12/4/15
"A Family Christmas"
Blogger's Note: What a piss, poor-ass week! The whole family's been sick: strep throat, stomach bugs, and pink eye. Every damn one of us got it, and mine just won't go away. I've had pink eye in both eyes for over a week now with little to no improvement. Not long after I switched departments at work, I have to call off.
Speaking of work, my days and nights are really fucked up right now. Or, I guess you'd say that they're right on track finally. I'm sitting wide awake in the middle of the night while the rest of my family sleeps. I feel like a vampire in a manner, but I've also found a solace in the wee hours of morning. I have time to write or watch television or play a game or stare and think. Sounds quite lonely I suppose, and sometimes it is. But, sometimes, like tonight, I smell the sweet honey of inspiration breathing from the walls of my office where I'm stationed at my computer. Much like the Kid Rock lyrics, I ain't seen the sunshine in three damn days.
My Uncle Vernon passed away earlier this week. He was quite a character. Due to my ridiculously bad affliction with pink eye, I couldn't make it to his funeral; but, I very much wish that I could have been there. Uncle Vernon was a lighthouse of personality. He would call occasionally to see how everyone was doing; and, if I happened to run into him while I was out running errands, and if the missus wasn't with me, he'd tell me a really good, dirty joke that was always worth cataloguing. I'll share one with you sometime if you'd like. Only I'm not as classy as he was, so the missus will probably hear it, too.
Uncle Vernon was my third uncle to pass away this year. Uncle Jimmy, who I never heard say a bad word about anyone, and Uncle Darold preceded him. Uncle Darold was my dad's twin brother. I once worked with him at an over-the-road, truck driving job. He was always just a phone call away to share some tips and tricks of the road with me (and a few dirty jokes of his own).
And, lastly, also this past week, my Uncle Larry and his wife Ricky, celebrated their 50th Wedding Anniversary together. I was invited and would have loved to have been there, but the fucking pink eye fucked that up, too.
So, to make up for it (at least somewhat), I suppose I'll share a little story that involves Uncle Larry. It's not a particularly funny story. Certainly, it wasn't then. But, in a sense, it's a story about family and bravery and, as seems to be appropriate for this time of year, Christmas.
It was the first Christmas after my father had passed away, and that first year had been particularly hard on my mother. But I'm afraid I'm framing this story all wrong. In fact, let's turn out the lights. Yeah, you can keep your Santa hats on if you want; and the intermittent rise and fall of the Christmas tree lights will probably make an appropriate backdrop. Now, hand me a flashlight. I'm gonna tuck it under my chin, so the light illuminates my face in that eerie way that one does before telling a scary story.
Before we begin, let's be straight. This is a scary story.
Now, have you ever been really afraid? I mean really afraid?
Well, I have...
Listening to: Frank Sinatra "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas"
The night had started off strangely. Mom was acting peculiar. She wasn't talking much, and when she pulled up to the post office, I wondered what she was going to do. The sun had already sat, and the post office was closed. I couldn't be for sure, but I thought that Pat's Market across the street was, too. Not that it mattered. If she were going to go there, she would've just parked there. Something was amiss.
"I want you to wait here," Mom had instructed. I stared at her, wondering where she was going. My three-year-old brother was standing in the backseat, watching us; in those days, seat belts and child restraints were for pussies. I kept silent as Mom closed the door and said, "I'll be right back".
Mom disappeared somewhere behind the post office. The car was suddenly eerily quiet. Even my toddler brother was being unusually silent. Shawn was standing in the backseat, attentively watching everything. I tried to ease my worried, six-year-old head with thoughts of what we'd be doing when we got back home. It was Christmas Eve after all. We'd probably string popcorn or set out milk and cookies or watch something on the Zenith. Heck, I bet there was a Charlie Brown Christmas special on tonight or maybe (even the thought caught my breath with excitement) Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer!
