who wants a depressing christmas story??
Author: hi_falootin
Story: Second Chances
Prompt: Vanilla 7. holiday + Chocolate 4. frustration
Rating: PG, if only because it's a bit upsetting
Word count: 2272
Notes: Haha, so I write some kind of Christmas story every year. This is the most upsetting one in recent memory. Levee and Tony are around 20 in this one and it takes place the Christmas of her sophomore year of college. 2007, I believe.
Everyone says their mother is crazy and it's surprisingly difficult to convince someone that you actually mean it. December 23rd with Levee's family. Things almost go okay...
I warned him once on the airplane and then again when we were pressed into the back seat of a cab with my suitcase and his duffel. I was trying to be conservative, when I really thought it couldn't be overemphasized that my mother might actually be going off the deep end. But Tony rolled his eyes anyway, because everyone says their mother is crazy and it's surprisingly difficult to convince someone that you actually mean it.
"It'll be fine, Levee," he said, with his usual optimism and I had to bite my lips together to keep from arguing.
"Mmhm," I said.
"I've met your folks before," he said, "Don't worry."
"Mmhm," I said again.
Tony leaned forward to tell the driver where to turn, which I should probably have been doing. But we both knew the neighborhood, the way everyone in this town does, the way the cab driver probably does too. I settled back into the seat, watching the houses go by, the occasional burst of electric Christmas spirit laid out on their lawns, lining their roofs and gables.
I didn't tell Tony that he wasn't technically invited. When my father had called, breaking the radio silence following my failure to come home for Thanksgiving, I hadn't given him much of a choice. If I was coming, Tony was too.
My father, though very diplomatic about the whole thing, almost seemed to believe this was some act of rebellion intended to further upset my mother.
Which it wasn't, this time.
I might have been frowning again, because Tony reached over and squeezed my knee. "It'll be fine," he said again.
Sometimes, you want that optimism.
* * *
When we got out of the cab, it was just starting to snow again. The snow on the ground was already old, mostly ice and slush streaked through with dirt, not exactly winter wonderland. We paid the driver with a twenty apiece-retrieved last-minute from the airport ATM-and carried our bags up the slippery steps to my front door.
Dad opened the door before we even rang the bell. "Elizabeth!" he said, clearly glad to see me; there was a hint of relief there too. "And Tony! Come in!"
"Nice to see you again, Mr. Jordan," Tony said formally, then glanced at me for approval.
After giving me a one-armed hug and sharing a manly handshake with Tony, Dad ushered us inside. My family had made more of an effort at decoration than I remembered from the year before, which was still not much; a strand of red tinsel wound around the bannister and a few Christmas cards arranged on the entryway table. We'd never been big on decorations, never really holiday people at all, to the point where you'd think my parents wouldn't care if I came home for Thanksgiving. Tony fingered the tinsel when we walked past; I regarded it with suspicion.
"How was your flight?" Dad asked, leading us into the living room.
"Fine," I said. "Uneventful."
My family's (fake) Christmas tree was set up in the corner and my brother was sprawled on the sofa in front of it. When we came in, he scrambled up to come over and give me a hug.
"You remember Tony, right?" I asked him.
"Oh right." Derek waved in his little self-conscious way, eyes quickly dropping to Tony's shoes. I'd wondered if he'd outgrow some of that shyness when he hit a growth spurt last year and stopped being a chubby kid, but it hadn't happened yet.
I was about to ask where Mom was, just to get that out of the way, but she had just appeared under the archway between living and dining room, wiping her hands on a red canvas apron. She looked older. I hated that I thought that, but she'd stopped dying her hair earlier this year and the few lines on her face seemed more pronounced. The hair had taken me by surprise last summer-there's just something unsettling about coming home to find your usually young-looking mother had gone completely gray-but maybe this time, I was being uncharitable. Expecting her to look troubled and therefore weathered, expecting visual clues.
"Hi, Mom," I said.
"Hello, Lovey," my mother said. She spread her arms, but when stepped towards her she rested her hands on my shoulders and kissed my cheek. Only when I tried to step away did her arm hook around my waist, pulling me tight to her side as she smiled out at Dad, Derek and Tony. "It's nice to have everyone here," she said.
I swallowed hard. She almost sounded too polite, mechanical, and again, I hated that that was where my mind went. I looked at Derek, the one person in the room who might have noticed too, but he was looking down at the carpet.
"Your mother's going to make dinner," my dad said, sounding oddly proud. He set a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Do you like spare ribs?"
"I love them," Tony said, which is always the right answer.
Dad beamed. "They're Eliz...Levee's favorite. Isn't that right?"
I winced; Dad never called me that so it seemed strange and forced, like we were putting on a show. "Yeah," I said, trying not to squirm. I was keenly aware of my mother's arm still hooking me to her side. "They're really good. Thanks."
"Yes, thanks," Tony said. "It's really nice of you guys to have me over." He extended a hand towards my mother which you'd think most people would read as a friendly, open gesture, but my mother seemed almost confused by it. Her smile faltered.
"Do you need any help in the kitchen?" I asked. More niceties, more politeness.
Mom shook her head.
"Are you sure?" I turned my way out of her grip to gesture towards Tony. "Tony's probably a better help in the kitchen than I am."
"I can definitely help," Tony piped. He took a step towards my mother. "If there's anything you need."
When I looked back to my mother, she had frozen, her hands clasped in front of her like she was preparing to pull an invisible rope. When I started to reach out to her, she shook her head again and said, almost a whisper, "Excuse me."
Then she left.
I immediately looked at my father, but he looked even more surprised than I was. Tony, who couldn't hide an emotion to save his life, looked completely confused and my brother was pretending to look at something out the window.
Dad finally cleared his throat. "She'll be back," he said. Tony and I both nodded, a little too much.
"I'll be in my room," Derek announced. No one tried to stop him.
"Well, sit, sit," my father was saying to us, motioning Tony towards the couch. I took a seat beside Tony; only our knees were touching and only because of how he was sitting. My father sat down in the tan leather armchair.
And we waited.
We made small talk for a while, mostly about my school. Tony talked about his band a little. The clock above the mantle ticked on, so loud in the silences which were becoming longer and more frequent. Tony had started to fidget, occasionally pulling out his phone and then sliding it back in his pocket like he thought he was being rude.
The waiting was excruciating.
"She'll be back to make dinner," my father had insisted.
But that assurance was left far behind and although I didn't feel much like eating, I think the guys were getting hungry.
"You should go in and talk to her," my father said finally. I opened my mouth to argue, but there was no point. I'd been starting to wonder if anything could be worse than sitting there in the living room, in a silence only broken by Tony's fidgeting. With a sigh that hopefully conveyed how put-upon I felt, I got to my feet and headed down the hall.
The door to my parents' bedroom-which I knew from Derek had became Mom's room with Dad in occasional, consensual exile to the couch-was pulled shut. I knocked lightly.
"Mom?" I asked. I hated that Tony and my father could probably hear me, whatever I'd have to say to get in the door. I dropped my voice even lower to ask, "Can I come in?"
I didn't get an answer, but the door wasn't locked. I slowly turned the handle, opened it only a crack. My mother was propped up in the center of the king-sized bed, atop the quilted comforter and a pile of coordinated pillows. She didn't look at me when I came in, but she didn't yell at me to get out either, so I supposed I'd take it.
"Is everything all right?" I asked, which was a stupid thing to ask because of course it wasn't. But what else was I supposed to say?
Then she muttered something about a bad feeling or omen or some shit, I don't even know.
I hated that she didn't enunciate, that I had to ask her to repeat it, knowing it probably wouldn't make sense anyway. I wanted to be angry at my father for sending me in here, for begging me to come back in the first place, but as always, I just got angry with her.
"What, Mom?" I stomped around to the front of the bed, hands on my hips. "What is it that's so bad?"
She pressed her hands to her temples; at first I thought she was covering her ears. "It's not right," she said. "It's not right. I have a bad feeling..."
"Mom! What are you talking about?"
"Something's not right!" She say up now, spoke with unexpected energy. "I have a bad feeling-you and that boy-"
I couldn't tell if you if that surprised me or not.
"Tony?" I tried to laugh-it was so ridiculous-but it didn't come out right. I almost asked her, what are you talking about? I almost asked her what the hell? My mother crossed her arms and leaned back against the pillows, eyes closing for longer than a blink. My hands were at tight fists at my side, fingernails stinging my palms. There was no point.
I left.
I almost ran over my brother in the hallway while he was struggling into his parka.
"What's wrong?" he asked, as we stumbled away from each other.
"Nothing," I snapped. "Are you going somewhere?"
"Well, we're not having dinner, are we?" he said. I followed him back into the living room, where I'd left Tony and my father in awkward silence. Dad had picked up a book and Tony was back to messing with his phone, but they looked up when Derek and I entered. My father with some amount of disappointment-why he'd thought I could get through my mother, I didn't understand.
"Derek?" Dad left the book open on his lap, watching my brother zip up his coat.
"I'm going over to Hassan's," Derek said.
