It's a Wonderful Tangled Christmas Carol

by Emma Chase

  She's twelve years old now, with her mother's build--tall and lithe. Her blond hair is pulled back in a long ponytail, and she's wearing a red coatdress with pearl buttons, black leggings, and flat black boots.

  I have no frigging idea how she got here or why, but you can bet your ass I'm going to find out.

  She talks into a glitter-covered cell phone. "Tell them if we don't have those numbers by tomorrow, their balls are going to be sitting in a glass case on my desk, goddamn it."

  It's safe to say the whole bad-word jar thing didn't work out like my sister had hoped.

  "Mackenzie?"

  She ends her call and flops down into the chair across from my desk. "Hi, Uncle Drew."

  "Did you come here by yourself? Do your parents know where you are? What are you doing here?"

  "Oh, come on--you know why I'm here." Mischief dances in her big green eyes.

  Which is frigging strange, because Mackenzie's eyes are blue.

  I don't have time to comment, because in a flurry of red fabric, she's on her feet holding her hand out to me. "Let's get going. Places to go, people to see. Time is money."

  I take her hand and we walk out of my office, down the hall to my father's closed office door. Mackenzie opens the door and we step over the threshold.

  And I feel the color drain from my face.

  Because this isn't my father's office. Not even close.

  I stumble backward, making contact with the yellow living room wall.

  "What the fuck . . ." I whisper. Confused. A little horrified.

  "You don't look so good, Uncle Drew," Mackenzie comments.

  Losing your mind will do that to you.

  I turn in a circle, taking in beige couches and an oak entertainment center housing a television that is definitely not a flat screen. Miracle on 34th Street is on, and the air smells like fresh baked cookies. A modest Christmas tree sits decorated in the corner and dark red poinsettias are scattered between multiple framed family photos on the shelves. Family photos of my parents, my sister, and me--until I'm about five years old.

  And then I finally fucking realize what's going on.

  "This is a dream," I say, in a voice that can't decide if it's a question or a declaration. "I fell asleep at my desk and I'm dreaming right now."

  Funny. Usually my dreams are the more X-rated variety. Involving me and Kate in multiple porn-toned scenarios. Sometimes I'm a Roman emperor and she's my toga-less slave girl who feeds me grapes and happily caters to my every whim. Sometimes I'm Han Solo and she's Princess Leia, screwing our way across the galaxy. Other times she's the powerful, ambitious businesswoman who lands a major client with me, then we fuck on the conference table until neither of us can walk.

  Oh, wait--that last one actually happened.

  The point is--out of all the dreams I remember having, my sweet niece sure as shit hasn't featured in any of them. And not a single one took place in this place--an apartment I barely remember living in.

  Mackenzie shrugs. "If it keeps you from wussing out on me, we'll call it a dream. Do you know where we are?"

  "This is the apartment we lived in when I was a kid, before we moved uptown."

  "That's right. Do you know why we're here?"

  I try really hard. "Um . . . the sushi I ate for lunch was bad and the toxins have spread to my brain, causing some strange-ass hallucinations?"

  Giggling, Mackenzie drags me forward. "Come on."

  We enter the kitchen. Sitting at a small round table is the preteen version of my sister, Alexandra. Around this time, she hadn't yet grown into her nickname, "The Bitch," but the early signs were there. She's chewing gum and flipping through a Tiger Beat magazine with the New Kids on the Block on the cover. And her hair--Jesus Christ, she must've used a whole can of hair spray, because her bangs form a poof on top of her head, stiff and unnaturally high.

  Sitting beside her, looking dapper in a long-sleeved Back to the Future T-shirt, is me. Five-year-old me. I'm kind of small for my age; the growth spurt won't hit for another few years. But with my thick black hair brushed to the side, my deep blue eyes shining with youthful exuberance, I'm nothing short of fucking adorable.

  There's a plate of cookies in the middle of the table, with still-warm gooey chocolate chips. My mom's homemade cookies. They're indescribably awesome. But when young Drew reaches for one, Alexandra smacks his hand. "No more cookies, Drew. You're going to give yourself a stomachache."

  "But they're so good," I whine. And I give her the puppy dog eyes. "Just one more? Please?"

