An Early Christmas Present

I followed his steps. Long, elegant strides lead him to a door opposite the courtyard. The glass building reflected headlights of cars flashing across the main street just behind the corner. He reached for the handle-the door was locked. With a searching look, he scanned the mass of doorbells installed on his right-hand side.

“Thank you so much for that Kay, great point.”

My head spun back to the front of the room, leaving the man outside to search for the right doorbell by himself. The professors looked around the room at the few students who decided to show up to the last class of the semester.

As the professors finished up the lecture with some words of encouragement and closure, one-by-one the students stood up, gathering their belongings. As I sat in my seat, not yet bothering to start packing up, a sense of ease passed through me. It felt as though the whole room was fighting back a sigh of relief. For the next couple of weeks, we were free. Some would be going home and seeing their families. Some, although they had been doing it all year long, were going to drink their way through the holiday. The air in the room seemed to be running out, as excited commotion replaced it. I felt a strong urge to run outside, to breathe in the fresh air, to savour the sweetness of the evening. The professors could probably sense our restlessness, so they smiled and wished us an enjoyable holiday.

The chilly evening air penetrated my lungs as I walked to the nearby train station. My commute home was rather longer than what I was used to growing up, but in the giant span of the city I lived in now, it was as normal as a commute could get. I thought of the warmth of my room as my fingers started turning into stalactites that seemed to dangle from the sleeves of my jacket. It reminded me of the cold winters that I spent with my family. 

The sudden wave of nostalgia brought back memories of what at first, felt like someone else’s life. A family that was complete, one that was whole. Memories of cold winter days that harboured snowball fights, obese snowmen and freezing noses that melted at the sight of the fireplace. There were years and years of these memories somewhere in the floods of recollection safely stored away. 

The train appeared around the corner. I stared at the nearing headlights of the front wagon and subconsciously walked back from the edge of the platform. As the train reached the station, I mindlessly walked alongside it as it came to a stop. I positioned myself to the right of the opening doors to let passengers out. A woman, in her forties maybe, stepped out, followed closely by what seemed at first two little bundles of clothes. A young man, probably my age, tentatively strode out, holding a phone in his hand, glancing around him and back at the phone again. He focused on the symbols below the sign that announced the name of the train station. Stuffing his phone away, he quickened his pace and headed for the nearby staircase. My eyes trailed back to the open doors where one last person was emerging. I stepped over the edge of the platform and onto the train, positioning myself right in front of the closing doors. I took out my phone and skipped several songs until I got to the one I wanted. Edith Whiskers’s “Home” rang through my headphones.

A soft hand brushed my cheek. I was laying on a soft mattress, large french windows to my left were wide open. The setting sun made my mosaic-covered walls dance with colour. A summer breeze played with my eyelashes as I opened my eyes. She was sitting next to me, brushing away lost hairs that wandered onto my face while I slept. There were shadows on her face. Not that of trees that lined the garden outside, but shadows that showed the innermost depth of an ocean. Shadows that day-by-day, week-by-week got darker, carving deeper lines in her face. She smiled, but it never reached her eyes. It was as though it got lost in the crossroads of paths lining them. She was fading, and there was nothing I could do about it. The way he hurt her - not only physically, but mentally: his mood swings, never-ending complaints, unkind remarks, manipulative tactics. I could see the hurt growing inside her. Their marriage was never perfect. It wasn’t as though this villain in him grew over time. He was there from the beginning, just hiding behind rose-coloured tapestries.  

The train was moving steadily through the dark-engulfed city. It had a different kind of beauty at night, filled with an array of various streaks of colours and noises. The train came to a stop at a packed train station. I emerged out of it and walked straight up the first set of stairs. Scanning the ever-changing board in front of me, I turned in the direction of my next train. Two minutes. If I sped up a little, I could still make it. I turned the corner and briskly walked down the stairs to the platform. The train had just arrived, and people were filing out. I entered the train just as the noise notifying closing doors sounded. I plopped myself down on one of the plastic seats that lined the sides of the train. A man sat in front of me, dressed head to toe in denim, sporting giant red sunglasses. He smiled at me when he noticed my stare. I turned away, feeling my face get a little warm. I still had not quite accustomed to the eccentric styles of some people. To have been brought up in a village meant embedding a never-resting judge in me. This train was a lot less packed. As it left the station and approached the more residential areas outside the commotion of the city centre, more families replaced the eccentric-looking people. My eyes found themselves following dads, making sure their children were wrapped tightly in their winter attire and mums pushing prams through the wagon. 

