Justine called on Christmas day to say she was thinking of killing herself. I said, “We’re in the middle of opening presents, Justine. Could you possibly call back later, that is, if you’re still alive.”
She was furious with me and called me all sorts of names which I refuse to dignify by repeating them. I hung up on her and returned to the joyful task of opening presents.
Everyone seemed delighted with what they got, and that definitely included me. I placed a few more logs on the fire, and then the phone rang again. This time it was Hugh and he had just taken all of his pills and washed them down with a quart of gin. “Sleep it off, Hugh,” I said, “I can barely under-stand you, you’re slurring so badly. Call me tomorrow, Hugh, and Merry Christmas.”
The roast in the oven smelled delicious. The kids were playing with their new toys. Loni was giving me a big Christmas kiss when the phone rang again. It was Debbie. “I hate you,” she said. “You’re the most disgusting human being on the planet.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I said, “and I’ve always been aware of this. Nonetheless, Merry Christmas, Debbie.”
Halfway through dinner the phone rang again, but this time Loni answered it. When she came back to the table she looked pale. “Who was it?” I asked. “It was my mother,” she said. “And what did she say?” I asked. “She said she wasn’t my mother,” she said.