  At first Lexi's expression is stern. But under the power of young Drew's cuteness, she melts. "Okay. One more."

  Are you feeling the foreshadowing here?

  He smiles his thanks and talks with a mouthful of cookie. "You're the best sister ever, Lexi."

  She ruffles his hair.

  I chuckle and tell Mackenzie, "How irresistible am I? Didn't even have to work at it."

  Mackenzie laughs. "You were really cute. Watch--this part is important."

  My mother breezes into the kitchen, smooth skinned, blond, and beautiful--despite the atrocious Christmas tree sweater she's sporting. In her hand she holds a cordless telephone.

  A heavy, square cordless phone. With an antenna.

  "Drew, guess who's on the phone?" she asks.

  "Is it Daddy?" he asks hopefully.

  "No, darling--it's Santa Claus! He took time out of his busy day-before-Christmas-Eve schedule just to talk to you." She taps five-year-old Drew on the nose.

  He flies off the chair, knocking it over behind him. Lexi, who by this time was old enough to know the truth, smiles at his excitement.

  Young Drew brings the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

  "Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!"

  And it all comes back to me. Like a door opening to a dark room, finally letting the light in, I remember this.

  "How do I know this is the real Santa?" My five-year-old self asks skeptically. Because even as a kid, I was damn sharp.

  My father answers in a deep, bellowing, disguised voice, "Well, I've got the Christmas list you mailed to me here in my hand."

  Young Drew braces the phone on his shoulder and walks out to the living room. Mackenzie and I follow. "Okay, let's hear it."

  Santa clears his throat. "A BMX bicycle, the new Sega system, GI Joe action figures, a Walkman."

  That's right, a Walkman. Because this is the eighties, kiddies.

  "Holy crap, it really is you!" five-year-old Drew yells.

  "It really is. Now tell me, young man, have you been a good boy this year?"

  His face scrunches up as he attempts to be honest. "I try. It's hard to be good."

  Santa chuckles. "Do you do what your mother tells you?"

  He nods. "Yes, sir."

  "And do you listen to your sister?"

  He frowns. "Lexi's bossy."

  "Yes, she is bossy. But she's your big sister, Drew--she wants what's best for you. You should always listen to her."

  Reluctantly, he nods. "Yes, sir."

  "Well, young man," my father exclaims. "I'm getting my sleigh all ready for the big night! I should be at your house tomorrow, on Christmas Eve, with lots of presents for you."

  Five-year-old Drew looks behind him--making sure the coast is clear. Then he speaks hesitantly into the phone. "Hey, Santa, can I ask you something?"

  "You can ask me anything, Drew."

  "Would it be okay to add something to my list?"

  I hear worry in the old man's voice when he responds, "Add something? I'm not certain we could--"

  "Or, I could trade. You can keep my other presents--I think I really only want one thing."

  "What do you want, Drew?"

  "I want you to bring my daddy home for Christmas."

  There's silence on the other end of the phone.

  My younger self explains, "He had to go away for work, and Mom says she doesn't think he'll be home on Christmas Eve. And . . . she's sad about it. We all are. It's n
ot as fun. I miss him." He sighs. "So, if you can make sure he's home tomorrow--you can keep the other stuff."

  I grin. Because I know what's coming next.

  Wait for it.

  "Well . . . maybe not all the other stuff," he amends. "You could still drop off the Sega. But you can keep all Lexi's gifts--she won't mind."

  Santa's voice turns rough with emotion and conviction as he promises, "Your daddy will be home for Christmas Eve, Drew. I promise."

  Young Drew smiles with so much enthusiasm. Delight. Innocence.

  It makes me think of my son. The sound of his laughter. The warmth of his embrace. The way he bounces on the bed--even when Kate tells him not to--and he jumps into my arms, with total abandon. Complete faith and trust. Because he knows I'll catch him. That I'd never let him fall.

  That I'd never let him down.

  "Thanks, Santa," my younger self whispers earnestly.

  Mackenzie looks up into my eyes. "Did Pop make it home in time?"

  My voice takes on a faraway tone, because I remember what happened the next day--and I remember exactly how it felt.

