Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas.

I hate you.

And I hope you fucking die.

No I don’t. That’s horrible. That can’t happen to you, too. It would be too much for me.

But you deserve it.

It’s because of you that I’m here in the Honda with a shitty heater that you promised to fix, freezing my as off, my teeth chattering, the disgusting taste of stale coffee clinging to my tongue and teeth. My woolen gloves aren’t doing their jobs, and my hands are clenching the steering wheel so tightly that they are going numb, either from the pressure, or the cold. Maybe both.

Its’ because of you that the food is getting cold at home but my stomach is rumbling. It’s because of you that I spent all day at home, slaving away for you by making meatloaf, baked potatoes, and steamed carrots. I made them for you, because they were always your favorite. I TOLD you I was making it tonight.

I was hoping you would come home, but you didn’t. Not even the lure of your favorite meal could bring you home. You’re in there, I just know it, the same way a kid knows that Santa Claus really doesn’t exist, but keeps on hoping and praying that by some miracle, he does. I don’t want you to be in there, I don’t want to see you there, to KNOW, but I do.

The bitter wind outside our beaten-up blue Honda shakes the car, the radio crackles softly with Christmas songs. It’s because of you that I’m not singing along to them this year. I didn’t put up the Christmas tree, you didn’t put up the lights, I didn’t even wrap any presents. It’s December twenty-third.

While everyone else is doing their last-minute shopping, traveling home to be with their families, I’m here, you’re there, and there is nobody waiting for us anywhere. It’s because of you that I told my parents, and later, your parents, that we weren’t coming for the holidays. They all said we were always welcome, which of course I know. Then they told me that there was going to be a snow storm, and indeed, there would be a white Christmas back home this year.

Not like here. Here it’s just cold and windy, the ground is frozen and dead.

Before I hung up, they told me again to hang in there, that we would be ok, these things just take time. And I know they do.

But you haven’t given me ANYthing.

Despite a couple for the past seven years, despite the fact that we’ve been married for five, and have had two children, perfect children, you won’t even look at me.
Maybe it’s because you feel guilty. I told you then that it wasn’t your fault, and I didn’t want it to be, but maybe you knew that I did blame you, at least on some level.

I know it was an accident, but you should have known better. It was icy, and you should have been paying better attention to the road, the other cars. People are idiots, they don’t know how to drive properly. You’re a fucking doctor; you see how stupid people can be, every damned day.

You should have known.

Maybe then, instead of us being where we are now, we’d be back in Pennsylvania with our families, I’d be singing along to “O Holy Night”, and you’d be lifting Sarah on your shoulders, giving her piggybacks throughout my parent’s house. Nathan would be ripping through the house, trying to open a few presents before Christmas morning, but I would catch him with one arm, while holding on to the baby with my other arm.

That was how it should have been, almost the same as last year.

Instead, they’re gone. Sarah’s and Nathan’s little bodies are rotting in the cemetery, side-by-side and in matching white coffins. I didn’t want white, but that was the only color they had that small.

I guess white is the standard color for parents to bury their children in.

The baby that should be here this year is gone, too. I guess looking back, I would have liked to have known if it was a girl or a boy. At least then I could’ve had a name for it. So, instead of saying that I lost just Sarah and Nathan, I could say that I also lost…Hannah or Daniel…instead. The baby would’ve had a name, the baby would’ve been concrete.

It would have been nice, but at the time, I couldn’t see or think straight. I needed you, then, much more than I ever thought was possible. You were nowhere to be found.

But oh, I found you now.

I know you’re in there banging that big-boobed hussey. Blonde. Plastic. Blue eyes. Drop-dead gorgeous, perfect hour-glass figure in a size 6.

The complete opposite of me.

The ‘me’ you once said was perfect, the ‘me’ you once shared EVERYthing with. You’ve known that ‘me’ for so long, every single inch of me. And yet, you’ve gone away, too. And unlike my babies, you wanted to go away. They didn’t. They didn’t want to leave their mommy and daddy, they all fought so hard, and I tried to hard to hold on to them, the three of them, but I couldn’t keep them.

And now, I can’t keep you, either.