Dad looked surprised. "On the day before Christmas eve?"
It sounded ridiculous when he said it like that, like December 23rd was a high holy day. The day before the day before the day before.
"They're Muslim, Dad." Derek rolled his eyes, retrieving the hiking boots he'd left out by the tree. "They don't even celebrate Christmas."
My fourteen year old brother knew better than us when to give up, when he'd have to fend for himself for dinner. Someone would feed him.
"How's your mom?" Dad asked me. He didn't try to stop Derek.
"I think Tony and I should leave too," I said.
Tony's head jerked up. Dad was silent.
"We were going to see your family tomorrow, anyway," I said to Tony; at this point, whether I was imposing or not mattered less than me to getting out. "We can just go over a little early, right?"
"Well sure," Tony said. "I'm sure they won't mind." I could tell he was confused again, but I wasn't about to repeat what my mother had said. Not to him, not to my father-not to anyone if I could help it.
I was trying not to look at my father now, though I could feel him looking at me. Derek had escaped into the entryway, and I heard the front door open and close, could even feel the draft from outside. It was cold, maybe getting colder, but I was willing to walk to Tony's if it would get me out of this living room.
"Why..." my father started to ask.
"Because I don't want to be here."
My dad looked at me in a way that made me think he was going to admonish me, say my name in a very serious tone. But maybe he wasn't sure what name to use, because he just shook his head.
There was no way I could get out of this not looking like the World's Worst Daughter. "Look, I'm sorry," I told my father, "but Mom's having an episode or something and I really think it would be better if we just...we can call for a cab."
I watched Tony's head swing from me to my father. I'd have time to be embarrassed about this later, I was sure. Later, when I wasn't so angry.
"Don't do that," Dad said finally. And I was getting ready to argue, before he added, "I can drive you."
Err, yeah, so I might have to write the next, less depressing part (HEY, IT'S A HOUSEFUL OF TONY'S GIANT FAMILY--WHAT'S NOT TO LOVE?) just to make up for this.
Also a lot of "I hated that..." in this one?? IDK, blame the chocolate prompt. And Levee being particularly hateful.
Oh and I feel I should mention (certainly unnecessarily) that Levee's full name is Elizabeth Love Jordan, and her family has a bunch of different nicknames for her. In the interest of not being super confusing, I only used a couple.
Story: Second Chances
Prompt: Vanilla 7. holiday + Chocolate 4. frustration
Rating: PG, if only because it's a bit upsetting
Word count: 2272
Notes: Haha, so I write some kind of Christmas story every year. This is the most upsetting one in recent memory. Levee and Tony are around 20 in this one and it takes place the Christmas of her sophomore year of college. 2007, I believe.
Everyone says their mother is crazy and it's surprisingly difficult to convince someone that you actually mean it. December 23rd with Levee's family. Things almost go okay...
I warned him once on the airplane and then again when we were pressed into the back seat of a cab with my suitcase and his duffel. I was trying to be conservative, when I really thought it couldn't be overemphasized that my mother might actually be going off the deep end. But Tony rolled his eyes anyway, because everyone says their mother is crazy and it's surprisingly difficult to convince someone that you actually mean it.
"It'll be fine, Levee," he said, with his usual optimism and I had to bite my lips together to keep from arguing.
"Mmhm," I said.
"I've met your folks before," he said, "Don't worry."
"Mmhm," I said again.
Tony leaned forward to tell the driver where to turn, which I should probably have been doing. But we both knew the neighborhood, the way everyone in this town does, the way the cab driver probably does too. I settled back into the seat, watching the houses go by, the occasional burst of electric Christmas spirit laid out on their lawns, lining their roofs and gables.
I didn't tell Tony that he wasn't technically invited. When my father had called, breaking the radio silence following my failure to come home for Thanksgiving, I hadn't given him much of a choice. If I was coming, Tony was too.
My father, though very diplomatic about the whole thing, almost seemed to believe this was some act of rebellion intended to further upset my mother.
Which it wasn't, this time.
I might have been frowning again, because Tony reached over and squeezed my knee. "It'll be fine," he said again.
Sometimes, you want that optimism.
* * *
When we got out of the cab, it was just starting to snow again. The snow on the ground was already old, mostly ice and slush streaked through with dirt, not exactly winter wonderland. We paid the driver with a twenty apiece-retrieved last-minute from the airport ATM-and carried our bags up the slippery steps to my front door.
Dad opened the door before we even rang the bell. "Elizabeth!" he said, clearly glad to see me; there was a hint of relief there too. "And Tony! Come in!"
