Ghost of Christmas Past

You find yourself in front of a house. It’s medium sized and not that impressive. Understated. The night is quiet, it must be late. You have no idea how you got there. Had you gone drinking with some friends? Or clients? You might have. But you just can’t remember.

Certainly, you’ve never seen this house before, or this street. Wherever it is, it’s not in your hometown or any of the surrounding towns. You seem to blink and then you are on the porch looking at the front door. You shake your head. Just how drunk am I, you wonder?

You ring the bell. Maybe you had been drinking inside and had gone outside for some reason. Sometimes you had memory lapses when you drank. You are not an alcoholic, by no means. But you know people (your ex-wife) would say you are a heavy drinker. A partier. A social being. If the party wasn’t in the house, you would ask them where you were and then figure out where your car was or call someone. Maybe your son.

A woman opens the door. She is pretty with black hair and wearing an old-fashioned nightgown. She is also very heavily pregnant. You don’t know her, and you don’t know that much about pregnant women, but she’s either having twins or about to have this baby.

Her face softens slightly when she looks at you and then she blinks and purses her lips frowning.

“Hi there.” You say showing off one dimple. You can charm pants of any woman. Pregnant or not. She glares at you.

“Really.” She says and you have the uncomfortable feeling that even though you have no idea who she is, she knows exactly who you are. You are starting to hope the baby isn’t yours. You seize each other up for a minute and then she sighs and steps back.

“I guess you should come in.” She says and you follow her even though you no longer want to. Something about this feels weird. Not off exactly, but eerie. The house is cozy. Not extravagant, but comfortable. She marches down the hallway and you tag along. In the kitchen she stops and puts the kettle on, takes two cups out of the cupboard and places them on the counter.

“Look.” you say and spread your hands in a non-threatening way. Maybe she knows you, maybe she’s unhinged. Either seems possible. “I think I better go.”

“I think you better stay.” She says as she throws a teabag in one of the cups. “Besides, you can’t go out like that. It’s freezing out there.”

You look down at yourself, expecting to see slacks and golf shirt. Or that you are not wearing a jacket over your suit. But you see a white and blue gown that ends at the knee. The legs below it, thin and old. You grab for the back and confirm, yes, your ass is hanging out.

You feel the blood rush to your face. For once you are without words. The snappy comebacks don’t come. There are slippers on your feet, for heaven’s sake. Confused you look at the woman and for the first time, she doesn’t look quite as annoyed. She puts the second cup back in the cupboard and takes out a short tumbler.

Another cupboard produces a bottle. She pours two fingers neat and slides the glass over to you. Easy practiced movements. You don’t savor it. You throw it down your throat and feel the welcome warmth burn its way to your stomach.

“You had cancer.” She tells you and tops up your glass. You sink down on one of the chairs at the kitchen counter, grabbing onto the one word that meant this was okay. Had. You had cancer. So, you beat it. Maybe you were still recovering.

Things start to come back now. You remember a hospital room. Friends and family with worried eyes. Pinching a nurse’s bottom and getting shouted at for it. It hadn’t been all bad. But why didn’t you remember this. Why was it only now returning. You have another thought and glance at her sharply.

“Do I have dementia? Or Alzheimer’s?” The kettle whistles and she fill her cup. She’s having green tea with honey. You shudder, it looks revolting.

“No caffeine allowed.” She says and you look at her belly again. At least the baby is not yours. Probably not yours. She takes a sip and then answers. “I don’t think so. I never asked.” She shrugs. “It’s not impossible.”

You open your mouth to ask another question, but she holds up a hand. “I need a comfort break and then I need to sit down. The living room is through there.” She points with her chin, hands you her cup and then disappears into the hallway.

You don’t take orders, but you need answers to fill the blank void in your head. You throw back your second drink. Fill the glass up again and take her cup to the living room. It’s another cozy room. There’s a fire in the fireplace and two bassets lie in front of it.

You love dogs and usually they love you. But these two ignore you, the one snoring loudly. Some watchdogs. You put her cup down next to a chair with a discarded blanket and sit down on the couch. After a moment’s hesitation you grab another blanket and cover your knees. Old person’s knees. You don’t want to see them.

