Chapter 26
Abby
Twenty Five Weeks
Aaron loved Christmas. He would be in the kitchen nonstop, and I swear he would live off a dozen different kinds of Christmas cookies for weeks.
We always go all out with decorations, a complete overhaul with a new theme every year.
Some of our best work was recreating Whoville, the neon garlands and lights brightening the house in a completely new way.
I barely had the energy to put up the tree this year, and even then, Jack had to string the lights.
The only Christmas record I've put on is Elvis, and the only song I let play is Blue Christmas.
It's like Aaron took the spirit of Christmas with him when he left, and I've turned into Ebenezer Scrooge.
Jack is on duty this Christmas, and I've spent all of Christmas Eve staring blankly at the tree, unable to focus on anything but the suffocating weight of missing Aaron.
Eventually I drag myself off the couch, relying on muscle memory to get me to Dad's in time for dinner.
"Okay, can I just say," Nathan says through a mouthful of pot roast. "This Christmas is kind of a bummer. I mean look at Abby, she looks like a lost puppy."
"Nathan, be kind," my dad says sternly.
"I'm not saying it in a mean way," he says defensively.
"No duh she's not in the holiday spirit this year.
I'm just saying, maybe we don't sit here and pretend like this is a normal Christmas.
Maybe we call it what it is and wallow on the couch eating Christmas Cap'n Crunch straight out of the box. "
"Can you please be normal?" my dad sighs impatiently.
"Back me up, Abs," he says, looking at me. "Do you want to be at this dinner table right now?"
I shake my head, not looking at my Dad. I don't want to see how disappointed he is, but I want to be sitting at this table even less.
"Let's go then," he says, his chair scraping as he backs away from the table. He grabs the cereal box from the pantry, then drags me by the hand from the kitchen to the living room.
"Leave the dishes, Daddy," I yell over my shoulder. "I'll take care of them."
But the clinking of dishes and the sound of running water tell me he ignored me.
"Thank you," I murmur to Nate, taking a handful of dry cereal when he extends the box to me.
"I know I give you a lot of shit," he says.
"And I'll deny ever saying this. But you're like, my favorite person, Abs.
It fucking kills me to see you so sad. I wish I could fix it for you.
All you've ever done is take care of me, the least I can do is give you an excuse to cut the bullshit for one night.
You don't have to put on a brave face or make sure you don't 'ruin the holiday' or whatever. "
"Who are you and what have you done with my brother," I say tearfully, scooting closer to him and taking his hand in mine, wrapping myself around his arm.
"Don't worry, I'll go back to normal tomorrow," he chuckles. "But tonight, let me take care of you for once. You don't have to hold it all together. Let me hold some of it for you for a little while."
We stay like that, arm in arm, shoveling cereal into our mouths in silence until Dad finally joins us in the living room. Instead of his designated recliner, he sits with us on the couch, wrapping his arm around both of our shoulders.
"I'm sorry," he says gruffly. "I shouldn't have tried to be business-as-usual. Nothing about this year is usual."
"It's okay, Daddy," I say, letting go of Nate and leaning sideways into his arms. "I didn't know I couldn't do it until it was happening. There's a lot I don't know these days."
"That's okay, kiddo," he says softly. "You don't need to have anything figured out right now. But we're right there with you until you do."
"Merry Christmas, Daddy," I murmur. "And Merry Christmas, Nathan," I add, poking his thigh with my foot.
"Get your nasty feet away from me," he grumbles, pushing my legs out of his lap briefly before grabbing my ankles and putting them back in place, the warmth of his hands a welcome comfort.
Wheeler family Christmases are typically loud, full of laughter and the sound of holiday classics playing on the TV. This year may be quiet, and sad, but being wrapped up together, watching A Christmas Carol in comfortable silence, I think it might be my favorite one yet.
***
"Merry Christmas," I call out, letting myself into Alan and Andrea's house when I find the door unlocked.
"We're in here, sweetie," I hear Andrea call from the kitchen. I wander my way through the house, enjoying the decorations I couldn't stand to put up in my own home, until I find them side-by-side at the kitchen counter, tag-teaming the french toast for Christmas brunch.
"Can I help with anything?" I ask, unraveling my scarf and hanging it with my coat over the back of a dining room chair.
"Not a thing," Alan says, focused intently on making sure he doesn't burn breakfast. "Unless you want a beverage, we haven't gotten to those yet."
"I can do that," I say, opening the fridge and grabbing two green bottles and jug of orange juice from the middle shelf.
Andrea keeps the dining room table immaculately set year-round, so the wine glasses are already out on the table.