"Nice to see you again, Mr. Jordan," Tony said formally, then glanced at me for approval.
After giving me a one-armed hug and sharing a manly handshake with Tony, Dad ushered us inside. My family had made more of an effort at decoration than I remembered from the year before, which was still not much; a strand of red tinsel wound around the bannister and a few Christmas cards arranged on the entryway table. We'd never been big on decorations, never really holiday people at all, to the point where you'd think my parents wouldn't care if I came home for Thanksgiving. Tony fingered the tinsel when we walked past; I regarded it with suspicion.
"How was your flight?" Dad asked, leading us into the living room.
"Fine," I said. "Uneventful."
My family's (fake) Christmas tree was set up in the corner and my brother was sprawled on the sofa in front of it. When we came in, he scrambled up to come over and give me a hug.
"You remember Tony, right?" I asked him.
"Oh right." Derek waved in his little self-conscious way, eyes quickly dropping to Tony's shoes. I'd wondered if he'd outgrow some of that shyness when he hit a growth spurt last year and stopped being a chubby kid, but it hadn't happened yet.
I was about to ask where Mom was, just to get that out of the way, but she had just appeared under the archway between living and dining room, wiping her hands on a red canvas apron. She looked older. I hated that I thought that, but she'd stopped dying her hair earlier this year and the few lines on her face seemed more pronounced. The hair had taken me by surprise last summer-there's just something unsettling about coming home to find your usually young-looking mother had gone completely gray-but maybe this time, I was being uncharitable. Expecting her to look troubled and therefore weathered, expecting visual clues.
"Hi, Mom," I said.
"Hello, Lovey," my mother said. She spread her arms, but when stepped towards her she rested her hands on my shoulders and kissed my cheek. Only when I tried to step away did her arm hook around my waist, pulling me tight to her side as she smiled out at Dad, Derek and Tony. "It's nice to have everyone here," she said.
I swallowed hard. She almost sounded too polite, mechanical, and again, I hated that that was where my mind went. I looked at Derek, the one person in the room who might have noticed too, but he was looking down at the carpet.
"Your mother's going to make dinner," my dad said, sounding oddly proud. He set a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Do you like spare ribs?"
"I love them," Tony said, which is always the right answer.
Dad beamed. "They're Eliz...Levee's favorite. Isn't that right?"
I winced; Dad never called me that so it seemed strange and forced, like we were putting on a show. "Yeah," I said, trying not to squirm. I was keenly aware of my mother's arm still hooking me to her side. "They're really good. Thanks."
"Yes, thanks," Tony said. "It's really nice of you guys to have me over." He extended a hand towards my mother which you'd think most people would read as a friendly, open gesture, but my mother seemed almost confused by it. Her smile faltered.
"Do you need any help in the kitchen?" I asked. More niceties, more politeness.
Mom shook her head.
"Are you sure?" I turned my way out of her grip to gesture towards Tony. "Tony's probably a better help in the kitchen than I am."
"I can definitely help," Tony piped. He took a step towards my mother. "If there's anything you need."
When I looked back to my mother, she had frozen, her hands clasped in front of her like she was preparing to pull an invisible rope. When I started to reach out to her, she shook her head again and said, almost a whisper, "Excuse me."
Then she left.
I immediately looked at my father, but he looked even more surprised than I was. Tony, who couldn't hide an emotion to save his life, looked completely confused and my brother was pretending to look at something out the window.
Dad finally cleared his throat. "She'll be back," he said. Tony and I both nodded, a little too much.
"I'll be in my room," Derek announced. No one tried to stop him.
"Well, sit, sit," my father was saying to us, motioning Tony towards the couch. I took a seat beside Tony; only our knees were touching and only because of how he was sitting. My father sat down in the tan leather armchair.
And we waited.
We made small talk for a while, mostly about my school. Tony talked about his band a little. The clock above the mantle ticked on, so loud in the silences which were becoming longer and more frequent. Tony had started to fidget, occasionally pulling out his phone and then sliding it back in his pocket like he thought he was being rude.
The waiting was excruciating.
"She'll be back to make dinner," my father had insisted.
But that assurance was left far behind and although I didn't feel much like eating, I think the guys were getting hungry.
"You should go in and talk to her," my father said finally. I opened my mouth to argue, but there was no point. I'd been starting to wonder if anything could be worse than sitting there in the living room, in a silence only broken by Tony's fidgeting. With a sigh that hopefully conveyed how put-upon I felt, I got to my feet and headed down the hall.
The door to my parents' bedroom-which I knew from Derek had became Mom's room with Dad in occasional, consensual exile to the couch-was pulled shut. I knocked lightly.
