Poppies for Christmas

by Stacy Renée Keywell

  “Come dance with me, Declan. I’ll have your parents play Christmas Canon, it’s your favorite.” She tempted me with my favorite song, fluttering her long lashes at me.

  I picked her off the ground, and swung her around the room. Her feet flew outward, a tiny spinning toddler.

  “O-O-O-kay,” I agreed.

  We walked hand in hand into the blissful, crisp winter wonderland. Snow fell lightly on our heads. I gripped Poppy’s arm so she didn’t slip on the ice. I felt pretty confident in my decision. Tomorrow, I planned on telling my parents how I planned on shifting gears this upcoming year.

  Chapter 22

  Dexx

  “So many people here today! It’s totes nuts. I can’t catch a privateful moment alone with you,” Denver hummed. Rosy cheeks glowing from the chill, she trilled in my ear with her Denveresque ‘magicful’ language. “I’m dying to have a meaningful convo with you, um, you know? Get to know you better.”

  “I’d like that,” I laughed. “Wanna go hide somewhere? Where do you want to go? Where does your brother go to hide?”

  Denver rolled her eyes at the mention of Declan. “The den,” she answered flatly.

  “Do you think he is there now?”

  “Nope. He’s right over there.” She pointed to a couple huddled together dancing to the music on the ice.

  “Well, then, what are we waiting for? Let’s get outie,” I suggested.

  We walked into the house. The warmth flooded my hands. My fingers burned. They tingled. I rubbed them, and removed my jacket.

  The two of us crept into the abandoned den. The television buzzed, and flickered bright. Cartoon heroes swooped off buildings to save the day, evidence Declan had been in the room earlier. Denver clicked off the TV, and shut the door. She appeared nervous to sit with me alone, behind closed doors. She sat down, then scooted her body further away from me, curling into a shiny, wiry ball.

  “So? What do you want to talk about?” I asked, making an attempt to put her at ease.

  Denver chewed her lip. Her face turned from contemplative, to blank, to frustrated.

  I dared not fail her. I didn’t understand why, but I thought she faced disappointment often, even though her life waxed perfection to an outsider.

  “How about we talk about you?”

  Denver twirled her ring nervously around her finger.

  She confused me. She coaxed me away from the crowd, but then froze up once we finally had a chance to be alone, together.

  “Talk about me?” she laughed bitterly. “I wish I could talk about me.”

  “So why don’t we?”

  “Because everything always seems to bounce back to Declan.”

  Denver seemed to have a lot to get off her chest. I wasn’t sure if I should be honored that she wanted to unload her problems on me, or confused. She barely knew me. But, I let her vent, and release her pent up frustrations. I waited quietly for her to continue.

  “Understand, my parents would never in their lives admit that what I am about to say is true, but believe me, it’s true.”

  “I’m all ears!”

  “Okay. Once upon a starry time, my parents dreamt of having the perfect family of three. They dreamt of traveling the world with their brilliant bundle of joy, purveying their minds with art, theatre, history, and adventure. They dreamt of entertaining all with fancy soirees and cocktail gatherings, with their prodigy in toe, to amuse the guests with funny anecdotes while helping my parents serve the hors d’oeurves. They meant to birth the most picturesque life that could be printed on a Christmas card, and be placed in a snow globe on top of a mantle for all to see, admire, and poke jealous fun, because life was going to be one big ball of wrapped up perfection in a frosty glass bubble. But, then, Declan was born, and the snow globe fell, and shattered into a million pieces, never to be patched.”

  I sat, stunned. Denver’s voice shook with passion as she spoke.

  “Well, you could imagine the disappointment. My parents were two beautiful, wealthy, intelligent, ambitious professionals. They pretty much realized right away something wasn’t right with their son. He wasn’t like all of the other bundles of joy. He missed milestones. He didn’t develop normally. Obviously, they sought the best treatments money could buy. But . . . they were the types who loathed being labeled the parents with the ‘disabled’ son.”

  “Your parents?”

