The Christmas After

I gasp as I'm startled awake. There is an old lady sitting across from me looking at me as if I'm crazy, which I must admit I seem like I am. A sixteen-year old all alone on a train, the day before Christmas. My dark blond hair is a shaggy mess that almost touches my shoulders, my face is covered with what is either dirt or food, and I’m clutching my bag as if it had my grandfather's ashes in it or something. She probably thinks I’m a homeless boy planning to rob her. I sigh and try to fix up my hair and wipe my face with the back of my lint-covered worn blue hoodie, then look around and see that the train car is now practically empty. It's just me, the judgy grandma and a couple sitting a few seats back. The landscape outside has changed, too. No more grey, dull buildings and streets packed with people who are always busy or bothered by something, who think their problems are the most important and would rather step on one another than to wait just a second. No more automobiles flooding the roads, nor the symphony of car horns in the air. The cloud of pollution has cleared, and now all one can see are big, rolling hills, with mountains of snow decorating the trees and covering the usually green grass like an ivory blanket. Here and there, a house or two pop up, maybe a farm, but nothing like the buildings in downtown London, piled one on top of the other. The only sound there is to be heard is the machinery of the train. I look at the time: I’ve been out for about an hour. There should be two more to go before I get to my aunt Cathy’s. And that's where the real problems begin. She’ll start off by saying how much I've grown and oh, how I’m a real man now. Then she’ll say, for the millionth time, how much I resemble my parents and that she’s so sorry about their deaths. She’ll tell me that she's here for me if I ever want to move in with her, and blah blah blah. I know I’m not going to change my mind. I decided back in March, right after they died, that I would rather not. Thankfully, my school has a boarding option, so I was able to stay there. She is still my legal guardian, but we haven’t seen each other since the summer ended. Frankly, I’d rather keep it that way. I’d prefer to stay in my dorm and spend Christmas alone reading a book, but I can’t. I have to come to my dear sweet aunt’s place, hear all the details about yet another one of her boyfriends, and spend time with people who I met when I was a baby. People who will give me their condolences, as if that will fix anything. This is my first of many holidays without my parents. Nothing anyone can say will ever change that. It’s too much to hope that my aunt will let me lock myself in a room for the holidays. While my mom, her sister, was the quiet one who always had her eyes in a book, aunt Cathy was, as she liked to brag,  the “heart of the party”, always hosting and entertaining, so I doubt this year will be different. 

As I’m getting off the train, I hear someone calling my name. I know right away, by the high-pitched voice, that it’s my aunt. She is a short middle-aged woman with cat-eye glasses and glossy brown hair, just a shade darker than my mother’s. 

“Leo, Leo, over here!”

Wonderful, now the whole train station knows my name. She should shout out my last name, too, while she’s at it. I’m sure everyone would love to know that Leo Jenkins is here in Cotswold, England.  As she makes her way through the crowd, I notice how different she is from the people in London. She actually says “excuse me”, and doesn't shove through like there is a prize at the end. I'm snapped out of my thoughts when she envelopes me in a hug so tight she might make me spend Christmas in the hospital, which I will admit, sounds far more appealing than her festivities. She opens her mouth to speak, and I mentally prepare myself for the assault of words I know will follow.

“Oh, my dear boy, how you have grown! You’re taller than me now, aren’t you! Why, I’ll say you look exactly like your parents. You have your father’s jaw; oh, and your hair has grown so long you need a haircut, don’t you. Your mother was just the same, her hair grew back in weeks, and our father always complained she would bleed us dry with her visits to the hairdresser. He got so fed up with it, he decided to learn how to cut hair himself. Oh, you would have laughed at the sight! Our father, a beast of a man, cutting a little girl's hair with his hairdresser apron on, and he did so for your mother every month or so. Oh, how I miss her, and your father too! They were both so kind. I'm so sorry you had to go through what you did, my boy; just know, if you ever need anything, I’m always a call away and happy to help.”

I was exactly right. Almost word for word what I expected her to say. I know she means well, but calling her would be the last thing I would do if I needed help. She would make far too great a fuss. I smile, and answer:

“Thanks, aunt Cathy, I'm glad to see you too.”

Just then, a middle-aged man appeared behind her. 

“Oh, Leo honey, meet John,” says my aunt looking at the man with starry eyes. 

I would think she was truly in love and getting married. This is my aunt however; she never seems to settle down, or can’t get them to stay. The man, John, comes forward to shake my hand. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Leo, your aunt speaks so much about you,” he says. I notice he has a faint accent, perhaps Australian, but I'm not sure.

“Nice to meet you too, sir,” I answer, making it clear that he is not family, though he is clearly close with my aunt.

“Well, let's not just stand here in the middle of traffic! John, help Leo with his bags, will you?” 

“It's fine, I can manage on my own,” I say, careful not to let the man grab my backpack. It may not carry my grandfather's ashes, but it still is very important to me. I won’t let this stranger touch the bag that has my parents' wedding rings in it.  

The drive to aunt Cathy’s is quite awkward. She keeps trying to make conversation and tell me about “dear John”. Apparently, he came to England from New Zealand a couple of years ago. He’s a writer. Now I understand why she dragged him here. My clever aunt thinks that, just because I like to read, a writer “parental figure” might help bring me out of my funk.  She’s really invested, I'll give her that, but it won’t work. She’s tried sending me to therapists, getting me to “open up” to them if not her, but this is a new one. If I won’t talk to a family member or a specialist, why would I talk to a complete stranger?

By the time we reach the house, the sky is already darkening. I’ve never seen it in winter. My parents and I avoided it at all costs during the holidays. The last thing we needed was her massive parties to ruin our good time. At the thought of my parents, my stomach drops and my heart hurts again. I have learned to control my feelings and not cry in front of others. If I cry right now, my aunt will probably think it’s because of her overly-decorated house. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it’s the North Pole. There are lights everywhere and all the trees have large heavy globes hanging off them. 

“Well, what do you think?” she asks.

“It’s… umm, it’s really something. I’ve never seen so many colours in one place,” I answer with difficulty. 

“I knew you’d like it!” she says, clapping her hands together. 

I mean, how am I supposed to tell her my eyes hurt, when she looks so delighted. She may not be my favourite person, but I don’t want to seem rude. The inside is almost as bad. There are stockings hanging everywhere, as if a family of twenty lived here. Let's not even mention the million bells placed on every handle, which make an annoying jingling every time someone dares to open a door. Then, in the middle of the living room sits the Christmas tree. Never in my life have I seen anything as massive. I truly do not comprehend how my short little aunt managed to get this thing through the door. I guess that's where John came in. Who knows, maybe he truly is the one for her. She tells me to go put my stuff down and get settled in, and that she’ll call me down for dinner. I climb up the large staircase and go to the bedroom I always use: the blue room. It has (surprise!) blue walls and sandy white bookshelves, a large bed in the middle and a nightstand of the same wood. My mom used to keep all her books on these exact shelves. She and aunt Cathy spent their entire childhood in this house. When my parents got married, my grandfather renovated it and offered it to them, but they chose to live in the city, where I was born and raised. My aunt inherited the house when grandpa died, as my parents had not wanted it. I always wonder how it would have been to live here permanently. It’s a very beautiful house. It’s very big as well. Would I be betraying my parents if I came to live in the house they did not want? It doesn’t matter much. After all, I would have to live with aunt Cathy, and she is far too cheery for my taste. In the months after my parents died, she seemed to recover the quickest. She threw a party for a friend's birthday not two months later. She did not look affected by their deaths as much as she should have been. No, I will not move in with that kind of person. I go to the dresser and unpack my things, with the determination to enjoy the holidays as little as possible. I hear my aunt say goodbye to John and watch his car drive off. She calls me down for dinner about half an hour later. I go, eat without saying a word, clean my plate and head to bed as her protests follow me up the stairs. I smile as I get into bed, feeling pleased with myself.

I wake up with blearing sunlight shining through my blinds. For a moment, I forget where I am and begin panicking. I look around and see blue walls, bookshelves everywhere, filled with books, far more than I have in my dorm. I’m in the blue room. At aunt Cathy’s.  I grab my phone off the nightstand. It’s nine-thirty in the morning. I always wake up around seven to get ready for school. Some days I even go to the gym. I started going after my parents died, and now I actually look forward to it. I wasn’t a very big guy, nor was I very fast, but the gym helped me with that, and now I made the soccer team. I just wish my parents were here to see it. My dad loved soccer, as did my mom. I’m snapped out of my thoughts when I hear pots and pans crashing down in what I assume is the kitchen. I sigh and get out of bed. I don’t feel as pleased as I had felt yesterday. I don’t want to hurt my aunt, but I don’t understand why she doesn’t care more. I won’t apologize for how I acted, but I will try to be a little nicer. I don’t have to ruin her Christmas just because mine is ruined. I change into a pair of black sweatpants and a grey hoodie and head downstairs to see what the mess is.

When I enter the kitchen, It’s like I’ve stepped into a whole different world. There is stuff everywhere, flour on the floor and the distinct smell of burning in the air. My aunt has her back to me and is cooking up a storm. 

“Aunt Cathy, is everything all right?” I ask, looking concerned.

“Oh, hello dearie, I didn’t hear you come in. I’m just trying to bake for the Christmas party tonight. I have no idea what I’m doing here, I usually get catering, you know, but there is a blizzard coming so they cancelled on me. Can you believe it, cancelling on Christmas Eve??”

“That sounds awful,” I mumble, surveying the mess. 

“Well, it’s not going well. I just don’t get these instructions, I thought I did everything right. I put the batter in the oven for less than twenty minutes and it started burning. Do you think you could lend me a hand, my boy?” 

“I don’t really know how to bake,” I stammer, trying to find a way out of this. The last thing I need is to be caught in one of her conversations.

 “As if I do! Come, we’ll figure it out together.” 

“Well, what are you making?” I ask, realizing I have no way out.

“We can start by redoing the brownies I tried to make,” she says, pulling the burnt batch out of the oven. I grab a dish rag to wave the smoke away. We start over, working in the mess, because there is no time for cleaning. She asks me how my grade eleven year went, what I like doing for fun and basically anything she missed since summer. As we talk, we finish the brownies and start on the cookies. I hate to say it, but I’m having fun. I even caught myself laughing a couple of times. We finish the baking at around three, right when John comes in. I excuse myself to go upstairs. I throw myself on the bed and look up at the ceiling. I feel awful; on one hand I’m having fun, on the other I still feel like I’m betraying my parents. I stay in my room the rest of the afternoon, feeling torn.

The party guests begin piling in around seven o’clock. I debate going down, but every time I think of it, I feel guilty again. Around eight in the evening, I hear a knock. Then the door opens and, surprisingly, John comes in. He sits on the edge of my bed looking hesitant. I already know he is going to attempt to convince me to come down. 

“I know this year has been a hard one for you,” he begins, “harder than it should be for any kid. Your aunt told me about your parents, how they died in March. She always speaks of them; it sounds like they were amazing people, and I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks,” I say, already getting irritated. What right does he have to speak like he knows me or the situation? I open my mouth to tell him off.

“I know I have no right,” he says, stopping me in my tracks. “I thought you would like to know that I lost my sister to cancer when I was seventeen.”

I look at him dumbfounded. “I'm so sorry, and I know that can’t make up for it.”

“Thank you. You know, it took me a while to accept that it was alright to feel happy in her absence. Now, I know, you and I don’t really know each other yet, and you might not feel the same way I did, but I thought you could use this advice. It is alright to feel happiness after their deaths. Your life didn’t end when they died. They wouldn't want you to be sad or unhappy, and especially guilty for having fun,” he says, looking me in the eyes. 

“How did you know…”

“That you were feeling guilty? Because I felt the same. I couldn’t do any thing without the thought of her. Leo, your aunt loves you and wants you to be happy. She cares about you, which is why I want you to come down if you are ready.”

He gets up to leave, and I sit motionless, thinking about what he said. Can I really be happy with them gone? He’s right; my parents, who loved me, wouldn’t want me to be miserable. I get excited as I make my decision. I can still mourn them, and love them, while living my own life. I walk down the stairs and see my aunt looking at me with surprise and joy written all over her face. I smile at her, and from the corner of my eye, I spot a familiar face. The old lady from the train! She is the last person I want to see right now! She looks just as stern as before; but wait, the girl next to her is the complete opposite! She’s quite the looker… I see my aunt approach them and they speak for a moment, then the group turns and heads towards me. This Christmas just got a whole lot better real quick. Thank God my face is clean this time!