  "We went to the Fishers' for Christmas Eve dinner. We were all there--me, Matthew, Steven. At seven years old, your dad was already following your mom around, wanting to hang out with her. I kept watching the door. Waiting for my dad to walk through it. Hoping."

  A smile comes to my lips. "And then he did. Laughing and loud and bigger than life. I ran to him and--even before he hugged my mother--he scooped me up and spun me around. Carried me on his shoulder like Tiny fucking Tim. And it felt . . . magical. Like real Christmas magic. And I was so . . . proud of myself. Because I thought my wish brought him home."

  I blink, snapping out of my reverie. And I gaze down at Mackenzie. "Out of all the Christmases I enjoyed as a kid . . . that one . . . that one was the best."

  "But you forgot about it?"

  That's how it happens, right? You grow up, and the wonder of the holidays fades. It becomes more of a burden--places to go, traffic, gifts that have to be found and bought. And you forget the little things, the simple moments that are supposed to make a regular day--more.

  "Yeah. I guess I did."

  It's only when I glance up from Mackenzie's face that I realize we're not in that small apartment anymore. We're back in my office. My head swims a little--like vertigo. I sit down on the suede couch until it passes. I glance at my watch, and it's the same time as before Mackenzie walked through my door. Still two hours to go before my conference.

  "Do you know why I showed you this particular memory tonight?" Mackenzie asks me.

  I snort. "To demonstrate I'm obviously more like my father than I ever realized?"

  She shakes her head. "No. I showed you this because moments matter. You may not have remembered it, but it still played a part in who you grew up to be. And how you felt about Christmas, your dad, and in some ways, yourself. It's the little things, all added together, that make us who we are. So now that you remember, what are you going to do, Uncle Drew?"

  I rub the back of my neck. "I'll . . . I'll find a way to make it up to James after Christmas. Maybe take him to a basketball game for some quality time. Just the two of us."

  Mackenzie sighs. And she seems disappointed. It's similar to how Kate looks at me when she comes home from the salon and I'm not excited by the fact that she trimmed off a whole quarter of an inch.

  Like . . . I'm missing something.

  "Well," she laments, "it's time for me to go."

  Even though I'm still sure this is a dream--I'm not taking any chances. "Hold on, sweetheart. I can't leave yet. Hang out here with me and I'll get you home when I'm done."

  She sits down on the couch. "Okay, Uncle Drew. Whatever you say."

  I head back around my desk, sit, and refocus all my attention on my presentation.

  chapter 4

  Mackenzie plays quietly on her phone while I work. She's mature and considerate like that. After a half hour I glance at the couch to thank her--and see that she's fucking gone.

  I shoot to my feet. "Mackenzie?" When there's no answer, I rush for the door. Flinging it open I call, "Mack--"

  I actually said her full name, but you couldn't hear it.

  Because the blaring of "Angels We Have Heard on High" drowned out my voice. And if that wasn't loud enough, there's the echo of bells jingling in the background, the hum of a dozen audio-animatronic elves, reindeer and headless gingerbread men scattered around--and let's not forget the crunch and whistle of falling snow.

  Yes, actual snow--inside my goddamn office building.

  The main floor outside the offices has been transformed into a winter wonderland.

  I just stand there. Stunned.

  But I have to say, this beats the shit out of anything the mall has ever come up with.

  Then my sister, Alexandra, comes walking around the corner. She's decked out in elegant holiday finery--a red, strapless satin dress, black heels, her hair piled high on her head, with a pearl tiara nestled in the blond curls.

  She surveys the room. "God, I'm good."

  I cross my arms and lean back against a snow-covered desk. "A little overdone, don't you think?"

  Alexandra raises her shoulder. "If you can't overdo Christmas, what can you overdo?" Then she regards me with bright green eyes.

  And I deduce, "You're not here to pick up your daughter, are you?"

  "No, my daughter is safe and sound. Why do you think I'm here, little brother?"

  "I'm starting to think it's because every member of my family has been body snatched by green-eyed aliens hell-bent on keeping me from getting any fucking work done."

  She shakes her head. "Even your alien invasion theories are egomaniacal."

  I push off from the desk. "All right, let's go. The sooner we do this, the sooner I can get back to my desk." And I can't keep the sarcasm out of my voice. "Show me your vision, Christmas ghost. Teach me the error of my ways."