Just when I thought my anxiety was going to overtake me, Mom returned. She probably hadn't been gone five minutes, but it felt like an eternity. She had a paper sack in her hand which she sat in the back seat. I didn't realize it then; but, now, as I look back on that night, I realize that she must have walked to the Bridge Inn, our small town's most popular tavern. It was located just on the other side of the post office. She was likely planning to drown her holiday blues in a fifth of vodka or bourbon or whatever it was that she had purchased. The memories of her deceased husband, less than a year gone, had crept into the cheery wreath that hung on our front door. ivied in and out of the merry tree that we'd spent a fun night decorating, and snaked past the now-pointless mistletoe that hung above the kitchen's archway. I don't have a recollection of my mother ever drinking before that night, so my ignorance to her intentions was understandable.
When we got back home, my hopes of any Christmas Eve festivities were quickly doused. Mom told us to get to bed. Santa would be here tonight, and he wouldn't leave anything if we weren't asleep. I didn't entirely believe in Santa, but I followed her instructions nonetheless. Something in her empty eyes told me that I'd better.
Now, the layout to our house is important to this story. The front door opened into our living room. Immediately to the left was an open doorway that lead into Mom's room. Once in her room, a right turn past the two, soulless china dolls residing on her bed (more on those in a moment) led to two doors. One was to our small bathroom, and the other was to mine and Shawn's step-down bedroom.
Mom followed us to our room. I climbed to the top bunk, which was my claimed perch. As usual, Shawn slipped under the bed. No, not on the bottom bunk. Completely under the bed. That's where he always slept. We never thought this practice was weird; but, now, as I write about it, I wonder if maybe it was. Shawn just always preferred to sleep down there.
Mom told us good night before she turned off the light and closed the door. I definitely knew something was wrong then. Mom never told us good night. I lay awake staring into the darkness and listening to an eerie silence before the magic of Christmas slumber worked its way into my head.
The sound of something crashing in the living room awoke me with a start. I hastily climbed from my bed. Something told me that it wasn't Santa that was responsible for that noise. I ran past Mom's bed and past the evil, wicked, demonic eyes of the two china dolls. I hated those dolls.
Every morning, Mom would make up her bed and then set these two dolls on her pillows. They seemed to watch me no matter where I was in the room. In the daytime, I could usually muster enough courage to run at a full sprint past their gaze and to the safety of my bedroom. But in the darkness of night, I knew that their heads turned and followed my every movement with dark eyes that cast evil upon everything they could see. I'm not sure what ultimately happened to those dolls, but I have no doubt that they are somewhere out there, still watching with their beady, expressionless faces and whispering to one another when no one's around. Even as a man, now, writing this, I pray that they have forgotten the fun they had casting terror on my younger self; because, I fear they remember me. And perhaps hunger for the dread that they once siphoned from my childhood innocence.
When I rounded the corner to the living room, I beheld what I believed to be the product of their malevolence.
The Christmas tree had been toppled. Ornaments and decorations and scraps of wrapping paper were scattered throughout the living room. Our presents lay disheveled on the living room floor; one particular one caught my attention. A tear in the wrapping revealed a Star Wars AT-AT (the big, Imperial dinosaur transport) that I had so been longing for that year. The room seemed hungry for illumination as the lights from the tree blinked ominously: red, then green, then red again.
Mom sat on the floor, her back against the couch. She was staring right at me; her eyes, glazed, eerily twinkled from the holiday lighting. "I know a little boy that won't be getting anything for Christmas if he doesn't get his ass to bed... right now!!!"
The way her words cackled and ascended into yelling reminded me, for some reason, of the wicked witch on the Wizard of Oz; and, I was quite afraid of that green-skinned villainess. Hate resonated from her voice, and I knew that if I paused for more than an instant then she would have torn into me. Mom wasn't opposed to corporal punishment. She had a leather belt hanging in the closet that might as well have had my name on it; I usually felt its wrath on a daily basis. Just when I thought I couldn't take anymore, she would let up and tell me to go to my room. But something told me that the lady that was sitting on the floor, with her back against the couch, and resembling my mother but certainly not her, would not let up if she ever got started. Somehow I knew, with every fiber of my being, that this was true.
