Now I Understand

I remembered as a child I would sit at the top of the stairs, peeking my fingers through the baby gate, trying to get a glance at the tree that was safely hidden downstairs. My mom would try to persuade my siblings and me to leave the gate, to sit at the table and eat some breakfast or watch some Christmas movies on the couch. If she got really desperate, she would offer a cup of pop before lunchtime. Usually, my siblings were persuaded but I refused to leave. I preferred to sit and wait until it was time. Once, I spent all day in front of that baby gate.

Then it was time. We never knew when it was exactly. It was never a precise time, but we knew it all the same. It was the sound of a car pulling into the driveway; it was the sound of heavy boots stomping across the porch; it was the sound of keys jangling against the door; it was the sound of the door creeping open. It was my dad’s face crossing the door’s threshold; his grunts as we all cheered and called his name, urging him to hurry. 

First, he would peel off his coat and hang it up but would leave his boots on; they never came off. The act seemed to take forever; I used to count how long it would take. I once counted to fifty, but I was only three and could barely count my toes. Next, he would mumble something to my mother and kiss her on the cheek. Then he would turn to us and make some comment like “Have you been good? Did Santa actually come or have you all been waiting for nothing?” I learned quickly that arguing and refusing to answer his questions would only cause further delay. After he patted my brother’s head, kissed my sister’s cheek, and gave me a quick hug then it was finally time.

My father would remove the gate and my siblings and I would race down the stairs. There were several times we would trip and tumble down the few remaining steps. We would sprint to the tree and begin screaming and shouting at the sight of all the presents. More than we could count. We would reach with pop-sticky fingers to grab the nearest present. Then my dad would release a sharp bark that made us all freeze. My mother would speak in a soothing tone that eased my father’s snarl and tell us to sit down and be patient. Grumbling, we would obey. My mom would put on gentle music while my dad explained the rules- the same rules as last year and the year before. Finally, my dad would give my older brother the nod and my mom would hand him a present. My brother would shred the wrapping paper before squealing with delight at what was inside. Then I would go, then my sister. Then my mom. Then my dad.

I remember how excited we were to tear open our presents. As I grew older, I tried to temper my excitement; to show I was no longer a kid and didn’t need presents. I was a big girl. I would open the present slowly. My dad would tell me to hurry it up and my sister was waiting for me to finish before she could open hers. I cried the first time he snapped at me. My mom had to take me in her arms and tell me that although I was big and mature, my sister was still impatient. I never took it slow after that.

Occasionally, a loud beep would break through the music, causing me to jump and crush the cookie in my hands. A crackle would follow along with our awaited breaths. Sometimes that beep would startle my sister and she would begin to cry. My mom would hiss at my brother until he grabbed her and took her out of the room. I would watch my dad, holding my breath until I felt dizzy. I could never understand the static of the radio, so I had to watch my parents’ faces. My mom would close her eyes and clasp her hands together. If it was bad, wrinkles would appear beside her eyes. If it was good, she would release a breath, open her eyes, look at me, and smile. 

My dad would remain unreadable until the final verdict was reached. If it was bad, he would kiss my mom’s temple. He would walk past me and wink as if there was a secret between us; one I didn’t understand. We would hear the stomp of his boots, the open and close of the door then it would be silent. If it was really, really bad, he would run out the door without giving my mom a goodbye kiss. You would hear his car whipping out of the driveway and the long, excited cry that echoed through the streets. Then, no matter how he left, we would go back upstairs and wait until he returned. Sometimes it would only be a few minutes and other times we would wait all day. If he was permitted to stay, we would continue unwrapping presents as if nothing happened.

Once the presents were finally unwrapped, we would play with our new toys until supper. It was much of the same. My father would sit at the head of the table. My mother and brother beside him. I would sit next to my brother and my sister would be beside my mother. My dad would carve the beef and my mom would dish out the food. My dad would eat quickly, waiting for the tone we hoped to never hear. 

We would talk and laugh. My mom would scold my brother for spilling his juice. Sometimes that beep would sound. We would freeze, my piece of beef hanging inches from my lips as we waited for the next moment. Either my dad would leave or he would stay. At least if he left during dinner, we were allowed to continue to eat, but we weren’t allowed to leave the table. I once fell asleep waiting for my dad to return. I woke up to him carrying me to my bed.