  Alexandra scowls. And checks out her manicure. "Now I'm not in the mood."

  I grit my teeth. "Alexandra . . ."

  "I don't like to be rushed, Drew. You have to invest the time--smell the holly bush, get the full experience. I'm not some wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am."

  My face contorts. "I certainly hope not. That's fucking gross."

  "The heavens have chosen to intercede on your behalf!" She stomps her foot. "To help you. A little gratitude would be nice."

  I pinch my nose, breathe deep, and compose myself. Because the spirit bitch is obviously in a tormenting mood, like a cat toying with a mouse before it's devoured. Trying to wriggle out from under her paw will only prolong it. My best option is to just give in. Play dead.

  Submit.

  "I apologize for being flippant, Alexandra. Thank you for taking the time tonight to educate me. I'm truly fortunate to have a sister and heavenly angel who care so much for my emotional well-being."

  Her head bobs side to side, weighing my sincerity. "And do you like the decorations?" she asks petulantly.

  I smile. "The decorations are lovely."

  Alexandra's expression slides toward appeasement. "And the music?"

  "One of my favorite songs--a classic."

  She grins teasingly. "I worked really hard on the snow."

  Submission isn't my forte.

  "Goddamn it, Lex!"

  She holds her hands up. "Okay, okay." She straightens and clasps my hand. "Come with me."

  Together we walk to Steven's office. Instinctively, I close my eyes as we step through the doorway. Then I open them.

  "This is . . . this is your apartment," I state.

  My sister's condo has the typical regal appointments of an exclusive and ultraexpensive New York City living space. Panoramic views, high ceilings, detailed dark wood moldings, shiny, pristine marble floors. But there's a warmth to it--earth-toned walls, comfy couches, colorful throw pillows, children's framed artwork--that makes it a family friendly home.

  "Brilliant observation, as
always," she returns.

  "When is this?" I ask.

  Alexandra's eyes turn sympathetic. "This is tonight. At this very moment. These are the memories you won't be a part of."

  We go into the family room, where all the familiar faces are congregated. There's my father, in a black suit and red tie, with a ridiculous Santa hat on his head, talking to Frank Fisher--my father's lifelong friend and business partner--at the wet bar. He pours apple cider into a shot glass for Mackenzie, who's perched on a stool between the two men. A small smile comes to my lips as I gaze at my mom, who looks a couple of decades older than her earlier incarnation, but every bit as beautiful--this time in a simple red dress and black pumps. She's chatting with my sister on the couch. On the far side of the room is my brother-in-law, Steven, his blue eyes sparkling with pride behind his dark-rimmed glasses as he bends his head to hear what his son, Thomas, tells him. They stand in front of the Ping-Pong table--our latest family get-together pastime. They're getting ready to play my best friend, Matthew Fisher, and his five-year-old son, Michael, as they stand on the other side of the table, looking a little like twins with their short light brown hair and similar button-down green shirts.

  Adjacent to the table is a love seat, where Matthew's wife and Kate's best friend, Delores "Dee-Dee" Warren, is seated, surprisingly wearing one of her lower-key outfits--a short red leather skirt, a snug white striped sweater, and glowing, dangly Santa Claus earrings.

  Next to Dee is Kate, and I can't take my eyes off of her.

  An elegant long-sleeved black velvet dress hugs her in all the right places, her dark, shiny hair falls over her shoulder in waves, and open-toe green heels encase her feet. Three-carat diamond earrings--earrings I gave her for our second wedding anniversary--glitter on her ears. She's flawless. And so gorgeous I actually feel my chest tighten with a mixture of pride and ever-present desire.

  It's the perfect family gathering. Evergreens and bows add a holiday flair to the decor, Christmas music plays cheerfully in the background, and dozens of delicious-smelling dishes rest on a buffet table, waiting to be uncovered. It's a modernized version of an idyllic Norman Rockwell image--the entire room is alive with laughter and joyful chatter. Everyone's happy to be there, everyone's having a good time.

  Everyone except my son, James.

  He's unusually quiet, sitting on the recliner next to the love seat. His dark brown eyes alternate between watching the Ping-Pong match and glancing down the hall toward the front door.