  “Yep! Their egos couldn’t bear the bruised reputation. They loved Declan the moment he was born, but sorry to say, they were the kind of people who cared what others thought. Their pride got in the way. Never ask them about this! They are not willing to admit to any of this. Pride!”

  Denver paused, and nodded to herself. “So, that’s why they had me. Not out of love, but in a fit of rage to maintain some normalcy. They had another child, to even out the family. Not because they really wanted me, but so they could have an average child. So, that’s why I am, average.”

  “How can you say that, Denver? You? Average? Nonsense! Give me a break. And your mom and dad? They adore you. I can tell. You are lucky. Not all parents love their children, believe me. Count your blessings.”

  “You’re right, you’re right. Oops, I hear myself, repeating myself, just like my mother. Okay, they love me, but trust me, Denver Davies is a great Davies disappointment.”

  “How so?”

  “I mean . . . I can’t measure up to Declan. With all of his struggles, all of his battles, all of his disabilities, he turned out exactly how they had hoped, exceptional, extraordinary, and me, less so.”

  “That can’t be true,” I said. “You’re amazing.”

  “It started when I was a baby, my parents often ignored me to seek new treatments for Declan. They took him to therapists. Tried out trendy diets.”

  “Like eliminating gluten? Eating organic?”

  “Uh huh! And, as I got older, well, obviously so did he. I remember so far back, like pre-school age, Declan would do things that embarrassed me so much I can’t even talk about them to this day. It horrified me, traumatized me. He did things I can’t even say without feeling ashamed.”

  “Don’t worry, Denver, you don’t have to. You are safe with me.”

  “You understand! And kids, they can be so cruel. No one was very nice to him. Not when he was little. Eventually, I started kindergarten, and the two of us went to the same school together. Sharing a school together ruined elementary school for me. As you can imagine . . . kids bullied me about it, tormented me, tremendously.”

  She turned to me, and raised her eyes wide. She stared me down fiercely.

  I gulped. “S-Sounds awful!”

  “It was,” she shouted, and gave me a mean face. “They called Declan all kinds of names, Dumbo, Retard, Rainman, Monster, Dummy. They called me all kinds of names too, none of which I care to repeat.”

  I kept my mouth shut. Small memories flickered like a weak candle as Denver ranted, fanning the flame.

  “Around this time, I met a girl named Poppy. Before then, no one wanted to be my friend, and no one wanted to be Declan’s friend, but she was different. We became instant besties. We spent a lot of time at each other’s houses, scheduling playdates, and sleepovers. Being Jewish, Poppy had never celebrated Christmas. So, my parents decided to invite her over for the week to decorate our home, and celebrate a new holiday. Having a friend was magical. We were so close. We shared secrets, and played, and played, and played.”

  “Sounds like you made a real connection.”

  “I did, except Declan was also quite taken with her. We finally had a guest, and Poppy brought with her songs, dance, fantasy, and fun where ever she went. I couldn’t get enough of her company, but neither could Declan. Even though he was four years older, his thoughts, and preferences were delayed, just as his speech and behavior. T
he two of them started spending more time together. Declan was hooked. They shared similar tastes, you know, superheroes and cartoons. Soon, Declan and Poppy excluded me from their fun.”

  I imagined the three of them hanging out together as children, close as could be, doing everything together. Then, I imagined Poppy and Declan running off together to the den to watch TV, hiding from a very sad, very frustrated Denver.

  “Peculiar Poppy, she wore rose colored glasses for my brother. She never saw his flaws, and he adored her. He stole her from me, but by then, it was too late to exclude her from the holidays, and the family functions. It had become a tradition for Poppy to celebrate Christmas, and my parents loathed disappointing Prince Declan. Loathed it!”

  “Go on,” I said gently.

