Page 40 of A Love Like Christmas Time
No, only the soft click of the door falling closed fills the room, with the heaviness of a bad omen. The hair on my neck stands up, an uncomfortable shiver creeping down my spine.
“We’re not here for coffee,” a light female voice, barely louder than a whisper, announces.
I slowly get up from the hunched position I have been in over the table by the window while wiping it down. Nausea hits me quicker than a Muhammad Ali punch. Emotions clog my throat.
I remember that voice. It has haunted me for years - during silent nights when I lay awake, and sometimes in nightmares, replays of memories my consciousness forces me to watch. In every waking moment, it’s the cause of doubts constantly hovering in my consciousness.
Maybe I hit my head. That must be it. I’m having a concussion and only imagining it. It can’t be her.
Slowly, like a child fearing the monster behind them, I turn around.
It’sher.
The sight hits me harder than a truckload of bricks. My chest tightens, as if someone has tied a cord around me and slowly pulls it tighter. Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. My lungs scream for air.
Fuck.
God, I wish I could just turn off the lights, run to hide under a blanket, where monsters can’t catch me. Or, in this case, reality.
“No,” I say abruptly, jerkily shaking my head.
Breathe, Caleb. But the air burns in my lungs. My skin tingles as if ants crawl all over it. Fuck.
I know who she is.
I know she’s exactly seventeen years, three months and five days older than me. What I didn’t remember is that she has the same eye shape as me, the same unruly curls falling down her shoulders. The same mole on her index finger.
She’s the woman whose voice used to break when she sang ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ to get me to sleep. Whose eyes crinkled slightly at the corners when she sent me off to kindergarten, only to turn around as soon as she thought I was out of sight, to let her face fall and her arms fold around herself.
A woman whose last words to me on a cold, gray November morning were:Have fun at school.I’ll see you later, Honey.
I guess it was my misinterpretation that “later” meant a whopping twenty-six years.
“Hi, Honey.”
Hopeful eyes glistening with unshed tears look at me, seemingly oblivious to the emotional equivalent of a hurricane happening inside my head.
Now I realize why the strange woman felt familiar. It’s so clear to see, all of a sudden. The way she’s holding onto my mother’s arm, as though she’s the only thing keeping her upright. The same nose as hers. The face shape. The same hair color.
How did I not see it?
Right. The same way I didn’t expect my mother to turn up, two decades after abandoning me with a man whose attitude never left high school.
“Out.” That’s all I can manage to press out, pointing at the door. Fighting for breath, I stumble away from them. “Get out.”
Time stands still, the ticking of the clock above the kitchen entrance hammering into my ears as I struggle to breathe.
“But, Honey, we—”
“No!” I say louder, shocking myself with the intensity. My eyes drop to the ground, hands on the back of my head interlocking my fingers, forcing myself to breathe.
“Is everything okay?” the nameless woman asks, and I hold up my hand to make her shut up.
Yet they don’t leave. Still as fucking statues, they remain in place, not moving a muscle.
Breathe, Caleb. In. Count to ten, slowly. Exhale.
By the second inhale, I don’t fear suffocating anymore. By the third, an eerie calmness washes over me. And by ten, cold anger flows through my veins.