I grew up learning to hate that beep and the Christmases when Dad sat there in his boots. They weren’t always like that. Sometimes, he was in PJs just like us, pressing his face against the baby gate beside me, but, those felt few and far between. I would hear my classmates talk about opening their presents first thing in the morning; how their parents were always there year after year; how they weren’t anxiously waiting for that beep and crackle. 

I grew to hate those Christmases. When the crackle beckoned my father away, he would give me a wink but I would just glare. He would return home and try to give me a hug but I would pull away and grab at a present. Once we opened our presents on Christmas Eve; I hated that more. Christmas Eve was for the excited sleeps and Christmas morning was for presents. My dad was called away once and I asked my mother why we had to wait. She told me that he loved watching us open our gifts and he deserved to enjoy Christmas with his family; that we were a family and we would wait for him. I told my mother if we were a family, we should be more important than whatever he left to do. My mother and brother scolded me and told me he had an important job, one that couldn’t wait. I never understood what she meant and I didn’t care.

I swore my children would never know what that was like. I would be there first thing in the morning. I would sit with them in socked feet and PJs. We could talk and laugh and listen to loud music; that no beep and crackle would ever call me away from them. I promised my husband that and my daughter at her first Christmas. I was young and naive. I didn’t understand.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m here!” I called as I pulled the front door open. Despite the freezing snow that blew at the back of my neck, I had my jacket off before the door was firmly shut. I was met by excited cheers that made me smile and cringe simultaneously.

“Mama!” My three-year-old, Hannah, launched herself at me. After several times, this had become routine.

“Hi, baby.” I smiled at my husband who stood at the top of the stairs, our eleven-month-old in hand. More childish cries filled the air as my brother’s and sister’s families congregated at the top with my parents in tow. I gave a weak smile. “I am so sorry, you guys. You all ready to see what Santa brought you?”

The kids stampeded down the stairs as us adults followed behind. My parents gave me a quick hug while my brother gave me a smile. My sister looked me over. “Couldn’t come sooner? It’s almost eight o’clock. The kids have been up for hours.”

“We got a call first thing. I came here as fast as I could.” I should have stayed to help with the paperwork but my partners encouraged me to leave and be here with my family. My sister gave a tight-lipped smile before squeezing past me and hurrying towards the screaming children.

I sat down on the couch next to my husband, smiling at the youthful excitement in front of me. The presents were stacked under the tree; each present lovingly wrapped with a large bow.

“Spencer’s first,” my dad added as he completed the rules. Rules that had been the same since I was my daughter’s age. My nephew accepted the present my mother handed to him and tore it open with innocent glee. An excited cry of delight escaped him as the next child opened their present. 

“Bannister.” The stark declaration of my name grabbed my attention from the children’s joy and I found myself looking at my dad with a raised eyebrow. No one called me by my last name at home. “Your niece has been calling you.”

I looked at the young girl and felt my face flush; her voice must have blended in with the other soft voices. I was too ready or too “in the yellow” to have heard a voice like a dove. “Aunty Chloe, you still have your boots on.”

She was right. Everyone looked to my thick boots that made my feet appear two sizes larger than they actually were. I wiped as much snow and dirt off as I could but some precipitation dripped onto the carpeted floor. I nodded and gave her a smile. “You’re right, but I have to keep my boots on.”

“Why? Mom says it’s rude to wear your boots in the house.” My siblings all shared a look as I curled my toes inside the boots.

“Yes, you’re right but Aunty Chloe needs to keep them on in case she has to go,” my brother explained throwing me an understanding smile. My sister gave her husband a look. 

“Well, it’s baby Benjie’s turn, right?” My mom cooed and placed a present on the floor in front of my boy. At first, he just stared at the giant box and the reflective blue wrapping with child-like woe. I moved to sit beside him and help him but my belt and its contents poked at my ribs and pulled on my lower back, making the position painfully uncomfortable. Besides, it would be hard to get back up if necessary. I grabbed my boy and his gift and pulled them between my feet.

“Hannah,” I called, “why don’t you help your brother?” Hannah smiled and scooted next to Little Ben. She grabbed a corner and tore a strip then handed the end to Ben. Ben stared at the paper and pulled, tearing more of the wrapping. He jumped at the sound then began laughing. He placed the wrapper in his mouth as drool dribbled down his chin. He was more interested in the sound of tearing paper and whether or not he could eat it. Ben sat there for several minutes, making miniature tears, trying to eat half of it. Hannah was a good sister and sat back, letting her brother enjoy the noise and the paper. He was happy, but me?