  Denver continued her tale. “Well, Poppy pretty much embarrassed herself around the same time Declan took over her attention. You remember, of course,” she eyed me closely. “Kids started calling her Poopy Pants Poppy, and Poopy, whatever! I had my ‘out.’ I made a few new friends, and cut her out of my school life, just in time to avoid more embarrassing taunts for being friends with such a ‘yucky’. But, her visits to my home didn’t end, and it was not very easy. As Declan began to hit puberty, he didn’t always understand how to act appropriately with the girl he loved so much. Four years is a big age difference when you are young. Poppy was still a baby, my parents had to keep a very close eye. They instituted some pretty strict rules. Poppy’s parents reinforced their expectations as well, stating Poppy couldn’t even start dating until she was sixteen.”

  Sixteen. I was sixteen. Poppy and Denver were sixteen. Was that the lucky number? The sweet age for them to engage in the dating ritual? I supposed I hadn’t realized Poppy and Declan’s relationship was still in the early stages of flourishing. Since they seemed so natural, and comfortable together, I figured they had dated for years. But I imaged now perhaps they’d only been a couple for a few months.

  “Ahem,” Denver cleared her throat.

  I shot back up from my lapse, snapping back to paying attention to Denver’s story.

  “So, anyway, my story must seem pretty mundane, and boring.”

  “No,” I refuted, “not at all.”

  “Yep. Autistic brother with a million symptoms, former best friend turned nerd, one lonely girl born to balance out the Christmas card. But things suddenly, and quickly changed in an instant. One day, Declan was discovered by a hungry, ambitious modeling agent. Things changed for the better, for him. But not for me. For me, they changed for the worse. Sure, my parents could plainly see how beautiful of a son they bore. But once his career soared, and the world could see how gorgeous he was, the modeling thing absolutely spun out of control. Declan received so many job offers, his popularity exploded angry fast.”

  I nodded. Since I learned who he was, I saw his face everywhere. Not just that one day at the mall. Denver was right. Declan was practically in every magazine, print ad, catalogue, runway show, television advertisement, music video. I think I even spotted his face on the back of a bus. I didn’t want to say anything, but once I recognized him, I realized he was everywhere, literally and unavoidable so. And what made it worse was that he looked better in person than in a photo-shopped pic.

  “Part of me hated him,” she cried. “Everyone expected me to treat him so super nice, because he was ‘special’, but I couldn’t. He was, and is my brother. He drives me nuts, between getting all of the attention, and being the prince of the household, I was, and am, still left with nothing. Now, here I am, girl on the sidelines, utter unwonderfulessness.”

  “And . . .” she continued, “it got worse, in a really weird way. Once Declan’s little celebrity caught on and spread, the kids around us had the opposite reaction to when he was considered a dum-dum loser. They all did a one-eighty, and Declan’s popularity at school blew up, superficially anyway. Everyone suddenly wanted to be his ‘friend’ or his ‘girlfriend.’ He didn’t grasp how to handle the sudden local fame. People didn’t actually like him, not really. They were not interested in what he had to say, or have the patience to wait for him to speak. You see how hard it is for him to get a word out. They didn’t care about Batman or cartoons. No! They wanted him as a silent friend, a handsome ghost. A throwback to the old Victorian Age. Declan should be seen and not heard.”

  I couldn’t stop my stunned reaction. Within the Davies storybook, with their fairytale façade, lived a sad darkness. I never considered they faced such a clash of emotional ups and downs.

  “Funny,” Denver cackled bitterly, “once my parents decided to be nice, and help Declan socially. He was probably in the ninth grade, first year of high school. They wanted to throw him a pizza party so he could make new friends. We feared only a few people might show. My parents worried Declan might find his party disappointing. At first, only a few stray kids straggled in. Then, a thundering pack of greedyful wild boars stampeded through the door to hang out with the great Declan Davies. The internet exploded with selfies. Selfie posts hanging with the amazing rising star. Declan barely talked to any of his guests. They gobbled up the food, snapped pics, trashed the basement, and left. I hated Declan and my parents for that. That was the year they forgot my birthday.”

  Tiny teardrops danced beautifully down her face.

  “Denver . . . I’m . . .”