I don’t want to start over. I know that much is impossible. But I still want you. Maybe we could’ve tried for another baby- I could’ve handled it. It would never replace what we lost, but maybe, just maybe, it would be a symbol that we made it, that we got through it by the grace of god.

Losing our children left me in pain, mentally and physically, but it didn’t kill me.

Not like it did you.

Maybe I’m a widow. My husband would never have done this to me. No, that can’t REALLY be you in there. Maybe you’re dead, too.

I’m sure that’s it. For six years, you were everything I ever wanted, or needed. And I know it sounds cliché, but we were made for each other. You told me that first, and I didn’t believe you. It was YOU who said you loved me first, it was YOU who asked me to marry you, it was YOU who bragged to countless friends and co-workers that you were going to be a father for the first time, the second time, the third time.

And now, it’s YOU who let this marriage, the only real thing we have left, die.

What happened to you? Why can’t I reach you? Why are you having sex with HER, but you haven’t made love to me since it happened? WHY?

Angry and frustrated and exhausted, frozen to the core, I laid my head on the steering wheel and cried. I wanted him back, I wanted them back, I wanted everything back the way it was.
********************************************

It was December 23rd, Christmas Eve-eve. It was ugly out, and 29-year-old Mel complained about it to her husband, Greg. Greg was driving them to her parents’ house for dinner. The kids were in the backseat, 4-year-old Sarah in her booster-seat, 2-year-old Nathan asleep in his. They were gorgeous children, everyone said that. Mel thought they looked like Greg, with their light brown hair and hazel eyes. Mel’s own coloring was much darker; no one could deny whose kids they were, though. “Maybe,” she thought with a smile, “this one will look a little more like me.” She had found out just last week that she was two months pregnant with their third child.

Smiling a secret smile, she turned to Greg, about to ask him a question, when she saw that he was sneaking glances at her, trying to hide his smile. He managed to get a colleague to cover for him for the week, so he could spend the holidays with his still-growing family. The Friday before, Mel told him about the baby, and Greg blabbed the news to everyone and anyone who would listen.

He loved kids, he loved his own kids, and he loved that there was another one on the way. As a pediatric surgeon, he saw his fair share of kids all the time. Mostly, they were sick, suffering from leukemia, but every now and then, there was something more dramatic, more sudden, that brought a child into his care. Brutal child abuse, severe car accidents, Greg saw it all, and for as much as it broke his heart, it came him a sense of comfort to know that he was helping these little kids as best he could. It also didn’t hurt to know that, at the end of the day (whenever that was-sometimes he worked weird hours), he still had his wife and kids to come home to.

Sometimes he was lucky and got home before Mel put the kids to bed. If they were asleep, though, Greg would sneak into their rooms at night, just to peer in, just to assure himself, that yes, they were there, they were asleep, and more importantly, they were safe.

After he assured himself of his children’s well-being, he would make it to the master bedroom where Mel would watching tv or reading, waiting up for him. Whatever they did then didn’t matter (well, it mattered) because at the end of it all, he was next to her, which in his opinion, was the best place to be.

They met his second year of med school. She was a year his junior, fresh out of college, working as a junior reporter for a local newspaper. She was smart, she was pretty, and when they finally had time for a date, Greg knew- he KNEW- that this was it. This was the one.

So he married her, in love as any man could be. Six years later, he still loved her and although she made comments about how she now thought she looked like a fat cow, it wasn’t true. Greg loved her and to him, she was the most beautiful woman on Earth.

They reached her parents’ house, and Sarah started to yell, “Nana!! Pop-pop!!!” so loud that she woke her brother, who then began to cry. Greg and Mel began to take their kids out of the car, when Mel’s mom rushed down the slippery sidewalk.

“Ma, you’re gonna kill yourself if you’re not care,” Mel said, her head turned towards her mother as her hands fumbled for the clasp that would release Nathan from his seat.

“We had a minor problem with the wine,” Mel’s mom said, “It seems to have disappeared.” By her flushed cheeks and giddy speech, Mel guessed she knew right where the wine disappeared to.

“Well, so what do you want us to do?” she asked.

“Could you quick run back out to the store and get a bottle…or two?”

Mel rolled her eyes.

“Sure thing, Lucy,” Greg said to the older woman. It would just be a quick trip out to the store, no big deal.

