For the Love of Christmas

He was sure his parents would divorce when Mum got out of the place in America. They had had a fight every night for a year. Nothing could survive that, he had decided. He’d watched Divorce Court on TV so he knew how it worked, and he’d seen it with Jack Berry’s parents who had fought so often that Jack said it was a relief when he didn’t have to hear it any more.

But Oscar didn’t want his parents to divorce. He liked them together when they were good. They sort of made each other better versions of themselves.

Mum was more chilled and creative but Dad was really smart and logical. She made him fun and he made her a bit more sensible.

That was until they started being the worst versions of themselves.

He wondered if his mum had bought him any presents in America. There were lots of things he wanted but he hadn’t asked Dad; instead he had emailed Mum a wish list with a few things for Sofie, too

Mum hadn’t answered, but then maybe the hospital didn’t have computers for patients in case they googled escape plans.

He flicked through Instagram, answered a few snap chats, making stupid faces, and then shut his phone.

It was boring here, he thought, and he hoped it would snow. Snow would be fun. Not like the dirty muck in London; country snow would be cleaner. Maybe he and Sofie could make snowballs? Or a snowman? He closed his eyes and thought about home. He wished Mum were with them here. She would like the funny-shaped rooms, and she would laugh every time Dad hit his head on the beams.

Mum made everything fun.

He hoped she was having fun wherever she was right now, and he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

Rebecca

Rebecca woke in her bed, still wearing her travelling clothes. She checked her phone and saw it was five in the morning, and that she had no messages.

Where the hell was Jamie? she thought, as she became angry at his lack of compassion.

This was so typical of him, she thought as she climbed out of bed, and went to shower. The water soothed her. As she stood under its warmth, she breathed out slowly, like she had been taught at Arrow Lodge. Morning meditation was like a form of torture to Rebecca. All that sitting still and letting go had made her want to scream, but eventually something resonated in her, and focusing on her breathing had changed how she felt.

There is nothing like coming home to your own bathroom, she thought, as she washed her hair twice, and left the conditioner mask in her hair.

After she had scrubbed her face with a hot washer, slathered her face in moisturiser, and dressed in clothes that she hadn’t taken to rehab, she felt better.

Fresh, and ready for her new sober life.

First she had to find her family. She rang Jamie again but it went through to voicemail. Then she tried Oscar but it did the same thing.

She didn’t leave a message. What was there to say?

Hello, I’m back. Sorry I’m a drunk. I promise to be sober from now on. Will you come home?

She wondered if she should ring Penelope, her sister-in-law, but she didn’t want to hear the lecture about her behaviour and Jamie’s right to protect his children.

Instead, she made a cup of tea, and searched the cupboards for food.

No bread, no cereal, only rice, she noticed.

Next step in her new life was food shopping, she thought.

Usually she ordered everything online and had it delivered but she had the desire to get out into the world.

Finishing her tea, she pulled on her coat and gloves, grabbed her bag, and slammed the door behind her, pleased to see the wreath on the door.

The supermarket up the road was open all night but at six it was virtually deserted.

Christmas paraphernalia was at the end of every aisle, bookending the everyday.

She filled her trolley slowly, enjoying being in the moment, as she decided on what cereal to buy, which cheese was best, and the bread that Jamie liked.

With each turn at the end of an aisle, she would peruse the Christmas offerings.

Stockings filled with jellied hamburger-shaped lollies, toffees in a sweet red-and-white-striped tin, little Christmas pudding juggling balls, which she bought for Oscar.

A little fluffy pink purse with the letter S on it for Sofie was too cute to resist, and a pair of tartan socks for Jamie ended up in the trolley, even though she had no idea if she was on his Christmas list.

Piling the bags into the car, she saw the florist’s was opening, its lights flickering in protest at the early start. Pushing open the door, a bell heralded her arrival.

‘Morning,’ said a girl with a bright smile.

‘Merry Christmas,’ said Rebecca as her eye ran over the flowers.

‘Can I help you?’ asked the girl.

‘White lilies?’ asked Rebecca, unable to see them in the buckets in the shop.

‘I’m just about to bring them out,’ said the girl. ‘You can come and choose a bunch. I went to the flower market first thing, so they’re all fresh.’

Rebecca followed the girl into the back of the shop, where she opened a large cool-room door. The smell of lilies hit her like a caress and she breathed in the scent.

‘Can I have four bunches,’ she said, ‘with some poinsettias or holly, if you have them?’

The girl nodded happily. ‘Of course. Would you like me to mix them together for you?’

Rebecca thought for a moment. Everything in her life had been delivered by someone else. Her shopping, her children delivered home from school by the nanny. She shook her head. ‘No, I’d like to arrange them,’ she said, as she touched a waxy petal.

‘Of course,’ said the girl, as Rebecca picked up the bunches that she wanted.

‘Any Christmas trees?’ asked Rebecca, glancing around the store.

‘Oh, not many left,’ said the girl. ‘They’re the ones I can’t really sell now and I didn’t get any more from the market. Most people have their trees up now.’

Not I, thought Rebecca. Usually her tree was up three weeks before Christmas; now she would have to make do with the dregs.

‘I don’t mind as long as it’s a real tree,’ she said.

She followed the girl into the back of the shop, to the laneway, where trees were lined against the wall. She walked to the end where the smaller ones were. She touched one at the end, the pine smell thrilling her.

‘That one’s a bit defective,’ said the girl. ‘The other ones are slightly better, but not much.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’ asked Rebecca.

‘One side is completely bald. I don’t know why the tree man put it with the others.’

Rebecca pulled it away from the wall and saw that one side was in fact bald and the other beautifully bushy.

‘I like this one,’ she said decisively.

‘Really?’ asked the girl, peering at Rebecca. ‘It’s far from perfect.’

‘Nothing is perfect,’ she said, ‘and why shouldn’t this tree have a chance to be lovely, just because it’s got a bit of alopecia?’

The girl laughed. ‘Would you like it delivered?’

Rebecca thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I don’t think it would fit in my car.’

‘You can have it for free,’ said the girl. ‘No one else will want it and my delivery man can drop it off.’

Rebecca paid for her flowers and went back to her car, happy with her unusual decision.

Once she would have chosen the biggest and bushiest tree; now she chose the one no one else wanted.

Perhaps rehab had made her a soft touch?

But being vulnerable was brave, Rose-Marie had said to her in a session.

Now it felt like she saw the strugglers everywhere. The unwanted trees, the misunderstood mothers, the frustrated fathers.

She knew Jamie had a right to leave, that he had a right to protect the children from her behaviour; she just wanted a chance to show them she had worked hard to stop and be better. That she was just like the tree. Yes, one side was lacking but there was another side that was lovely, if you looked closely enough.

At home, Rebecca arranged the flowers, wishing the children were home, the silence so deafening that she put on Christmas music.

Usually Christmas music cheered her, but as she hummed along to ‘O Holy Night’, she felt tears form.

She had fallen to her knees and had to pick herself up again. It was nearly impossible to face her reason for drinking. At first she had said it was because of work stress, then it was her marriage, Jamie, her children, her sister-in-law, anyone but herself.

Until one day, she talked about Finlay.

The drinking had started after she delivered a little boy, who refused to breathe.

He’s an angel now, her mother had said, but Rebecca didn’t want an angel. She wanted a child who was alive and well, who would totter around the hideous glass table like Sofie, and worship his older brother, Oscar.

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