I ran back to my room and shut and locked the door behind me. I turned on the light and sat on the step just inside my bedroom door. I listened for her approach, almost expecting it, and dreading it. After a couple of minutes, I decided that she wasn't coming. I pressed my ear against the door and, carefully, listened.
More strange sounds came from the living room; sounds that I didn't want to hear. I considered waking up my brother, but decided against it. The last thing I needed was for him to start crying and sway the attention of the evil lady that was in our living room.
My contemplating stare rested on our record player that was on the floor. It had a small disco ball that dangled above it, and we had a rather nice selection of fun children's songs. I could softly play our Christmas record, the one that had dogs that merrily barked Jingle Bells, and drown out those sounds.
But something pressed at me. Something weighed on me like an anvil resting on my heart: Mom was in trouble.
Not the evil lady that sat on the floor in that living room. That wasn't my mother. My mother was possessed, perhaps by those evil, china dolls; and, I had to do something about it. I needed to call for help.
Just past the doorway from my mother's bedroom to the living room, our phone hung on the wall. I could just reach it, and I knew my Uncle Larry's phone number.
Uncle Larry was a police officer in Brookport then. I saw him all the time cruising the streets of our town in his cop car. I never verbally dared any of the town bullies to mess with me while my uncle was on patrol, but I must admit that I carried a badge of bravado when I saw him in uniform. I knew that if anyone did mess with me, then he'd take care of 'em.
In those days, I was at Uncle Larry's house every other night. They just lived a block away; and his daughter, Vickie, was the same age as me. We were in the same class; and, usually, I was either staying at her house or she was staying at mine. We were more like brothers and sisters than cousins, so I knew that if I could just call him that he would come. I just had to call him, and that was easier said than done...
First, I'd have to crawl past the evil, china dolls. I couldn't run lest the sound of my footfalls were to reach the Wicked Witch of the Living Room. Then, I'd have to somehow get past the open doorway where I had just been told to get my ass to bed. Lastly, I'd have to get the phone down and begin turning that rotary dial. It was excruciatingly slow, and the clicks it made might be loud enough to catch her attention.
I sat for a long time, trying to muster enough courage, and contemplating the woes of failure. I pressed my ear against the door and decided that I hadn't heard anything for a long time. So, I decided to venture out.
I carefully creaked open the door and paused to listen for a second longer. I didn't hear silence, rather the sound of something trying to be silent. Like china dolls or evil witches. My heart was pounding in my chest as I carefully dug my hands into the carpet and began to crawl.
I crawled past the closet door where Mom had hidden our Christmas presents. Shawn and I had found them and discovered what we'd be getting that year; so, yeah, I had known about the Star Wars AT-AT before I had seen it on the living room floor. I crawled past the evil china dolls, and I tried to pretend that they weren't just above me, staring down at me with their blank expressions and filled with the satisfaction of my horror. Just before the opening to the living room, I slowly and carefully peeked through the doorway.
Mom was still sitting on the floor with her back against the couch. Her head was tilted forward now, and her hair fell around her face, concealing it from my reconnaissance. I decided that if I waited a second longer then I would chicken out. So, I quickly but quietly crawled past the doorway into the shadowy corner where the phone was. I carefully stood, pressing my back against the wall so as to make myself as narrow as possible, hoping that she couldn't somehow see me.
I began dialing the numbers. The ticks sounded impossibly loud, and my stomach churned as I imagined that evil, witch face appearing from around the corner and staring right into my soul. "I know a little boy that won't be getting anything for Christmas if he doesn't get his ass to bed... right now!!!"
At last, I heard the brrrrnnnggg of the phone ringing in the ear piece. It rang and rang; it seemed to ring forever. I'm not exactly sure what time it was, but I would guess in the wee hours of morning. When Uncle Larry's groggy voice finally answered, my courage had completely dissipated.