I put the mimosas together, filling their glasses with champagne and mine with sparkling cider.
They plate the food and bring it over to the table, the three of us automatically taking our normal seats.
I think all three of us are painfully aware of the empty chair.
"How are your dad and brother?" Andrea asks, looking anywhere but the other end of the table where Aaron usually sits. "Did you guys have a nice Christmas eve?"
"No," I admit. "We sat on the couch being sad and eating cereal straight from the box."
"Sounds nice to me," Alan says. "This was never going to be a happy holiday. But it's nice that you had each other to get through it."
"It's not the same without him," Andrea adds quietly. "Nothing is."
I nod, unable to speak for fear of completely breaking down. We spend the rest of the meal not saying much, all of our gazes fixed on our plates. The moment we all finish, we quickly clear the table and leave the room. An empty chair has never been more horrible.
Unlike my family, we don't cling to each other and sit in our sadness. We sit as far apart as possible, drowning in unbearable tension until an appropriate amount of time has passed and I jump to my feet.
"I'll let you guys have the rest of your afternoon," I say in a strained voice. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry," Alan chokes, tears welling in his eyes. "I'm sorry we aren't better company. It's just so painfully obvious that a piece of us is missing, I can't—"
"It's okay, Alan," I interrupt. "I know. It's okay. I'll come by again soon, I promise."
"Merry Christmas, dear," Andrea whispers. "I'm so sorry. It's not supposed to be this way."
No, it's not.
***
"Hey, I'm home," Jack says softly, kneeling next to the bed where I've been in and out of sleep since I got home from Aaron's parents' house. "How was your Christmas?"
"Bad," I whimper, my face crumpling as the dam finally bursts, tears streaming down my face. "Really bad."
"I know," he says, climbing in next to me and pulling me into his arms. "And I'm so sorry."
He holds me until I've cried myself out completely, and for a long time after. Taking a deep breath, I finally sit up, running my hands down my face to clear the tears before wiping my nose on my sleeve.
"Ugh, sorry, that's gross," I say, my voice full of disgust.
"You're the farthest thing from gross, pretty girl," he says, handing me the tissue box from the side table.
I go into the bathroom, blowing my nose loudly then splashing my face with water from the sink. My reflection in the mirror is puffy and splotchy, but I feel much fresher. Jack is still in my bed when I get back, and I lay next to him on my side, looking up at his face.
"When I was younger, Dad would make a blanket fort every year on Christmas night, and we'd sleep under the Christmas tree lights," I say. "I never slept with a nightlight, even when I was really little. But for some reason the light from the tree never bothered me."
He doesn't say anything, just scoots down onto his side until we're eye-level.
"It was always my favorite night of the year," I add softly, pausing for a moment. "I don't know why I'm telling you that."
"I'm glad you did," he says, reaching up to brush the unruly curls out of my face. "I like learning things about you. Thank you for sharing that with me."
"I don't know if I've ever told anyone that before," I muse. "I can't remember if I ever even told Aaron."
He stares deeply into my eyes for a moment before abruptly getting out of bed.
"Come on," he says, yanking the covers off of us both and hoisting the quilt and duvet over his shoulder.
"Where are we going?" I ask, bewildered by the sudden determination in his actions.
"Come on," he repeats, marching from the room without another word.
I follow him to the living room, where he begins spreading out every blanket he can find on top of the couch bed.
"What are you doing?" I ask with a laugh.
"Well you're not sleeping on the floor at six months pregnant," he says, grunting with the effort of throwing the duvet on top of the mound of fabric. "So this will have to do."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"We are having a sleepover," he declares. "Blanket fort and Christmas lights and all."
"Jack Robbit, you don't have to do that," I say, my heart close to bursting at the thoughtfulness of the gesture. "I didn't bring it up as a hint, I was just thinking about it."
"I want to," he says with a shrug. "It sounded nice, I want to experience it for myself."
He flops down onto his creation, beckoning me to join him. I crawl across the mattress until we're close enough to touch, burrowing under the top layer of blanket and pulling the covers up to my chin.
"I know it was a bad Christmas," he says quietly. "I wanted to try doing something to make it better, even just a little."
"Thank you," I whisper, lacing my fingers through his. "It's not so bad now."
"Merry Christmas, pretty girl," he says, leaning over to kiss my temple before settling into his pillow.
"Merry Christmas, Jacky boy," I say back, keeping my eyes on the sparkling lights until they're too heavy to keep open, falling into one of the most peaceful nights of sleep I've had in months.