  “Then, it spread to me,” Denver interrupted. “News of Declan seeped into the ground, and polluted it. People realized I was his sister. They used me to get to him. I gained and lost so many friends. The only person that remained a constant force of consistency in our lives was, of course, Poppy. Well, besides her, I finally found a couple girls at high school that would eat with me at lunch. But, ha ha, you saw me at the mall, alone. I don’t have many people to hang with on the weekend. As for Declan, he couldn’t handle all of those false friends. Between school and work, he only makes time for Poppy, who stays with us every Christmas.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me? My parents occasionally make a weak attempt to help me with my modeling career, which currently has not taken off like my brother’s.”

  “Sure it has. Success is what you make of it. I’ve seen your ads. You’ve succeeded.”

  Denver shot me a funny look.

  “Thanks. But, like I was saying, Declan . . . ugh! It’s so hard having him as a brother. The beating I’ve taken for him being autistic, for him being a model, for him simply being, has left me exhausted. And, I don’t want to hide anymore. I want the freedom to not worry about what others think anymore. I want to delete the pressure of caring what others say. I want to move beyond all of that, and work on myself. I want to live! I want the freedom to be me!”

  “I think you should.”

  “Really? Wow! Phew! So much weight has been lifted off of me. I can float in the air like a wisp. I am so glad I finally got to confront you about this. Thanks!”

  “Confront me . . . about this?” my voice warbled.

  “Yeah! Yes! Thanks!”

  She rubbed my shoulder.

  My stomach gurgled with nausea. Confront me about this? Her words caught me so off guard, they churned in the pit of my gut. My eyes moistened. I stood up quickly, and opened the door, scared.

  I needed to divert her attention to something else.

  “Can I see your room?” I abruptly changed the subject. “I never got to see it earlier, and you promised me the grand tour.”

  “Um, sure, I guess.” Denver stood up, and straightened out her outfit.

  “We’ll keep the door open so your parents don’t get the wrong idea, and get mad. I promise,” I chuckled, forcing a weak smile.

  “Oh, all right. Sure.” Denver fidgeted with her ring nervously, and smoothed out her long hair. “Come on, I guess.”

  We tiptoed up the steps. The floorboards creaked noisily. Dancer yappe
d, trapped in a room downstairs. Denver’s eyes darted around anxiously until we reached the door. She slowly turned the knob, and pushed open the door. She revealed a palace fit for a princess.

  Every inch of her room screamed of tasteful perfection. A large mirror hung above a giant vanity which was decorated with shiny, cut crystal perfume bottles filled with champagne colored liquid. Pink silky drapes flowed from frilly window treatments, and opened up to what looked like a balcony. Gold and silver toile stenciling covered her creamy walls which came together in the shape of a carriage pulling her king sized canopy bed.

  Awestruck, I stepped onto the softest rug I’d ever touched which covered her hardwood floor. Her room was larger than the entire top floor of my house. I walked over to the double doors that led to her closet, and grabbed the handles.

  “Hey, um, Denver, what’s in here?”

  “Wait! No!”

  Denver made a run for me just as I slid open the closet doors.

  A rush of air hit my face followed by a whoosh of clothing and magazines. A mudslide of junk toppled onto my head. An endless supply of crushed energy drink cans clunked me, continuously, as if I were a cartoon cat getting smashed like a nail. The thin metal hammered me into the ground.

  “Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!” I laughed at the comical irony.

  “Oops!” Denver squealed, and covered her mouth. She tried not to laugh at me.

  “You were supposed to be neat and organized,” I complained, laughing, rubbing my head.

  “Secrets out! I’m not,” she giggled.

  I picked up an empty can and inspected it. “At least we have the same good taste in beverages.”

  “Well, at least we have that,” she agreed through her grin.

  “Okay, never mind the closet. Now what’s in here?” I walked toward her wardrobe.

  “Wait! Stop!” Denver held up her hands. “Unless you want a repeat performance, you may want to keep that one closed,” she smirked, concealing her laughter.