Driving Home for Christmas

by A. L. Michael

  Megan walked out of the kitchen and through into the living room, pausing a moment to admire Old Piney, still holding up after all these years. The tree had been modernised just a bit, the lights now a classy white instead of multicoloured, the ornaments all slightly more organised, more co-ordinated than they had been. At the top she saw a little red clay hand print that read ‘Jasper’s first Christmas’ and thought perhaps she should have brought Skye’s as a gift. To let her really be part of this family. So far, so…awkward.

  She padded through the living room to a dark door at the end, and knocked briefly.

  ‘Dad?’ She pushed the door open further, to see him sitting at his desk, facing the window. His shoulders were shaking.

  ‘Dad, it’s me,’ she said gently, ‘can I come in?’

  She saw him nod, desperately trying to wipe his eyes, and when he turned around he was smiling shakily. His hair had mostly greyed since she’d last seen him, his eyes light and kind, with more wrinkles around the edges. He looked well though, although still hunched over, feeling too imposing when he stood tall.

  ‘I’ve waited such a long time to hear those words,’ he said softly, making to put his arms around her, and then pausing. ‘Is it okay…if I…?’

  She nodded, reaching up to hug him, and felt him start to shudder again. ‘Oh Megan, I’m so ashamed, I’m so ashamed of us. Of how it happened, how it got this far…’

  ‘I know,’ she shushed him. ‘I got your presents every year though.’

  ‘You knew that was me?’

  ‘Dad, no one else would send me classic rock albums and bars of Galaxy,’ she laughed. That had been their thing, growing up. She would lie on this sofa in the den as he played Bob Dylan, Neil Young, any of his ‘greats’, and eat chocolate with her eyes closed, just listening. It got harder and harder as she got older, as Heather’s dream for the Megan she wanted, the Cambridge-bound Megan, got in the way. They never really had time. But those childhood memories were blissful. Her dad always said no one took any time to listen any more. ‘You might as well have sent a note saying “teach your daughter about good music”.’

  ‘And did you?’

  Megan made a face, ‘She really, and I mean really, loves Elvis.’

  ‘Costello?’ John said hopefully.

  ‘Presley.’

  ‘Oh,’ he shrugged, ‘well, at least it’s not that Yasmin Beefer or whatever his name is.’

  Megan laughed, ‘I wholeheartedly concur. Until she starts singing “Heartbreak Hotel” on Sunday mornings at six am. Do you want to meet her? Maybe you can win her over to the dark rhythms of rock and roll.’

  John nodded again, head down, and Megan could see he was getting tearful once again. She patted his shoulder. ‘Come on, Dad, you’re going to love her.’

  ‘I already do,’ he said, and let her lead the way.

  ***

  June 2002

  ‘You can’t keep doing this.’ Lucas was rocking back and forth on the chair in the library, looking like a Judd Nelson wannabe. He had detention again.

  ‘Says you. What was it this time?’ Megan didn’t even look up from her biology book.

  Lucas shrugged, looking at the ceiling. ‘Forgot my homework? Was late to something? I don’t even really notice any more. I am, apparently, a bad seed.’

  He swung his chair legs back down with a thunk. The older librarian was on duty, Mrs Cranson, and she shh’d him with a glare. He put up his hands in defeat and moved over to where Megan was studying.

  ‘No,’ she put her hand up, eyes still focused on her work, ‘no time to talk.’

  ‘Meg, you’ve got to stop this, you’re pushing yourself way too hard. They’re just GCSEs. They don’t matter.’

  ‘To you,’ she snorted. ‘Look, Lucas, I have exactly twenty minutes to finish my biology revision before I’ve got to go to my dance class, and then my music class, and then when I get home I have a maths tutor, and our exam is tomorrow, okay? I don’t have time to entertain you because you’re bored in detention again.’

  She looked up at him, and her eyes were bloodshot, strained with dark circles. Her skin looked pale and drawn and she looked like she’d lost weight. Sure, they weren’t best friends or anything, but he’d known her since they were kids, and he liked Megan. She was a crazy control freak perfectionist, but that wasn’t really her fault. She used to be funny, be sassy and sarcastic, but the teachers wouldn’t mind because she still got all the answers right.

  She didn’t seem sassy any more. She seemed grey.

