Chapter 27
Christmas Day
Mum shook the brightly coloured tin, the wrapped, little chocolates rustling around inside. “Another toffee coin, love?”
I held a hand up, patting my stomach with the other.
“I will pop, Mum. Please, no more treats!” I groaned.
“Lightweight,” Dad said, shaking his head as he popped another Twiglet into his mouth. “The whole point of Christmas is to feast!”
“I’m more stuffed than the bloody turkey!” I protested, leaning against the sofa cushions, glad I’d worn my stretchy sweats. The day was winding down, and it felt like we’d spent the majority of it eating.
“Leave room for pudding!” Mum piped up as she got up from the sofa and walked out room, presumably to check on the pie.
I groaned louder.
The living room looked like a Christmas cracker had exploded all over it.
Crinkly wrapping paper covered the floor, bows had been ripped off presents and stuck over multiple surfaces.
Several Chocolate Oranges were littered around the room, and piles and piles of presents were scattered haphazardly wherever they’d happened to be opened.
It was chaos. But it was also joy.
It was on Mum’s insistence that, every year, no one was allowed to tidy up until Boxing Day, not even to clear away the ripped wrapping paper.
Dad would normally grumble about the mess, but not this year. This year we’d watched Mum happily, sat on the floor in the middle of scrunched up colourful paper that merrily reflected the multi-coloured twinkle of the fairy lights on the tree.
She was like a kid, and honestly, it was the best thing in the world.
Finally, after months of treatments and medicines, and the constant cloud of whatever was round the next corner, finally Mum was done.
No more chemo, no more radiotherapy. Her most recent scans were clear, and she had moved into hormone therapy.
Her hair was growing back, and it had almost gotten to the point where we could pretend life was normal.
We knew it wasn’t, and maybe it never would go back to how it had been.
I didn’t know if a person could after going through something like that.
Dad caught me once. Looking at her like I knew exactly what I might have lost. I’d glanced away and found him watching me, a small smile on his face as he reached over and lightly patted my thigh.
He knew too, because that was the love of his life sitting on the floor, giggling as she rummaged around under the tree for yet another present.
“Hows’ Becka?” Dad asked as he conceded defeat by the Twiglets, putting them down.
“Drunk,” I answered with a smirk.
Dad looked at his watch, frowning as he did the mental calculations.
“Bit early, isn’t it?”
It was a touch on the early side.
“They start early,” I explained. “I think she’s been knocking back homemade mulled wine since lunch.”
She was home in Oakland with her family, and their family, and their family’s family. She was family-ed out. I didn’t know what that was like, but it sounded like it necessitated a drink.
“’Tis the season,” he shrugged, holding up his own glass of wine before taking a sip.
Christmas had always had this weird, timeless quality to it.
Like, at any given moment in the day it could be either 11 am or 9 pm.
The topography only changed with the television’s programming.
Once the Queen’s Speech had been watched, the rest of the day became a lawless expanse of space where ‘dinner time’ was a vague concept for whenever the roast potatoes were done, and drinking is socially acceptable at any point after breakfast.
Regularly throughout the day, my mind had helpfully supplied comparisons to last Christmas.
A different day. A different living room. Different people.
A very different me.
I’d squashed the memories down each time.
They were moving into less painful territory but… I couldn’t pretend that it was okay. Not yet.
I kept meaning to take off my necklace – the little gold Swallow he’d given me last Christmas.
To put it away. Sometimes, my hand would hover over it as the thought crossed my mind, thinking where I might put it.
In a box? Give it away? But every time those thoughts occurred, I experienced a momentary pang of anxiety at the thought of not having it.
It had inadvertently become a sort of touchstone for me, and so, though it reminded me of him, I couldn’t bring myself to take it off. I could barely look down at the ring I still wore. I could feel it every time I flexed my fingers.
I’d briefly taken it off but not wearing it for the day had felt like I was trying to erase a part of myself.