Living without him was a rollercoaster of emotions. He didn’t give up easily and fought hard to make us feel miserable for leaving him. It felt liberating to be free of his constant control and vigilance, but every day our regret-fuelled pity pulled us down. We felt happier and safer, but paranoia interrupted our already sleep-less nights. For months we lived on our tippy toes, unable to move forward, but not able to go back either. We cut all contact with him. Blocked his phone number, threw out anything that reminded us of him, changed our emails, closed our eyes whenever we had to drive by his house. It was a cleanse - a physical and mental one - an almost catharsis. It took us months, but we got there in the end. We completely cut ourselves off. Our lives changed for the better without him, but I still think of him sometimes. Where he is, what he could be doing, whether there is any regret in him. I look for him in every person I meet, subconsciously hoping he came to apologise, hoping he remembered everything and regretted more than even I could remember. It’s a recipe for disappointment. He never comes. I don’t think he even knows where I live. There’s no-one to tell him. I think of unblocking his number sometimes, accidentally sending him my address, leaving it there long enough to make sure he saw it, deleting it and blocking him again, hoping beyond hope that he was on his way. The sane side of my brain knows he isn’t like that, but a part of me searches for the long-lost father in him. 

The steep stairs leading out of the train station exhibited a fresh layer of snow. The crunch of snow under my boots complemented the rhythm of the song playing through my headphones. A cold gust of wind swam through my hair. Cars buzzed by on the main road, as I walked down a side street. The street I lived on was well-lit. The occasional flicker of the lamp guided my gaze through rows of cars, colourful graffiti and bundled up faces walking by. A couple, three older men and a young girl walked by as I reached the end of the street. At the corner where my apartment complex rested, a man emerged. Wrapped tightly in a dark scarf and beanie, he walked briskly towards the entrance of the building. It looked as though he knew where he was going until he approached the door. 

The glass building reflected headlights of cars flashing across the main street just behind the corner. He reached for the handle-the door was locked. With a searching look, he scanned the mass of doorbells installed on his right-hand side. 

I reached the entrance and fished for the keys in my bag.

“I can let you in.” I smiled as I inserted the key. 

“Oh do not worry about me, I’m not even sure which apartment to go to.” There was a clear accent. He looked old, somewhere in his sixties. 

“Oh, how so?” I was still smiling, but slightly confused.

He seemed to think for a moment, staring at me as though he was trying hard to remember something. 

“My daughter lives here I think, but I don’t know where.”

“Can’t you call her?” He was still staring hard at me. I assumed he was a little odd - so many people in this city are. Then it seemed as though something dawned on him and fear flickered in his eyes for a second.

“Not yet.” 

I waited a while, waiting for him to elaborate, but he did not. He only stared.

“Oh, well, I hope you can call her later then.” I tentatively waited a while before entering the building and hastily waving as I closed the door behind me. He was still standing, as if rooted to the spot, watching me. 

It didn’t even feel uncomfortable anymore, as I was so used to people behaving oddly here. I walked up the stairs to my door and looked for the right key. The light coming from the living room reached my eyes as I entered.

“Honey, I’m home.” I hung up my jacket on the hook above the shoe rack. Soft music was playing in the kitchen, and a waft of something cooking reached my nose. Going through the living room, I tossed my bag on the sofa and opened the door. He turned around and smiled.

“Hey, you.”

“Hi.”

I kissed him. He nodded to the dining table, where that day’s newspaper lay under a steaming mug of tea. I plopped myself down in the chair and looked out the window at the empty street below. The man was nowhere to be seen, so assuming he managed to get hold of his daughter, I reached for the mug. The smell of peppermint tea teased my senses. I thought about the daughter. She must be lucky to have her dad come and visit her. That’s probably the reason why he didn’t want to call her. It was an early Christmas present.