  ‘Meg, come on, you’re going to make yourself ill. Have you eaten today?’ Lucas rifled through his messenger bag, covered in badges and pen marks, and produced a chocolate bar. ‘Here.’ He threw it in front of her face.

  ‘I am not hungry!’ she hissed. ‘Look, I’ve had four Red Bulls today and you are making me waste that energy that I need to get this shit done!’

  ‘SHHH!’ Mrs Cranson shot her death glare at Megan this time.

  ‘Oh for – fine! You know what, fine! The library shouldn’t even BE for detention! People are trying to study!’ Megan started stuffing her papers into her bag, but as she stood up, everything started to get woozy and all the colours merged into each other, and then into black.

  When she woke up, Lucas was holding her hand. Her head hurt.

  ‘Wha –’

  ‘You passed out. Exhaustion. Probably too much caffeine and too little food. But you know, I’m not a genius or anything…’ he shrugged.

  Megan tried to sit up.

  ‘Nope!’ He put a hand on her head. ‘I have been told I’m not allowed to let you get up. Something about the school’s insurance. Mrs Cranson insisted that I make sure you couldn’t injure yourself further on school property.’

  ‘And you always do what the teacher says?’

  Lucas grinned, blue eyes twinkling. ‘Oh I’m a regular boy scout.’

  ‘Then help me sit up.’

  He lifted her hands until she was sitting cross-legged next to him, and he passed her the chocolate bar again.

  ‘Eat it.’

  Megan just looked at him, and he nodded encouragingly.

  ‘If you don’t, I’m going to start singing really loudly here in the library, and that would put people off their studies! At this very important time! And you, Megan McAllister, couldn’t stand it.’

  ‘You’re such an arse,’ she sighed, biting into the chocolate with aggression, whilst he just leant back and grinned.

  ‘Do you ever wonder what you’re doing this for? All the studying and the lessons and the focus?’ Lucas asked.

  ‘My parents,’ Megan shrugged, ‘they want me to do well.’ And it doesn’t go down well when I complain, she added silently.

  ‘Don’t you get any downtime?’

  ‘What’s downtime?‘Megan grinned. ‘You mean the time after all my lessons when I pass out in my bed and get five whole hours of sleep?’

  Lucas Bright turned to her, blue eyes flashing as he leaned in, earnest and intense. ‘That’s not really living though, is it?’

  Megan shrugged. ‘What choice do I have?’

  Lucas grinned. ‘You know how your mother thinks I’m a bad influence and you should probably stay away from me?’

  Megan said nothing, blushing as she looked at the floor.

  ‘She was right,’ Lucas laughed. ‘I think you’re in need of a little rebellion. And I am a master.’

  ***

  The first night at Whittleby Cottage went smoothly. Mainly because they’d had wine with dinner and Jonathan had opened the good whisky. They ordered in Chinese food because the turkey was burnt and Megan tried not to think about the waste of it all, how much money they’d probably spent on that turkey only to give it to Minnie. She shook it off. There was no way to avoid the situation – if they were too familiar and had too good a time; it was painful. If she made it difficult, everyone felt awkward, and Skye would be upset.

  She watched her daughter, sitting on the floor at the co
ffee table, Jonathan on the other side as they played chess. A Christmas compilation played in the background, and the house smelled like cinnamon. Minnie was sitting on her feet, and her mother was sitting with her sketch book in the corner. Megan had a sneaking suspicion she was drawing Skye, but didn’t say anything. There was no need for conversation, no need for explanation, at least not yet, and that was comforting.

  When it got to ten o’ clock, Megan roused herself. ‘Come on bub, time for bed. You can finish the game tomorrow.’

  Skye grumbled but stood up, putting her hand out to shake Jonathan’s. ‘Thanks for playing with me, Granddad. I look forward to beating you tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, but it’s not likely to happen!’ He stuck out his tongue.

  ‘We thought Skye could stay in your old room, and then you could go in the guest room? Or whichever way you want to do it…’ Heather trailed off, looking at Megan for approval.

  ‘Sounds great, Mum,’ Megan nodded, realising she hadn’t addressed her mother so far, not properly. A lump formed in her throat. ‘Are Matty and Claudia staying over Christmas or…?’

