The 12 Christmases of You & Me

by Jennifer Joyce

  ‘Whatever.’ Annabelle hitches her backpack into place and reaches for the door. ‘I’m going to be late for school.’

  ‘Do you want a lift?’ I grab my own coat from the hook. ‘I was about to set out myself. I promise I won’t ho-ho-ho again.’

  ‘Nah. I’m meeting Rosie and Evan.’

  Not long ago, Rosie and Evan were regular visitors to our house, but I can’t recall the last time I saw them. Annabelle doesn’t invite them around any more; she prefers to meet them on the main road in the mornings, to prevent them from running into her chronically uncool mother. Not that I blame her (much). I felt the same way about my own parents, especially when Mum took up line dancing and Dad insisted on referring to me as ‘sausage’, no matter who was present. I want to call out to Annabelle, to tell her to cherish these friendships, to wrap them carefully in bubble wrap to keep them safe, as I should have with Jonas. It’s been two weeks since I left him in 1997 and I haven’t returned to the past since. Every night I’ve had regular dreams and I’m starting to wonder whether I made up the whole time-travel thing, that I imagined my forays into my teenage life and the ‘evidence’ wasn’t there at all. The photos, the memories … maybe they were always there, as they are now, and I convinced myself otherwise so I could continue with the fantasy of going back to fix things with Jonas.

  I don’t say anything to Annabelle, as I know she’ll only screw up her face and tell me not to be so embarrassing. Grabbing my handbag, I head out to work, not even minding when a Christmas song bursts from the radio as I set off. Because that’s the other thing I’ve missed over the past couple of weeks; the frisson of expectation in the air as the Big Day approaches, the camaraderie and closeness as friends and family come together, the simple joy created by swathes of shiny tinsel. I can’t wait to see Tina and Kurt and my niece and nephew in a few weeks, to sit in a room with my whole family and feel the contentment I’ve been treated to time and again during my vivid time-travelling dreams.

  Christmas seems to have exploded overnight, sprinkling its magic across the town. There were little hints of the approaching season before, but it’s in full view now with Christmas trees standing proudly in windows, wreaths adorning doors, the coffee-chain red cups are out, and every other song on the radio is a classic festive tune that you can’t help singing along to. There’s tinsel tacked around the door of the wellbeing centre, and Barry’s popped a miniature tree on the desk.

  ‘Morning, Barry.’ I lift a hand in greeting, but I don’t break my stride until the receptionist thrusts a bowl full of brightly wrapped chocolates at me. I hesitate for a nanosecond before I rifle through to locate a strawberry cream.

  ‘Secret Santa.’ Barry thrusts another bowl at me, this one filled with less appetising slips of folded paper. ‘Ten quid, max.’

  Still chomping my chocolate, I pick out a slip of paper and unfold it.

  ‘Who’d you get?’

  Barry leans forward, but I press the piece of paper to my chest. Ella, the reiki practitioner. Should be easy enough to find a suitable gift. ‘It’s a secret.’

  Barry nods slowly and taps the side of his nose. ‘It’s me, isn’t it?’

  ‘I shouldn’t even tell you this, but no, it isn’t.’

  ‘Righto.’ Barry’s eyes narrow. ‘But if it is me, I don’t want anything … mucky. Freda got me a cock ring last year. Freda, can you believe it? I’m not saying I didn’t use it, and the missus wasn’t complaining, but I’d prefer something a bit more festive this time around.’

  ‘Too much info, Barry.’ I shove the slip of paper in my coat pocket and back away before I’m treated to more. The door opens, briefly flicking strands of tinsel inside before they’re whipped away again, and Melanie Baker steps inside, her eyes darting around the empty waiting area. The TV in the corner is blank and the stacks of magazines on the low table are neatly fanned.

  ‘Sorry. I’m early.’ Melanie chews on her coat sleeve. ‘I can’t seem to get anything right. Late. Early. Never at the right time.’ She huffs out a humourless laugh and then the sleeve is back between her teeth.

  ‘It’s okay, Melanie.’ I hold a hand out towards the lift. ‘Come up.’

  We head up to my office, Melanie apologising again as we step into the darkened room, but I open the blinds and assure her it’s fine.

  ‘Better early than late.’ I stow my handbag in my desk drawer before joining Melanie by the window, settling into the armchair opposite. ‘So, how have you been since our last session?’

  Melanie smiles at me and nods before bursting into tears.

  ‘The dress is beautiful. So pretty.’ Melanie traces a curved line between her collar bones. ‘There’s this white fur trim, and the skirt is all floaty. A real princess dress, you know? And the wings are glittery, and you know how much Livvy adores her sparkly stuff. And she was so pleased when she was given the part of the Angel Gabriel. Honestly, I haven’t seen her that happy in a long time.’ Melanie gives me a wobbly smile. ‘Too long.’ She takes a sip of water, and I nod encouragingly for her to continue. ‘But she wouldn’t put the dress on. