I wonder if he’ll be home for the holidays...

When I was a kid, my mom and I were driving down Route 1 in Massachusetts when she pulled to the side of the road on what’s called the “auto-mile.”

It was nighttime. And it was cold enough that I was wearing a winter jacket and I was young enough to be sitting in the back seat.

Mom gets out of the car with the hazards on. I see her cross in front of the windshield and start jog-walking toward someone who's strolling along the edge of the right lane of traffic. It’s not a traditional four-lane highway, per se, but it’s busy and congested. Car dealership after car dealership line both sides of the road.

I have no idea what’s going on. I can’t see their faces—just two shadows standing next to each other in the overhead spotlights from the Toyota lot. The passenger door opens and a man climbs in. He doesn’t say anything. My mom gets back in and we start driving. She’s asking questions and he’s only occasionally responding, giving one-word answers. After an extended silence the car stops again. My mom leans forward like she’s about to reach across to the passenger side but doesn’t. I can’t read her facial expression. After he gets out and we start driving again, it’s silent. No radio, no Christmas music. My chest feels tight and my throat's dry. My lungs think I’m trying to yell but only a whisper comes out.

“Who was that?”

A pause.

“That was my brother,” she says. “Your uncle.”

She tells me nobody’s seen him in years. I ask “how come?” She says he’s had a hard life, even as they were kids. That she’s been worried about him—this man I didn’t know even existed. That he doesn’t have a phone. He moves a lot and changes jobs when he does. Restaurants and construction mostly, she says. He keeps to himself. Once he was engaged but, now, she thinks he might not have anyone else in his life. Like at all.

She sighs.

And so, she invites him to our house for Christmas with my cousins, my aunt and uncle, and my grandparents. But, she adds, she’s not sure if he’ll want to be with the family… that we’ll have to see if he comes or not.

Days, or maybe weeks later, I’m sitting at the table and he's there, eating.

We aren't religious so we don't say Grace or anything, but we do wait until everyone has food. Then we say cheers. He didn't. Glasses clinked while people reached past him. He didn’t look up. It grew quiet when we began eating, and then the questions started. I knew they would. Something about Al Gore and “you can’t be serious" and Bush said this and he meant that... I wasn’t listening. I was watching the quiet man sitting across from me diagonally.

He still hadn’t looked up.

When he finally did, I saw he had a long face with high cheekbones, thinning hair, and blank eyes. Tired eyes, maybe. His stubble rippled slowly while chewing. He looked around, scanning the faces at the table without acknowledgement. When his eyes met mine, though, they softened. If just barely. His cheeks pulled into a thin half-grin, mouth still closed. I remember wondering if it was loud or quiet inside his head. It looked like maybe he exhaled through his nose, and then he tipped his head back down toward his plate.

His eyebrows never moved.

I’ve always wondered which was the mask—the face he wore with us, when home for the holidays, or the one he wore out there in the world by himself. And I’ve never asked. Even when he came to live with us.

I don’t even know if he knows.

He’s disappeared and reappeared over the years since then. So have I. But every year I wonder if he’ll be home for the holidays. And I hope he knows that.

* * *

Don't we all?

onward.

For more on this daily column, read the backstory here. And if you know someone who'd appreciate this, pass it along.