She comes back in and the dogs, half wake up, their tails wagging.

“It’s okay.” She croons, “Go to sleep.” They actually do, despite the fact that there is a stranger sitting three feet from them. They must be the best-trained dogs you’ve ever seen in your life.

She leans back in the chair and sighs contently. It has started to rain outside and you’re glad to be inside, even if it is with this strange woman, that seems to know you, even if you still have no clue who she is.

“So, what do you want to know?” She asks as she sips her tea.

You are more confused than ever. Asking about drinking buddies seem wrong somehow.

“Could you phone my son?” Teddy would know what was wrong with you. Calling him would be a safe bet. He would never leave his old man hanging.

“Definitely not.” She says, shocking you.

“What, why not?”

“Well for starters you were a terrible father, and I don’t think he needs to be confronted by you like this.”

“Excuse me…” You are starting to get angry now. But there’s a niggling sensation at the back of your mind that she might be right. It’s like the cancer thing, you hadn’t known about it until she said something, but the moment she did, you suddenly have all the memories back.

You remember a little boy’s disappointed face and later a young man. You remember being out with your friends and ignoring calls and messages from both the young man and the boy. You remember tears. You remember shouting and later just a wall of contempt.

You remember too many things, that you should have fixed but never did.

You want to lash out, normally you would get up and walk out. Your anger is legendary. You can see yourself smashing the glass on the floor and telling her what she can do with her know-it-all- attitude. But you don’t have the energy.

“Finish your drink.” She says, waddling to the coffee table and handing you a book. An album. You are still seething, but you humor her. Inside there are shining baby faces. She’s there and so are you. No not you. It’s your son. But he is older. It is him with two daughters.

“His.” She nods. “His and mine.” She tells you and you knock the drink back. You scrutinize the children’s faces, but you don’t remember them. You also don’t remember your son becoming older. You don’t remember a wedding. There’s a ring on her finger. So, yes there should have been a wedding.

You look at the pictures for a long time. You know it’s not dementia. You’ve always known.

“The cancer got me in the end.” You say and you can’t help the little note of bitterness in your voice.

“Sorry.” She says, not sounding very sorry.

“Did I? Did we?” you ask, and she understands even though you can’t get the words out.

“We never met. It’s been years. Ten I think.”

“I’m sorry we never met.” You say and she barks a laugh. “Me and you? You would have hated me. I would not have listened to your crap. I don’t like people who mess with my husband.”

You want to disagree, but you can see its true. “Me and him?” You ask, the last pressing matter, the one you are scared to remember. The only one that matters in the end.

“You made up.” She says and you sigh in relief. “He forgave you. I still think you are worthless father.” Her dark eyes are stormy.

“Well, luckily he’s my child and not you.” You tell her.

“Lucky for you yes.” She might be small, but her emotions fill the room. You feel your own irritation rise, but before you can lash out or get up or do anything but place the glass down. Hard. She’s up.

“Time for you to go.” She points at the door, you get up. No, you would not have liked her as a daughter in law, that’s for certain.

“Wait.” You find yourself at the front door again. “Why am I here?” You look at her stomach. “Reincarnation?”

“Don’t be absurd.” She bites out tersely her hands cradling her bump. You swallow a smug smile. This round was yours.

“Stay away from the house.” She says as she kicks you out. You still wanted to say something, wanted to ask about your son, but she slams the door in your face with finality. You turn as a car comes into the driveway. Three girls get out, early teens? You don’t know. And you. He looks just like you. You watch them go by. Hear the easy banter and see him unlocking the door.

You stay in the rain for a long time.

You wait for her outside the hospital. She’s wearing the same nightgown.

“When did you know?” She asks.

“I think I’ve always known.” You say and she nods.

You look at her stomach.

“The baby made it. She was fine.” She tells you and then she starts walking.

You follow her.

“Why me?” You ask.

“I didn’t want to go alone.” She says, “Better you than alone.”

You really would not have liked her a daughter in law, but you don’t mind her now as a companion for the journey ahead.

In the distance you can see a light, it’s getting brighter. You hold out your hand and she takes it.