If the jewellery had been generic, pretty pieces, it might have been easier, but both of these were symbolic, and representative of the milestones in our relationship. The swallow was a symbol of us – our long-distance perseverance.
The ring was to honour the Korean tradition of couples exchanging rings.
I’d had to confront myself with the knowledge that I simply was not ready to put them aside.
I comforted myself with the vague idea that one day, I would cherish the memories, instead of using them as the yard stick by which I measured my own strength.
Mum’s voice floated in from the kitchen, breaking through my reverie.
“Pudding’s ready!” She called.
Dad and I groaned in unison.
It was late by the time I went up to bed. Mum and Dad had gone up a while ago, but I’d wanted to finish watching a movie. My parents hadn’t been interested, so they’d left me to it.
I tried to be quiet as I headed up the stairs, treading carefully around each creaky step, and cursing myself for missing the forgotten ones.
Moving by habit, I walked over to where I’d plugged my phone in to charge after calling Becka, not really expecting much.
It was the usual list of notifications – music industry related news, a smattering of Christmas greetings from old school and uni friends, and a few new acquaintances from The Loop and my journalism course. A bunch of comments and reactions on my social media, and… a voicemail?
Assuming it was Becka, I dialled my voicemail service, sitting down on the edge of the bed as I listened to the options.
Press 3 to listen to new messages.
There was a rustle on the line, and then–
"Kaiya."
My heart stopped.
"I should not have called, I know. But… it’s Christmas. Do you remember?"
I slid to the floor, a parody of the last time I’d heard his voice on a phone call.
Even through the thundering rush of my pulse, I recognised the lilt his voice took on when he’d had too much to drink, and even through it all, even after everything, I hoped he’d been drinking because he had been celebrating. Not because he’d needed to numb his feelings.
"I was so happy that day. I was so happy every day, I think. I wanted to thank you for that, but I never did. I never did so many things. I regret so much. Are you happy? I want you to be happy. I only ever wanted your happiness."
"I see you’re doing so well. I see your name everywhere, I think. Your articles. I knew you would do it one day, jagiya."
I slapped a hand over my mouth just in time to shove the sudden sob back inside.
"I always knew you’d find something for yourself. I hope you know… I hope."
He sighed, and it was so heavy that it rushed down the line like a gust of wind.
"It does not matter. Merry Christmas, Kaiya Thompson. I…" Another sigh. "Be well."
End of message. To replay message, press 5.
I pulled the phone away from my ear, looking at the screen.
I had a missed call at 8:15 pm. Assuming he was in Korea, that would have been incredibly early in the morning.
I only debated for half a second before I navigated to his number.
I’d debated so many times whether or not to delete it, but I never had.
I pressed dial and brought the phone back to my ear. It took a few moments to connect, and then an automatic voice reeled off a script in Korean, before repeating it in English. In either language, I understood well enough.
Sorry. The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service. Please check the number, and dial again.’
There was a stone in my throat when I looked down at the screen, confirming I hadn’t made a mistake. In a sudden bout of frenzy, I opened KakaoTalk and looked for his profile. His profile picture was blank, but I was able to find his contact. I tried again. The call wouldn’t connect.
He’d disconnected his number.
No, it must have beeen a mistake, because how had he phoned me?
My fingers flew as I went into my call log, looking for the missed call.
Unknown Number
No.
I reconnected to my voicemail service, going through the menu as quickly as I could, but skipped his message, I selected the option to play the details instead.
Number withheld
“Goddamnit!”
I dropped my head into my hands, muffling the wail that forced its way past my teeth.
After all these weeks of silence, it wasn’t fair! I was just starting to do okay. Every day I got up, and I promised myself that I wouldn’t think of him, and sometimes I even made it through breakfast. I’d been trying so hard.
It had been weeks of pretending, and with one missed call I was right back there. Sitting on my bedroom floor, staring at my phone.