Home for Christmas

The wind talks to me, I swear. It says my name the same way my mother speaks it, cuts it. It whips when all I feel is Red.

And today, it definitely whips. When I arrive at my father’s house for Christmas Eve, the wind is as hollow as can be. As soon as my engine goes quiet, I realize I can’t stay here long. The cold creeps in my car too easily, like the door’s already open. For some reason it makes me want to cry, the emptiness of it all. But I hear my mother’s words say, “You are not a baby anymore. Crying solves nothing,” and climb out. 

Looking at the large, grey house, strung with lights and not a shingle out of place, I break through the surface of perfectly pact snow. This is home. When I reach the old mahogany door, I can see the soft yellow glow from the dining room. This is home. Gently, I push the handle to the door, walking inside to a greeting of, “Nice of you to join us!”

My face gets buried in a half hug from my stepmother, still baking the cookies. When I turn, I see my father entering the doorway from the kitchen with a newspaper in one hand, a mug in the other. A joking, “And I thought you’d be early,” slips from his mouth.

“Car trouble,” I laugh awkwardly. 

He nods his head, glasses sliding to the end of his nose in concentration. No one is here besides the two of them. It’s just the three of us, like always, like it has been since my parents divorced and he kicked my mother out. We only have a few weekends together a year, but for the past four years, my father and I have had a cordial relationship. I try not to think about how distant I feel from them. 

I unzip my jacket and place my bag of gifts by the door. It’s all I could afford this year working as a waitress. I’m respected there, considered a shift manager, not that my mom knows. She just asks if we can pay rent every month. Something inside me twinges, knowing she's alone every Christmas, but a wrath inside me keeps me from feeling too bad. The crack pipe will be enough to keep her company.

I head towards the empty, tall chair at the kitchen table. The counter is onyx, long, and always cool to the touch. The familiarity of everything feels far away. Old memories feel like a movie reel in my head, like none of this was real to begin with. I shake the feeling and sit down, level with my father as I do.

“So, we have some news,” he says, flipping the paper while not looking up. It sounds promising, as things seem to do in his voice.

“What? What is it?”

Abruptly, my stepmother turns around in her apron, face aglow. She’s not just pretty, she’s sunshine on Earth. Her blonde hair hasn’t turned grey yet, and her smile is charmingly lopsided, with cheeks that have freckles splayed across her face like she’s 12 years old. The only indicators of her growing old are the wrinkles by her eyes. Even then, they're shrouded by her baby blues. 

Her eyes crinkle as she glances at my father. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell her."

He smiles at her and I almost feel embarrassed. The two of them have their own private looks. He turns to me.

“We’re expecting-”

“-A baby girl!” my stepmother interrupts. Her hands shoot up like fireworks, but all I can feel is a lopsided world. I am upside down.

My teeth bite down on my tongue and I yelp. They both look quizzically at me. I need to find a way to not screw this up. I try to compose myself, but something bubbles at the surface. A twisted feeling takes over.

“That’s nice.” They stare, confused.

I continue, unabashed. “But are you sure? Aren’t you a little old? Is the baby going to be healthy? I mean, isn’t it bad when a woman is older or whatever?”

My stepmother deflates. Instantly, I feel betrayed by my feelings. I’m a bad person, my mind whispers.

The response has my dad’s attention immediately. He furrows his eyebrows. “I’m not sure that’s relevant. We’re having the baby, Alizeh.” 

He waits a beat. My name hangs in the air. I hold my shame steadily, unwavering with stubbornness.

“It does change things for you. We’ll be converting your room to the baby’s room.”

The steadiness collapses. It's replaced by the Red feeling. Everything swells up inside me and the wind seems to bang against the glass.

My hands clench, and my voice breaks, “You can’t take away my room. I’ve had that room forever.  I grew up there. Just because I don’t live here doesn’t mean that’s not my room!” 

My fists bang against the granite as I get up and use my chair to angrily screech against the tile floor. Then I look at them both, my stepmother’s bewilderment and my father’s disappointment, and with tears in my eyes, I run.

I run and I run and I run.

The feelings of shame and guilt and red and anger and lonely swarm. I run outside, a still air filling my lungs as I plunge further into the backyard, where a forest awaits. I hear footsteps coming my way but ignore them, running further. My hot cheeks burn their way through landing snowflakes. I am 17 and my room is being taken by an embryo.

My stringy, brown hair sticks to the sides of my temple as I slow my steps. Silence crackles.

Giving up, I sink to my knees into the deep snow. My throat restricts at the thought of a blue-eyed baby girl, as perfect as can be. Why am I the wind and she is the sunshine? How is it so easy to break me? I should go in and apologize. But sitting here, sitting here in the numbness, with everything dead and gone around me, feels right. The wind picks up, caressing my tear-stained cheeks in a little whisper and says a soft hello. Nice of you to join us, I snort.

Suddenly, a voice, cuts through, deep and meaningful. I turn to see my father, looking at me with knowing eyes. My heart hurts. He reaches out a hand and says, “It’s okay. You’re still my baby girl.” 

The forgiveness in his very being makes it worse. I am the worst. I wipe my tears away with my sweater. "Daddy," my voice trembles.

I haven't muttered the words in years. They feel foreign. But I know he recognizes it. I know he's always recognized it.

I stand up and take his hand, crumbling to his chest, enveloping in his warmth. "I don't want to share you," I garble into his jacket.

"I know," he whispers, petting my damp head.

And we stand like that, seconds beating by into nothingness. And suddenly, none of it matters. Not my mom being a dead-beat, drug addict, not my dad losing custody of me in court, not my house being infiltrated by a better looking, half-sister - nothing.

I break away from the hug, needing to apologize to the man who loves me unconditionally.

"I'm sorry, I know I'm always so many.. emotions around you, dad. I just can't be that way with mom, Yano?"

He nods. "You had to grow up too fast. I'm sorry." I fold back into his arms.

"Not fast enough," I whisper.