"Help me!! Help me!!! It's Duane!! There's something wrong with Mom!!! I don't know what's wrong, but something's wrong!!!" I was crying uncontrollably, and I'm sure he had trouble understanding me.
I heard a moment of silence as he was gathering his mentality from his recent-sleep. "Ok, ok... Calm down. I'll be right there..." he said. And then I heard that busy signal that followed when someone hangs up. I was alone again.
I carefully stood and looked into the living room. Mom was still in that same position. I paused to take in the carnage of all of our Christmas decorations that had been trashed around the room. Then, I decided to inch toward the front door and unlock it.
Once it was unlocked, I ran back to my bedroom, closed the door, and waited.
Perhaps fifteen minutes later, I heard the front door open. Soon after, the door to my bedroom opened and Uncle Larry was standing there. I had never been happier to see anyone in my entire life. He picked me up and carried me to his car. I waited there as he disappeared back inside; a few seconds later he was coming back with my little brother's head laying on his shoulder. He opened the back door and lay Shawn on the seat.
I lost track of time at that point, perhaps I was falling in and out of sleep. I remember the flashing lights of an ambulance startling me before I blacked out.
Vickie was shaking me awake. "Wake up! Wake up! It's Christmas!!!" I sat up on the couch where I must have slept. I could smell the familiar aromas of breakfast that I always smelled when I stayed with my cousin: coffee and sausage and biscuits. They had never felt more welcome than they did just then.
"C'mon! Breakfast is almost ready!!!" she encouraged. Shawn winked open an eye from the other end of the couch; he sat up in confusion. We all walked into the kitchen where Uncle Larry and Aunt Ricky were busy making breakfast.
"Why hello!" Uncle Larry looked as jolly as old St Nick when he saw me. Aunt Ricky turned around and said, "Merry Christmas, sleepy-head!!!"
I think that's when I knew that everything was going to be all right.
"Where's Mom?" I asked.
"Your mom's gonna be all right. She's in the hospital right now, but she's gonna be all right," Uncle Larry tried to explain.
"Can we go see her?" I asked.
"Maybe tomorrow. But you're gonna be spending Christmas with us this year," he said.
So we ate breakfast and everyone was excited. Anita and Jodie, Vickie's older sisters, were bickering over some socks as they walked into the kitchen. They stopped when they saw me. "Oh, hey Duane. Hey, Shawn," they said cheerily. Then they resumed bickering again.
They always bickered. One minute they'd be arguing about something, and the next minute they'd be best friends. And that was ok, because, then I knew that I was home for Christmas.
I found out later that Mom was pretty much in an alcohol-induced coma for two days, and I blame her for nothing. I believe she had been dangling just inches from the bottom that year - the year just after her husband had unwillingly left her with two young boys and a house to take care of. I know she had never meant for things to go as far south as they did.
Sometimes, when we get that close to the bottom, we quit trying for the surface. The bottom is closer. And, once there, who knows what we'll find. At the very least, maybe we can push ourselves off the floor and get some momentum to spring back up. In certain instances, rock bottom is a very welcome place.
A couple of days later, Uncle Larry took us to visit her at the hospital. She called me her "hero" when I walked into the room. We talked for a while. She said she was sorry for Christmas and that she'd make it up to us. Of course, she did. But she didn't need to.
Because, strangely, I felt more love from my whole family that Christmas than, perhaps, I ever would again. It's those time of need and distress that make the holidays warmer and families come closer. Everyone was put to test that year, and everyone passed. Love won. And I come from a family of love. Oh, sure. We're all crazy fools sometimes; but, when the going gets tough, we come together.
Uncle Larry said we had to leave, but Mom would be home in a couple of days. As I began to pull away, Mom pulled me closer for a hug and she whispered something in my ear. "I love you. I promise that I'll never drink again."
She never did.
Merry Christmas!!!
-- If you liked this story, try more Flashback episodes like "Tales of the Unexplained".
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