It was Christmas eve, 1986 when my younger brother brought his girlfriend, who would soon become his first ex-wife, home to meet the family.
My brother had been uncharacteristically silent about Fiona but what little we did know about her was not good, and by 7:00, when my brother and Fiona were set to make their entrance, my mother’s lips had been compressed into non-existence and my middle sister was doing cartwheels at the thought that, finally, one of her siblings was going to bring home someone more inappropriate than anyone she ever had. My older sister was saying things like, “I’m sure she’s a lovely person once you get to know her!” and I was wishing I was dead before 7:00, a new record.
What we knew was that Fiona had just turned 40 (my brother was 21) and worked as a letter carrier. Prior to working for the Post Office she had been a Catholic nun; she entered the nunnery when she was not successful in her chosen career, which was to be a Rockette.
My middle sister and I were watching through the front window as my brother and Fiona walked up the driveway. We took one look at the skin tight leather pants, the stiletto heels and the sequined tube top and exchanged a glance. “Ohboyohboyohboy,” said my sister softly and I nodded, stunned.
I heard my mother, clearly determined to be a gracious hostess, take a deep breath and open wide the door. “Welcome!” she said as her big dog Lucas, a sedate Golden Retriever, walked down the driveway, as was his habit, to greet the guests.
When my brother saw Lucas he kneeled down to give him a hug at the exact moment that Fiona pulled a can of mace out of her purse, aimed and fired. Fortunately, her aim was bad and she missed Lucas but hit my brother squarely in the eyes.
Things got very exciting very quickly. Lucas, showing a level of enthusiasm I had not seen in years, yelped and ran into the house at the same moment the rest of us ran out. Meanwhile, my brother was swearing in English and my mother was swearing in Slovenian and Fiona was saying things like “Well, what would you do if a vicious dog attacked you?” and my older sister was trying to wipe my brother’s eyes and my middle sister told me, sotto voce, “Oh, he wins, hands down!” and I kept wishing I was dead.
It took some time but eventually our little party went slowly into the house and my brother washed his face and tried to be a good sport although he spent the rest of the night crying — prophetic since he spent most of the next three years crying. My mother and sisters made polite small talk through gritted teeth while I consoled Lucas and hated Fiona silently from across the room.
Mom took another deep breath and, determined to move on from our unfortunate beginning, suggested we all go out to her extravagantly decorated patio for some wine before dinner. My mother always loved Christmas and was inordinately proud of how extensively she decorated her house.
Now, we walked outside and Fiona looked with wonder at the colored lights on every tree and bush, at the lighted wreaths in every window and the bows on every fence post. She looked overhead where my mother had strung rows and rows of tiny white lights to make a magical Christmas canopy.
My brother put his arm around Fiona. “What do you think of Ma’s decorations?” he said, wiping away the tears.
“I think it looks like a used car lot out here,” said Fiona.