Bitter Taste of Lingonberries

I know you hated waiting for things. Weekends, parties, birthdays. But damn it, Jonah, did you have to hurry with this too...

Noah stood there, a dog-eared sheet of printer paper in hand that had been folded and unfolded so many times, the line in the middle had turned furry. A few more folds and it would tear.

The windows were opened and a slight summery breeze drifted through the room. That was of little help. A stream of sweat ran down his back as he tugged on the neck of his sweater. It was the ugliest, most uncomfortable Christmas sweater known to man.

Noah ran his gaze across the room. Faces. So many faces. Some were looking at him with pity. Some only seemed to be looking at him, but their eyes were empty, as if they’d drifted off elsewhere. Some were confused. Some were staring at their laps. Noah was most grateful for those last ones. He would’ve wanted to do the same.

A stubborn lump was lodged in his throat and his voice cracked at the first word.

"Three weeks ago, in the middle of July, just when we got back from trick-or-treating, Jonah gave me this sweater."

A bunch of lingonberries hovered in his water glass. One was slightly paler than the others.

"Yeah, you don’t have to awww or pretend it’s sweet. It’s hideous and I know it. He knew it. That was the point. He got one for himself as well," Noah pointed at the identical sweater that hung over the back of the empty chair next to him.

The people sitting at the table sank lower in their seats and hid their glances when Noah paused.

"Ahem... yeah. This, here," Noah gestured around the room that was filled with wreaths, fake snow and blinking lights, stopping at the Christmas tree, "it’s for Jonah."

"not right..." Noah heard a whisper from the far end of the long table.

Noah’s mom sat on his other side. She tightly held on to a crumpled tissue. Tears flowed down her cheeks and dripped onto her lap, leaving dark spots on her skirt. Her expression was numb, but her eyelids and lower lip shivered.

"I didn’t quite catch that." Noah turned in the direction of the whisper. The table was quiet. "Don’t be shy now."

Aunt Karen gulped, fidgeting uncomfortably as the entire table turned to look at her.

"I said it’s not right. This costume party is no proper funeral." Her voice faded on the last word as she pointed at the golden tinsel on the table. Noah placed his hand on his mom’s shoulder as she tried to steady her breathing.

"But it is," he looked directly at Aunt Karen who was staring at her empty plate, "Do you know why we’re all stewing here in our Christmas sweaters, next to this blinking tree, having a Christmas feast while my brother’s chair is empty?"

Karen tapped her forehead with her sleeve. It was hard to tell if she was sweating more because of the combination of the humid August heatwave and woolen sweater or because of the unexpected spotlight. She reached for the equally sweaty glass of water in which the ice cubes had long melted. It left a ring on the red table cloth.

"I imagine quite a few of you have that question. We knew we’d have to explain it." Almost everyone shifted in their seats, peeking at Noah and his parents.

"A few months ago, Jonah’s health suddenly got worse and the doctors told us that instead of the ten months they'd initially thought he had left, it looked more like three. That pulled the rug out from under us."

The day Jonah had come back from the doctor’s in May, Noah had been sitting in his room. Jonah wandered in and landed on the bean-chair. He didn't say anything at first—he just sat there, watching Noah read his book.

"So, what do you think, let’s go and try that pizza place tonight?"

That one question had been enough to make Noah's blood run cold. 'That pizza place' was a place that had opened in town a few weeks prior. Their main specialty was a "meter pizza" as in a pizza one meter in diameter. The brothers had planned to celebrate their seventeenth birthday there in September.

"How bad?" Noah asked, closing his book silently.

Jonah was rhythmically tapping on his knuckles with the index finger of his other hand. His eyes fixed on his hands, he said, "Three months. Tops."

The tapping stopped at the last word. And before Noah got a chance to say anything, Jonah continued.

"Please don’t overreact. It’s just... Mom’s already a mess, and I don’t know what to say to her. Dad’s hiding in the woodshed, chopping logs with an axe like he doesn’t have two different log splitters sitting in the garage, and a decade's worth of firewood ready. I’m messing everything up..."

Noah felt his eyes prickling and his vision blurring at the edges. He hated that Jonah was blaming himself for his illness. As if he’d chosen it. He straightened his back and coughed, just to be sure his voice wouldn’t let him down.

"I guess we’re having a huge-ass pizza for dinner."

"That same day in May, Jonah decided that since he probably wouldn’t live to see his birthday we should turn the pizza dinner into his birthday celebration. He didn’t give us much of a choice anyway. When the pizza arrived, he pulled out four party hats and one of these annoying party blowouts. That made it official."

Dad's arm was wrapped around Mom’s shoulders and they’d leaned their heads against each other.

"I now had a twin brother who used to be six and a half minutes younger than me, suddenly nearly four months older than me—by his own made-up logic anyway. I didn’t argue with him. None of us did."

Noah wiped away one traitor of a tear that had somehow wiggled its way out and was now hanging in the corner of his eye. Nine lingonberries were floating in his water as he sipped on it. He’d counted them earlier.

