Christmas Nightmare

"And then Santa Claus came down the chimney," my mother read, the light of the fire glinting off the glossy pages of the picture book. "He dusted off his bright red jacket and spotted the cookies on the table in front of the Christmas tree."

Our den was small, but cozy. My father sat in the armchair in front of the fireplace reading the newspaper. My mother was sitting on the rug with me. I curled up closer to her, tugging on the too-short sleeves of my flannel pajamas. My mother put her arm around me and ran her hand through my uneven hair where I had tried to cut my bangs like Susie Carmichael, who was the prettiest girl in second grade.

" 'Ho, ho, ho,' laughed Santa Claus. 'This must be the house of a very good child indeed.' Santa Claus opened up his great big bag of presents and took out two beautifully wrapped boxes."

The heat licking the window panes was making the frost drip down the glass in a foggy haze. Darkness had fallen over West Laurence a good two hours ago, but in the distance I could see the streetlights' glow struggling bravely in the dark.

"He set the boxes beneath the Christmas tree glittering with ornaments and tinsel. Then he brought out of his pocket a dozen candy canes and put them into the stocking hanging over the fireplace."

I looked up at my mother. The fire's constantly changing light cast long shadows across her face and threw into sharp relief the wrinkles crowding her forehead.

" 'Presents only for good children,' said Santa Claus as he packed up his things. 'Only good children get -'"

"Oh, stop it, Mary," my father suddenly snapped from behind his paper. "Stop with all this nonsense about Santa Claus."

My mother slammed the book shut and I closed my eyes. They were able to fight again.

"It's the Christmas Eve. What's wrong with a little Christmas cheer, Tony?" she asked, her voice strained. "You didn't even let us get a Christmas tree or let Leslie put up a stocking."

"What's wrong with that? It's all nonsense, I'm telling you. I won't have you pumping this foolish stuff about Christmas into my kid's brain. It's not healthy."

"And since when have you even cared about Leslie anyway?" my mother retorted. "I don't see you ever reading with her, or -"

"Leslie, get out," my father ordered.

I stayed on the rug, tears threatening to spill.

"GET OUT!" my father roared.

I tore out of the room and down the hallway, the linoleum cold against my bare feet. My room was the first door on the right. I scurried into bed and pulled my pillow over my ears.

There was no use in trying to block out their voices. Our house was too small and I could always hear them arguing, even behind closed doors.

After they finished yelling at each other, my mother would always come into my room. She would sigh and hold me tightly for a few moments. I would always pretend to be sleeping as she whispered words I couldn't understand under her breath.

Once my mother explained to me why they fought so much. She told me that my father was stressed out because his job at the post office required a lot of attention and he had to operate on a strict deadline. He had to sort letters, and if he messed up just once he could get into a lot of trouble.

I nodded through that explanation, although it didn't really make sense to me. Sorting letters didn't sound like a really hard sort of job. Tonight, however, my mother's reasoning was sadly inadequate. I imagined other households celebrating Christmas together, baking cookies, putting up a Christmas tree (which my father had forbidden as an unnecessary frivolity), and wrapping presents. The ideal family gleamed like gold in my mind as I cried myself to sleep.

My bladder woke me up in the middle of the night. I tiptoed out of my room and down the hallway to the bathroom.

The house was silent.

I didn't bother turning on the lights in the bathroom. I knew where the toilet was.




TO BE CONTINUED......