  ‘They’re only down the road, they might stay Christmas Eve night, depending on how things go…’ Heather trailed off again, but Megan knew what she meant. In case it all got a little too emotional, Matty would play buffer.

  ‘Good idea.’ She waved, then guided Skye upstairs. ‘Night!’

  Her room. What would they have done with it? Created another beautiful guest room, so posh that every visitor felt uncomfortable sleeping in it? She pushed the door and saw it still squeaked. Megan stepped in and felt the energy leave her body as she looked around. It was unchanged. Everything was exactly in its place, the same as she left it, almost ten years to the day.

  The posters, everything from The Kinks to Bob Marley to Tom Waits. The photo montage above the bed, the band posters. The scratched dresser with all her creams and perfumes still as they had been. The poster for that last gig at The Nag’s Head lay on the side, crumpled and unfolded a million times, until all their faces were faded away. She wanted to cry, but she didn’t know if it meant her parents cared, they wanted to keep her close, or if they were mourning her like some dead daughter, instead of reaching out. Keep the old Megan in a mausoleum and mourn her. Abandon the real one to get on with her life.

  Skye bounced on the bed, tracing the edges of the black and white bedspread. There was a knitted blanket at the end she’d bought from IKEA when it first opened, and Dad had taken her. Pingu the penguin sat on her pillows, as if he’d been waiting all this time, stalwart and loyal.

  ‘This was you, huh?’ Skye looked around in awe.

  ‘Yeah, guess it’s pretty strange for you, all of this.’ Megan sat down beside her. ‘How are you doing?’

  Skye thought about it, her brown eyes rolling up to the ceiling, head tilted. ‘I’m good. I like them. But I love you, and if they’re mean to you then that’s it.’

  ‘You’re just saying that so we can go to Disneyland.’

  Skye shrugged, and grinned. ‘So am I sleeping here?’

  ‘If you want to.’

  Skye nodded, looking around as if any object could tell a story. Which, Megan supposed, they could. Her gaze wandered to the photo montage. Pictures of the band, looking all stoic and serious, her and Luke pulling faces, her with her arm around Belinda. The Christmas the year before she left, posing for the camera, encircled in Luke’s arms as he held up mistletoe. Her chest felt like it was going to cave in. Luke would have left, wouldn’t he? Got on a tour bus, become a big star in London dive bars, or LA’s sleek scene. Maybe he’d moved down to Cornwall, to teach kids guitar, living in a little cottage on the side of a cliff.

  She’d looked out for him, in NME, gig listings, every time she thought she saw a Lucas listed. But the truth was, he could use any name, be in any band by now. She had the means to find him, she could join all those social media sites, sniff him out. But in all honesty, it was too late, and she had things to be ashamed of too.

  Skye changed into her pyjamas, and Megan brushed her hair as her daughter read out from To Kill a Mockingbird. They snuggled in close, Megan helping with the longer words, adding a bit of context here and there. She looked to her bookshelf in the corner and found her own copy sitting on the shelf, as well as many other books that she had always wanted to give to Skye. The smell of her old room, the familiar give of the cushions surrounded her, until Skye drifted off to sleep, and Megan followed, never making it to the guest room.

  ***

  May 2003

  ‘You’re being ridiculous,’ he said, standing up and placing his guitar down on the bed.

  ‘I’m not!’ Megan tried to contain her irritation. ‘All I said was maybe we could use a minor seventh chord…’

  ‘Unfathomable!’ Lucas paced up and down his room, his hair spiking up at all angles as he ran his hand through it irritably.

  ‘Oh I’m sorry, could someone tell me where the Artist Formerly Known As Lucas has gone?’ Megan rolled her eyes, unplugging her cherry red Fender Strat from the amp they were sharing. Lucas’s room was barely big enough for them to play together, let alone argue about playing together.

  ‘Shut up, Meg. Just because you dyed your hair to match your guitar you think you’re Courtney Love now?’

  She raised her hand. ‘I’m so sorry, oh musical genius! It’s just that usually when we write songs together we actually write songs together!’ She stood by the window, leaning against it, unsure why things seemed to have changed.

  ‘Why are we always arguing?’ she asked him, seeing him look up suddenly, blue eyes clouding over. He’d stopped wearing eyeliner since summer had hit, and she had to say she preferred him without. The girls in the village had loved it, their little punk rock god crush. They used to turn up at the gigs wearing Nirvana T-shirts and shrugging when he asked them who Kurt Cobain was. Megan preferred when he was just Lucas. Her childhood friend, her bandmate. Just him, playing music, being him. No facade.