"I think for a moment there it felt like old times. At his fake birthday party, you know. It felt like life was back to how it was before Jonah’s diagnosis. That night he told me he wanted to celebrate as many holidays as possible in the time he had left. The fact that there actually weren't any holidays happening during that time didn't stop him."

Noah patted the sweater hanging over Jonah’s empty chair and continued, turning to the bunch of their classmates. "Yeah, he tried to uphold his cool-guy image, but he was actually a big softie. A complete sucker for all kinds of holidays."

Everyone at the table, as well as those standing at the back, looked like they were sitting in a sauna. The faces were sweaty and shining, and everyone had strands of hair stuck to their necks and temples—except Uncles Charles and Carl who looked like two glossy eggs with their bald heads.

"So we did that. We did everything. We had countless game nights the following month. Dad took some time off work and we went on trips and hikes. Three weeks ago, this hall and the entire house were in full autumn mode. Pumpkins everywhere, leaves and candles and you name it. We even baked cinnamon buns and a pumpkin pie. Yeah... that pie tastes wrong in the summer. And we went trick-or-treating. Yup, in the middle of July. Grumpy old lady Gertrud from across the street was not amused.

Jonah actually suggested we go as George and Fred, you know, from Harry Potter, but I told him that would’ve been cheating. I mean... red-head twin brothers... hello! We lived in these costumes. I finally managed to convince him to go as Harry and Hermione.

Now, Jonah, if you’re listening in from wherever you are—well first of all, you should send me a sign 'cause we agreed, remember?—" Noah held his breath and looked around. Others followed his example. It was quiet, except for the neighbour kids' excited splashing in the pool and the "Silent Night" that was barely audible in the background, "eh, worth a try. Anyway, if you’re listening, sorry, but not sorry. I loved you—I loved my brother more than anything, but holy cow, he was not a pretty girl. And those round glasses did not suit me. At all."

Mom snorted quietly and the corner of her lips twitched slightly. Dad smiled at her and handed her a dry tissue.

"That night when we were munching on our soggy melted chocolates—which is another good reason why Halloween does not work as a summery holiday, by the way—Jonah dug out these sweaters and told me he wanted to do Christmas as well. August seventh, he announced. That’s today. We made an entire plan, went gift shopping and found a tree. Nobody sells Christmas trees in July. Just a little fun fact, if you didn’t know. But we went roaming around the woods and found one that was perfect," Noah pointed at the blinking tree in the corner.

"Clearly, we grossly misjudged the size of it in the forest... that’s why the top of it is curling against the ceiling like this. Jonah thought it still looked cool so we left it as it was.

We planned the entire menu and divided jobs in the kitchen. You should’ve seen him doing research on how to make a perfect turkey. I mean, he took it seriously... I don’t know what he got me for a gift. I haven’t opened it yet."

Noah grabbed the wrapped box and lifted it higher. He weighed it in his hand and shook it by his ear. It was heavy for its size and didn’t make any sound.

"He was so excited for our Christmas morning. Not because of the gifts he was getting himself, but because of the gifts he had planned for everyone else."

Noah placed the box carefully back on the table, lining it perfectly with the fork and knife next to his plate. He sipped on his water. Five lingonberries left.

"Four days ago I got up early to make Nanna’s famous Christmas cake. Apparently, it needed to be soaked with rum for at least three days before eating. Right, Nanna?" Noah turned to his grandmother who had pressed a tight fist against her mouth. She nodded slightly.

"I put the cake in the oven and went to wake Jonah. He... That was the... um... He was gone."

Mom blew her nose, her hands shaking. Dad, his arm still around Mom's shoulders, had turned his face away from the table.

The humid August air, dense and full of static, started to tighten around throats.

"So, Aunt Karen," Noah turned to his aunt, "to put your mind, and maybe someone else’s, at ease... We’re not having Christmas dinner today while our neighbours are splashing in their pool, because we didn’t want to waste the preparations or we’re too cheap to spend extra on Jonah. We're not sitting here, listening to 'Jingle bell rock' and eating turkey because we couldn’t bother throwing Jonah an actual funeral. We’re doing this because he wanted it."

His voice was now shaking and tears flowed uncontrollably, but he continued.

"He wanted to spend one more Christmas with his family, being his annoying self with the songs, the cake and the sweaters. Especially the sweaters. He knew how to laugh. At himself first and foremost. For fuck’s sake, the guy marked his own supposed death date in the calendar with a skull and crossbones sticker. Sorry, Mom, for swearing."

Mom grabbed Noah’s hand and squeezed it tightly. "So let’s give this weird-ass, sweaty Christmas to him. Please?" Noah looked at everyone in the room when he said that, his face wet from tears and sweat.

"For him. For Jonah. Raise your glasses of this warm water. There’s mulled wine coming too, by the way. And let’s sing along with Mariah Carey and celebrate the coolest brother one could ever have wished for."

One last lingonberry was floating in Noah's glass.