She opened the curtains and looked out. No snow.

“No snow, Betty. Too bad, eh? Well. Too bad for everyone else. I guess good for you, though.” There was no reply, and Mary went on. “Good, right? You don’t want snow. You want some breakfast?”

Betty only turned her head.

“Oh, come now. It’s Christmas, right? Christmas! What shall we have? I think I’ll make some eggs, and some bacon. You like eggs. Right?”

Still no response. Mary moved around the bedroom, tucking hair into barrettes, feet into socks, shirt into pants. “These pants. Dammit, Betty. Look at these. I’ll have to change. Something.” Distracted now, wiping the pants, and knowing Betty wouldn’t answer. “I can’t go out like this, can I?”

Mary left the room and went down the hall, muttering. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going out anyway. Why did she start fights when there was no point? She shook her head and plugged in the Christmas lights. The tree cheered out at her in colors, and she sighed. A mixture of happiness and sadness washed over her; she felt a chill and rubbed her elbows.

The chill gave her the same mixture of emotions, so she went to the kitchen and made coffee. “Not good for me, is it? Coffee.” There was no reply. She stood watching the pot drip and alternately enjoying and hating the feeling of solitude. She missed her old percolator; it had felt more alive somehow, it had felt like some hiccupping friend. But now, this almost silent hiss and drip. Ah well, the past was past. That was then. Still smelled good at least.

She moved from the chortling coffeemaker back to the living room and put on the television. It lit the room in sad light and took the cheer out of the tree – but it also took the loneliness out of her spine, and she watched it for a while and waited for the coffee to finish.

Betty came in and sat next to her. Mary smiled at her, but Betty looked away.

“Betty. Why are you so unfriendly today? It’s Christmas morning, you know? I bought you a present. After the coffee is ready, you can have it.” Mary looked at the back of Betty’s head and smiled briefly. “Did you get me one? I guess not. No?”

And still there was no reply from Betty. The twinkling lights reflected off of the couch onto her face, and Mary thought she’d never seen anything as beautiful. But she knew she couldn’t make Betty believe that, any more than she could expect her to be pleasant to her in her old age. Even on Christmas.

Carolers appeared on the television news, and Mary joined in with their song. When it ended and she looked over, Betty was gone again. Mary sighed and went to get coffee, humming.

“God rest ye merry, gentle-men… hm hmm, hm, hmm … Betty? Did you decide on breakfast?” she called. “Betty? Eggs you think?”

She sipped coffee and perused the refrigerator. Maybe ham, instead of bacon. Betty might like that better. Yes. She reached in for eggs and ham, then up for bowls and over for knives. She’d make an omelet maybe, and give Betty half. Or some, at least. Mary sliced ham, judging. Two slices, diced? Three? For two eggs?

“No onion,” she remembered. Not much salt either. She’d salt her own separately. How Betty could stand her food so dull, but that was the way of it. She buttered a pan liberally and whisked eggs while it melted.

“My daughter hated onions, you know,” she said. And it was true. Her daughter had never liked them, cooked or raw, in anything. Wrinkled her nose at them. Mary thought back to a fancy dinner party she’d been invited to, with her daughter. Back in the day. Her daughter had been thirteen then, and had made a huge fuss, embarrassing her. The hostess had been so kind, and rushed to make peanut butter and jelly instead.

“God, I’d like to have died,” Mary muttered, carefully pouring eggs into the pan. Then tears stung her and she shook her head. “That was then, this is now. And now it’s Christmas.” The eggs set up and she added ham and cheese. Betty came in and sat on the barstool, watching. Watching and saying nothing at all.

“I guess you decided you do want some breakfast?” Mary worked the eggs into a fold and swirled them in the pan. “Half of this is too much for you; you don’t weigh a damn thing. I tell you Betty, you need to eat more. I used extra butter for you.” Swirl, swirl, swirl. “I’ll give you a third. Maybe a quarter. How much do you want?” She turned a sharp eye on Betty, who turned away.

“Fine. You’ll get what I give you then. And after, we can open your present. Maybe my daughter will call.” But she knew that wouldn’t happen, and she was sorry she had even thought of it. She slapped herself on the cheek. Lightly, and then harder. That helped, but she didn’t know why; she never did.

She slid a bite of omelet onto a plate and the rest onto another and took them both into the living room. Betty was there, glaring at her. When she saw the plate, her look brightened.

“Merry Christmas! Careful, Betty. It’s hot. I don’t want you to burn yourself. Because I love you. You know that? I do love you.”

When she set down the plate, Betty finally answered her with a meow.