  ‘We do seem to be, don’t we?’ he said simply, staring at the ground.

  ‘I…I don’t think it’s me who’s starting it, Luke,’ she said gently. ‘I seem to be pissing you off a lot more recently. Since we started sixth form…do you want me to leave the band?’

  His eyes widened. ‘No! No, no, that’s not it, Angel, honest.’ He walked over to her, leaning on the other side of the window, looking out into their front garden, where his little sister was digging in the dirt, helping his mother plant flowers.

  ‘I know I’m not a musician, Luke,’ she said sadly, ‘I’m just the singer, but you used to like when I helped with lyrics.’

  He grabbed her hand. ‘It’s nothing to do with the band. I mean, it is a bit. It’s…you know, spending a lot of time together. We do all our normal friend stuff, watching movies and whatever, and then we do band stuff, and then college…’ He squeezed her hand, looking into her eyes like she was supposed to understand some secret code.

  ‘It’s too much,’ she nodded, sighing. ‘That’s fine, I get it.’

  ‘You really don’t get it!’ Luke panicked, pulled her to him and kissed her. She froze for a second, and so did he, his lips resting on hers to see what she’d do. He tasted like peppermint and chocolate and stale cigarettes. Megan sighed a little, and he kissed her again, properly this time, his lips warm and insistent as her arms wrapped around his neck. Her heart was thumping like nothing else, and as he nipped against her bottom lip, she suddenly realised what he’d been trying to say.

  She pulled back and grinned at him. ‘You’ve been being mean to me because you like me! It’s like year four all over again!’

  Lucas at least looked embarrassed, scratching his neck and failing to meet her eyes. ‘Yeah…kinda…’

  Megan tilted her head. ‘And this isn’t just some weird boy hormone thing?’

  Luke rolled his eyes. ‘Meg, this time I’m telling you this not because I like you, but because it’s true: don’t be an
idiot.’

  He put his arm around her waist and pulled her towards him, kissing her again. Megan grinned against his lips. ‘Well, isn’t this a surprise.’

  ‘Good one?’ He pulled back, searching her eyes for disappointment or awkwardness.

  ‘Kiss me again and we’ll see,’ she laughed, grabbing his hand. She wasn’t sure she’d ever felt so happy.

  ***

  The next morning everyone was still play acting Happy Families. Megan felt the familiar itch, the need to smash the facade apart, break it down and hold it up to the light. It was fake, and she hated it. Better to come out and have a big emotional outpouring at the start, rather than this…politeness she found so abhorrent. But there was Skye to think of.

  Her dad made French toast, the crackly radio played The Beatles in the kitchen as he hummed along, wearing his apron with the motorbikes on, his chef hat tipped at a jaunty angle. She’d forgotten how much her father used to make her laugh. Skye loved him immediately, but wouldn’t accept his views on Elvis.

  ‘Kid, I will show you some music that would make you think Elvis was nothing more than a flash in the pan pop star.’

  ‘The same has been said about The Beatles, and you’re still listening to them,’ Skye said, shrugging as he set down her breakfast before her.

  ‘Touché,’ Jonathan agreed, making a face at Megan, who simply shook her head in response.

  ‘Don’t try and insult the King, Dad, it just won’t work with her.’

  ‘Nope. No chance.’ Skye shook her head seriously. ‘But amazing toast, Granddad, seriously. Jeremy’s cooking skills are starting to look terrible in comparison.’

  Heather, who had been quietly drinking her coffee, overseeing her husband’s cooking, looked up. She shared a significant look with Jonathan.

  ‘Is Jeremy your…step-father?’ Heather ventured, checking to see how upset Megan was by the question. Her lips got thin and she raised an eyebrow.

  ‘No!’ Skye laughed, looking to Megan.

  ‘Oh, no, I mean…you obviously think of him as your father,’ Jonathan said, nodding, then making a face as if to convey just how awkward it was. What if Skye hadn’t known about her parentage? What if Megan had been living with someone who’d raised her child as her own? It wasn’t unheard of. Their assumptions would have screwed it all up.