“I wanna go! I wanna go!” Sarah started to shout in her father’s arms.

“You can’t go,” said Mel. Really, Sarah should not be in a store like that. But, Sarah didn’t understand that concept, so she started to actually throw a tantrum. Greg, who had always been a softly, looked at Mel. Maybe someone could go with him, stay with Sarah while he ran in?

Sure, Mel’s 20-year-old brother would do that. Sarah loved her uncle Matt. When Greg began to buckle Sarah back into her seat, Nathan, til then quiet in his mother’s arms, began to cry as well. He wanted to go with daddy.

Mel again wanted to say no. It was starting to sleet a bit, and really, the kids should eat now so their stomachs could settle for a while before bed. But then again, it was Christmas and what the hell, Matt was going to stay in the car anyway.

It would be a twenty minute trip. No big deal.

So Mel put Nathan back into his seat, kissed him good-bye and told him to be good for daddy and Uncle Matt. He put his stubby little arms around his mommy, and gave her a big smoochy kiss on the face before he said “Bye mommy”

Mel leaned over and gave her daughter the same standard warning speech.

“Remember, if you behave, Santa will be sure to bring you good things!” Mel said, as Sarah’s eyes lit up with joy, excitement, and anticipation. There was this doll she’d been wanting for a very long time. Maybe Santa would get it for her.

Mel smiled. Santa did get it for her. And hid it under a bag in the backseat of the car. Sarah believed in Santa Claus just like she believed that dogs were better than cats. It was the truth.

Mel waved good-bye as her husband and brother climbed into the car. She told them to be careful, to drive slow since it was getting slick. But they would be fine, she had nothing to worry about, and with that, she walked into her parents’ house and began to get ready for dinner.

*******************************************

He’s been in there for what, three hours now? God, that’s ridiculous.
What could they be doing? No, no, don’t go there, Melanie, you know damn well what he’s doing.

*******

He’s sitting on the bedspread, which hasn’t even been turned down.

His hands are in his hair and his hair feels greasy. She’s in the bathroom, getting ready.

“God, I guess it’s actually gonna happen this time,” he thinks to himself, as yet another wave of nausea passes through him. He’s been flirting with her for 8 months, now. He’s kissed her, he’s fondled her, and he’s dreamt about her. He’s cheated in every way possible except…they haven’t actually had sex yet. He’s been putting it off, and he just doesn’t know why.

But then again, there are a lot of things he doesn’t know.

Like why, for starters, he’s here in this pathetic motel. If Mel were here, she would have sprayed it with Lysol.

But Mel isn’t here. She’s at home, right now. Probably reading one of her worthless novels with half-naked men on the front of them. Never used to bother him, but it sort of does, now. No, who cares, let Mel have her fantasies, and let me have mine, a voice inside his head says.

But this is wrong, another voice whispers. And in his gut, he knows it’s true. He knows he shouldn’t be here, he should be…somewhere else, but being somewhere else means he might have to think. Think about what he’s done, what he hasn’t done, what he had and what he lost.

And he just can’t.

Because he lost so much, and he has only himself to blame. He should’ve had the balls to tell her kids to stay with Mel that day, and he should’ve been paying more attention. It was his fault that damned truck rear-ended them.

Rear-ended. That’s another thing. Why couldn’t it have been a head-on collision? That way, he would’ve died, instead. His body, not Nathan’s, would’ve been splintered like a matchstick. His head, not Sarah’s, would’ve been bashed in.

It should’ve happened that way. Not the way it did. But he can’t think about it.

He can feel his eyes welling up, but he doesn’t want to cry. Not here. Not ever. He may have been a pushover once, but he’s different now. He’s not a pussy; he has no time for this. Just block it off, man, just block it off.

It was why he told her to meet him here. As of today, it’s been a year. A whole year since he killed his kids, since he destroyed his wife. A year since that, 10 months since Mel lost the baby, 9 ½ months since he quit his job as a pediatric surgeon and took up an offer to join a shallow team of plastic surgeons. Which is, of course, how he met Candi.

Candi.

What a stupid name.

But really, what does it matter? He just wants to fuck the night away, to forget about everything else in his now worthless life. If he needs, there are the bottles of vodka he bought on the way here. He’ll drink that up, and maybe, hopefully, have a hangover bad enough to get him through to the 26th.