My fingers twitched as my stomach felt hollow. I wanted my son to enjoy this, preferably with eating as little of the wrapping paper as possible; but, I was a slave to that beep and crackle. The waiting felt like a noose tightening around my neck. At any moment I could be called away. I wanted to stay here and see the rest of them open their gifts, but... Ben was taking too long. He was under a year old, he wouldn’t remember if I opened the rest for him. I shifted my weight forward with twitching fingers.

My father cleared his throat, causing me to freeze. His eyes were warm and heavy; he understood better than anyone. I nodded and sat back, tucking my hands into the front of my vest. My husband met my eyes and nodded, clasping my knee tightly. Ben continued to play and crinkle the paper in his hands. 

“Let me help you, buddy.” My dad tore the paper off to reveal some sensory blocks. Benny laughed and shoved the blocks into his mouth.

“Hannah, it’s your turn.” My daughter grinned at the pink princess wrapped box that was placed in front of her. I bit back a smile; she had been asking for this for months. She raised her hands like a wolf before a feast.

BEEP. 

Everyone jumped except my father and me. My nephew began crying as I released a sharp shush. My brother grabbed the child and took him out of the room. My mother hushed the other children as I listened to the crackle; a sound I was now fluent in.

“All units, domestic at 4504-69 Street. All units respond.” 

“314, ten-four. Chlo, you copy?” My partner’s voice.

“416 copies,” I responded. “Meet you there, Everson.” I looked up at the faces that met mine. Disappointment, confusion, and uncertainty. I turned to my husband and squeezed his hand. His eyes were small but he gave me a smile. I leaned down, ignoring the gear that bit into my ribs, and kissed the top of Ben’s head. I stood and turned to Hannah.

“Baby, Mama’s gotta go, but keep opening your presents, okay? Show them to me when I get back, alright?”

“But, I’m just about to open my first one! Can’t you stay?”

I crouched in front of her, aware of the radio chatter. 4504-69... Damn, that was a bad house. Now the noose tightening around me was a different kind; one of needing to get somewhere now. It was about fifteen blocks away; there would be no traffic and I could run the red on 53rd, which would cut the time.

“No, baby, Mama has to go.” Tears streamed down her cheeks and I wanted to cry along with her, but I had to put my face on. I had to do my job. 

I cast a brief glance at the rest of my family; well, those who would meet my eyes before running out of the room and taking the stairs two at a time.

“Everson, I’m five minutes out.” My heart thumped as I flicked my lights and sirens on. 

My daughter cried on Christmas day. I made my daughter cry.

My return was not as joyful as the first. I said I was home and hung my jacket on the rack slowly. My nostrils were filled with the smell of blood, my ears ringing with screaming and crying. I was too tired to soften the stomp of my boots on the stairs. The air smelled of roast beef and steamed vegetables. The sound of laughter and baby talk greeted me as I cleared the top step.

“Mama!” I barely caught Hannah as she latched herself around my neck. “Look at what Santa brought me! It’s the one I wanted!” I smiled at the new doll she shoved in my face.

“Hannah-bear, come sit down and let your mother eat.” I flashed a grateful smile at my dad and took my seat, a low groan escaping me. My lower back ached from the extra twelve pounds strapped to my waist. My feet ached from standing on them for hours. I glanced at my hands; I had spent ten minutes washing the blood off them but even then wasn’t sure if I got it all. 

“Thanks, Mom,” I mumbled as she placed a steaming plate of food in front of my nose.

“DV, huh?’ My dad whispered after exchanging seats with my brother. I nodded chewing on the meat but only tasting sawdust. “I hated those. You good, baby-girl?”

I thought back to all those Christmases, of waiting for my father to come home. Of how heavy his boots sounded and how long it took him to take off his coat. That look on his face whenever he had a call. I understood now. Looking back, those Christmases weren’t so bad.

“Mama, look at Benjie!” I smiled at my son and the mashed carrots that were smudged across his cheeks. My husband chuckled as my mother snapped a photo. My brother and his family were discussing which movie to watch. Even my sister was smiling and extended that smile to me. My gaze settled on my children and the man who helped me create them.

“Yeah, I’m good.”