away from me as if he feels ashamed. As much as I’m grateful for Clayton’s kiss, it feels like someone told him to do it, against his little will, for no other reason than there have been purposeful arrangements made to prevent time for us to reacquaint. I certainly don’t blame him. It’s just heartbreaking and I know, if the day weren’t rushed, my grandson would warm up to me because of the loving relationship we once shared. My family wants to make sure this doesn’t happen.

Rick, just seated, reaches behind him to the kitchen counter and retrieves a sterling fork knife and spoon from a silver storage case and pushes Alison’s wedding silver pattern to the side. It had been placed already denoting his space on the table. He resets his place with his own theoretically cleaner utensils, unfolds his napkin and stuffs the corner down his neck, as a two year old would have their napkin tucked. Then he waits to be served like a “king” and burps so loudly I’m confident that it echoes into the next-door neighbor’s dining room. Everyone laughs but me.

I’m thinking, “I really, really wish I felt like giving you that cool stocking stuffer of a traveling sterling silver flatware set…now that would be funny. But, I’d be the only one laughing.”

Now Rick manically stuffs his mouth with so much food that it’s clear to me his goal is not to hear the conversations around him. Frankly, I’m not sure how this works, but Rick believes it does… I don’t know; I’ve seen much of this behavior before from Rick, but somehow today I’m shocked. Maybe it’s because Rick always stands out, amidst normal people, in the way he acts. Yet today, my daughters, who have always been exactly like me, have become clones of Ricky Boy. Before today, Rick has never acted as weirdly, or so accepting of pure ignorance towards the beauty of life. It’s as if my whole blood group agreed together to completely disgust me, thereby pushing me away. I’m waiting for Rick to fart next.

There just aren’t words; I’m speechless. I don’t even know what I’m doing here, as I fight back tears of pain and moments of laughter at the same time. And, if all this shock weren’t enough for my soul, Alison steps behind Rick and, from over his right shoulder, sets down a glass of water in front of him with Metamucil floating about.

“Oh come on, shouldn’t Metamucil be taken at home in the morning or at night without an audience?” I say to myself. “Why do I have to be reminded of what a glass of water, with floating grains, does to the bowels when I’m ready to eat turkey? I would think other’s would feel the same way!” But no one seems to notice today. Just months ago my daughters would have laughed out loud and each would have made some funny comment. Yet, never have I seen Rick drink this concoction at my Christmas table.

Rick responds in his best loving voice, “Thank you Alison,” while shooting daggers across the table at me with his eyes, saying with them, “Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha-Ha, now I’ve taken your precious girls away from you, and you don’t know how I did it!” Of course he’s rubbing the palms of his hands together and running his tongue across his lips while leaning back, balanced on the back two legs of his chair, his feet straddled on the edge of the table.

“No I don’t,” I think, “but I will figure it all out.” I glare back at Rick with hate in my eyes, watching him down his potion to help unplug his septic system, shot glass style. Metaphorically speaking, I know the reason he can’t poop (if in fact this is his problem) is because he’s stressed. I’ve told him this for years and he’s ignored me. Yet, I’ve never understood exactly what about his life is so stressful. On the other hand Rick’s OCD issues have grown to be very serious, in my mind. He believes if he doesn’t have his morning constitution at exactly 7:00 AM, there’s something wrong.

Using my time wisely, as no one is addressing me at all at this point, I gaze around the room while I pick at my food. Alas, all the photographs, including me, that once sprinkled Alison and Jeff’s home…are gone. I couldn’t care less that my daughter’s table resembles a hillbilly picnic or that I’m left with no gifts. I’m trying to figure out what in the hell is going on! Missing pictures are very disturbing since photography, documenting every milestone of everyone in my family’s life since the middle eighteen hundreds, has been a love and priority. Both Alison and I have what’s equivalent to degrees in photography: hers through college, mine through photography school at the Center For Creative Studies in Detroit. My mother never went anywhere without her camera, nor was my father ever without his movie camera and lights. The multitude of antique photos of family around our home indicates this art goes back into our history. It’s our family heritage.

How could my own family, who I’ve loved for over thirty years with every fiber of my being, treat me in the way that they are? It feels like my family is thinking, “We’ll get rid of all the photographs so no one will know she even lived.”

I have no books to read that can help me understand this. I feel like I just want to die, as I watch Clayton gobble up turkey from the tray of Mother’s Victorian antique highchair that was obviously taken out of my dining room, because I certainly didn’t give it to Alison. She never asked.