He lays out on the grimy bedspread. Man, she’s high-maintenance, he thinks to himself. Mel was never like that. She would’ve been out an hour ago.

No.

Stop right there.

The water that was running in the bathroom turns off, and Greg thinks thank God, she’s finally ready. But the ceasing of the water leads to nothing but silence. As it fills the air around him, Greg’s ears begin to hone in on another sound…l a low rumbling, coming from outside.

He frowns in concentration. He knows that sound from somewhere.

For a full five minutes, he tries to place it. He moves to the window, and looks out to see a battered blue Honda in the parking lot, right next to his car.

Shit.

It’s her.

“It’s Mel. She’s out there, and I’m in here. What am I going to do? How did she find out? Why did she come here?” His thoughts rush together at once, and he starts to sweat, nausea overcoming him yet again.

Just then the bathroom door opens, and out walks the most gorgeous (fake) woman Greg has laid eyes on. She’s on his left, in a red see-through negligee. Outside, in the blue car, is Mel.

*******

You ASSHOLE.

I saw the curtain move. Don’t you think for one SECOND that I didn’t.

You don’t even have the balls to show your face and admit what you did, what you’re doing, now that you know I found you.

I should come in there. Does she know that you’re married? Does she know about your kids? Does she know anything other than the fact that you want to screw her brains out?

Merry Christmas.

I hate you. You rotten piece of shit. Why are you doing this? Just please, answer me before I go.

I get up out of the car, slam the door so hard it rattles the windows. I walk up to the door- YOUR door, in my baggy black sweatpants, my ripped cotton sweater, my brown parka. I pound on the door, not just with my hands, my fists, but with my arms. My hair is a mess, my face is a mess, my eyes are red and splotchy, and you’re not answering!!!

I kick the door, I throw my body against it, not sure if I actually expected it to work, but the door will not budge. After a few tries, my body is sore. My voice is lost, a casualty of the tears swelling my throat. I hate you for not letting me in.

For locking me out.

All I wanted was to be let in, you bastard. Why?

I pound and kick and grunt until someone- the manager? Pulls me away, kind of angry, kind of shocked…kind of sad.

Maybe he sees this thing a lot.

Maybe he knows, without anyone telling, that I am a woman whose husband has decided she isn’t worth anything anymore, that I’m a woman who’s lost everything.

But he thinks I just lost my temper, my scumbag of a husband to a newer and better make.

Nope, that’s not it.

I’m a woman who’s lost everything. My children, my job, my sanity. And I lost my husband in a car accident.

That man in there, the one I’ve been talking to- I don’t know him. They’re gone, they’re dead. All of them.

*******

He hears her pounding and screaming on the door, but he doesn’t want to. He ignores Candi, heads straight for his bag where he stored the vodka, opens it, and gulps down as much as he can. His throat is on fire, but he doesn’t care. It takes his mind away from her, from everything. He doesn’t want to hear her. That’s how she sounded that night, the night it happened. She pounded and kicked and grunted and screamed until there was nothing left in her.

She told him she hated him, that she wished it was him lying shattered and cold and dead. He wished it, too.

And he hasn’t stopped since.

*******

The manager walks the wild woman back to her car. He’s seen this many times before. Her husband is cheating on her. This one, though, she’s taking it badly. He wants to ask her if there is someone he could call, some family other than the man in the room, but she doesn’t seem capable of answering the question. So he puts her in the car, and calls the cops. He hates bringing them here, but what else is he supposed to do? He can’t just let her alone on the car all night. She’ll freeze to death. And that pussy-of-a-husband of hers won’t even come out of there.

Just then, a stunning blonde woman exits the room, fully clothed, walks straight for the manager. Oh no, he thinks, trouble. This woman wants to cause trouble for the man’s wife.

Instead, she simply tosses the keys at him, as if to say, “here, have fun with this,” and struts away to her sleek Mercedes.

*******

It’s now after 3 in the morning, and the police officer just dropped me off at the house. Have fun sleeping tonight, Greg, wherever that is.

I walk to the door, passing in our front yard a little-tykes swing that hangs low from the oak tree in front of our once magnificent house. It’s twisting and turning in the wind, the plastic is faded and cracked, and nothing, other than a nest of birds, or the random squirrel, has been in it for over a year.