"Mom?" I asked. I hated that Tony and my father could probably hear me, whatever I'd have to say to get in the door. I dropped my voice even lower to ask, "Can I come in?"
I didn't get an answer, but the door wasn't locked. I slowly turned the handle, opened it only a crack. My mother was propped up in the center of the king-sized bed, atop the quilted comforter and a pile of coordinated pillows. She didn't look at me when I came in, but she didn't yell at me to get out either, so I supposed I'd take it.
"Is everything all right?" I asked, which was a stupid thing to ask because of course it wasn't. But what else was I supposed to say?
Then she muttered something about a bad feeling or omen or some shit, I don't even know.
I hated that she didn't enunciate, that I had to ask her to repeat it, knowing it probably wouldn't make sense anyway. I wanted to be angry at my father for sending me in here, for begging me to come back in the first place, but as always, I just got angry with her.
"What, Mom?" I stomped around to the front of the bed, hands on my hips. "What is it that's so bad?"
She pressed her hands to her temples; at first I thought she was covering her ears. "It's not right," she said. "It's not right. I have a bad feeling..."
"Mom! What are you talking about?"
"Something's not right!" She say up now, spoke with unexpected energy. "I have a bad feeling-you and that boy-"
I couldn't tell if you if that surprised me or not.
"Tony?" I tried to laugh-it was so ridiculous-but it didn't come out right. I almost asked her, what are you talking about? I almost asked her what the hell? My mother crossed her arms and leaned back against the pillows, eyes closing for longer than a blink. My hands were at tight fists at my side, fingernails stinging my palms. There was no point.
I left.
I almost ran over my brother in the hallway while he was struggling into his parka.
"What's wrong?" he asked, as we stumbled away from each other.
"Nothing," I snapped. "Are you going somewhere?"
"Well, we're not having dinner, are we?" he said. I followed him back into the living room, where I'd left Tony and my father in awkward silence. Dad had picked up a book and Tony was back to messing with his phone, but they looked up when Derek and I entered. My father with some amount of disappointment-why he'd thought I could get through my mother, I didn't understand.
"Derek?" Dad left the book open on his lap, watching my brother zip up his coat.
"I'm going over to Hassan's," Derek said.
Dad looked surprised. "On the day before Christmas eve?"
It sounded ridiculous when he said it like that, like December 23rd was a high holy day. The day before the day before the day before.
"They're Muslim, Dad." Derek rolled his eyes, retrieving the hiking boots he'd left out by the tree. "They don't even celebrate Christmas."
My fourteen year old brother knew better than us when to give up, when he'd have to fend for himself for dinner. Someone would feed him.
"How's your mom?" Dad asked me. He didn't try to stop Derek.
"I think Tony and I should leave too," I said.
Tony's head jerked up. Dad was silent.
"We were going to see your family tomorrow, anyway," I said to Tony; at this point, whether I was imposing or not mattered less than me to getting out. "We can just go over a little early, right?"
"Well sure," Tony said. "I'm sure they won't mind." I could tell he was confused again, but I wasn't about to repeat what my mother had said. Not to him, not to my father-not to anyone if I could help it.
I was trying not to look at my father now, though I could feel him looking at me. Derek had escaped into the entryway, and I heard the front door open and close, could even feel the draft from outside. It was cold, maybe getting colder, but I was willing to walk to Tony's if it would get me out of this living room.
"Why..." my father started to ask.
"Because I don't want to be here."
My dad looked at me in a way that made me think he was going to admonish me, say my name in a very serious tone. But maybe he wasn't sure what name to use, because he just shook his head.
There was no way I could get out of this not looking like the World's Worst Daughter. "Look, I'm sorry," I told my father, "but Mom's having an episode or something and I really think it would be better if we just...we can call for a cab."
I watched Tony's head swing from me to my father. I'd have time to be embarrassed about this later, I was sure. Later, when I wasn't so angry.
"Don't do that," Dad said finally. And I was getting ready to argue, before he added, "I can drive you."
Err, yeah, so I might have to write the next, less depressing part (HEY, IT'S A HOUSEFUL OF TONY'S GIANT FAMILY--WHAT'S NOT TO LOVE?) just to make up for this.
Also a lot of "I hated that..." in this one?? IDK, blame the chocolate prompt. And Levee being particularly hateful.
Oh and I feel I should mention (certainly unnecessarily) that Levee's full name is Elizabeth Love Jordan, and her family has a bunch of different nicknames for her. In the interest of not being super confusing, I only used a couple.