We kept forgetting about it last year, and it wasn’t that cold until the last two weeks or so of December, so we didn’t bother to take it down. This year, though, I asked greg to please take it down, but he said no, why bother. What’s the difference? And so it’s been there for over a year, a sad reminder of what used to be.

I go into the house, up the stairs and passed two locked doors. Their rooms. They’ve been locked ever since I lost the baby. I came home from the hospital (by myself mind you) one day, and couldn’t get into them. When I asked Greg, he just ignored me. I go into the master bedroom, a room I alone now occupy. Spent, I strip myself of my clothes, and fall into bed, too tired to think.

*******

He walks up to his house, drunk and tired, but who cares? He stumbles over to the little swing hanging from the tree, and pushes it. It feels too light. Nathan should be in here with his little baseball cap.

“I was going to teach him to play baseball” he thinks.

He leaves the swing, fumbles for his keys, and unlocks the door. He makes his way up the steps. The house is dead quiet; she must not be here. She must be somewhere else.

He reaches the door to the right. It used to have pink letters on it.

S-A-R-A-H.

He pulls out his keys, yet again, only this time with more ease. He’s done this before. Lots, when he comes home drunk.

He flicks on a light inside the room, illuminating the pinks and whites and purples that were Sarah. The bed is still unmade as the last time she slept in it. Her stuffed dogs and bears and cats that would be on the bed if it were made, were instead strewn about on the floor, as if she had just kicked him off during her sleep.

There’s a Barbie doll house in one corner of the room, with about 10 dolls of different ethnicities and hair colors on the floor in front of it. There’s a desk, with coloring books and crayons. She has a kitchen playset, she has shelves on her walls lined with story books and fairy tales.

He used to read her those stories, those times she was still awake when he got home. She loved stories.

He walks through another door, which leads to a bathroom, which leads to Nathan’s bedroom. This one is blue, with baseballs lining the ceiling. Toy trucks in the corner, Nathan’s wooden crib, messy like his sister’s was. He moves to the closet, mostly empty; his clothing didn’t take up that much room. He sits on the floor of the closet, his back against the wall. As he presses his weight against the wall, a little toy starts to play music.

It’s a stuffed Santa Claus, and it’s playing, “Silent Night”

*******

What is that? Christmas music? It sounds like its coming from next door. But…it can’t be, next door is Nathan’s room.

The music isn’t stopping, so I get up to see what’s going on.

And then I see it.

Sarah’s door, it’s open.

I run down the hall, anxious to get in there before it shuts again and I’m locked out. I get in there, and the room is just as I remembered. Greg must’ve kept it that way, though I had assumed that he got rid of everything. The door to the bathroom is open, too, so I walk through and into nathan’s room.

The chorus to “Silent Night” is playing, louder in here, but sort of muffled. I flick on the lights, and am shocked to see Greg there, lying in the closet, big arms wrapped around this small toy. His body is shaking hard, and it hits me all of a sudden that he is crying. He looks so sad there, so pathetic. It sinks in that I’m in my baby’s room for the first time in a year.

And for the first time in just as long, I’m seeing something from greg. I can’t help but start crying, too. Silently, because I don’t want him to know I’m there. I lean against the door frame, and silently cry. The next verse of Silent Night has played, and now the chorus is coming around again. The tears are streaming, but when it sings the words, “sleep in heavenly peace,” I sob loudly.

Eventually he notices me there, and looks at me.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m sorry. I love you, I love the kids, but I killed them and you, and I’m sorry”. I want to reach out to him and say it’s ok, that I forgive him, and I need him and that I’ll be there for him, but he reaches into his back pocket, and pulls out a small black hunk of metal.

I scream at him, NO, that if he really loved me, he wouldn’t do it, he would live on for me and him and our babies, but he doesn’t hear me. He fires once, that’s all it takes.

*******

Blood on the snow white carpet, red. I stopped screaming, and I can’t feel anything. Everything is silent. Nathan is gone, Sarah is gone, the baby is gone, and now, just as I suspected, Greg is gone too.

The singing toy moves on to “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”

It is December 24th.

Merry Christmas.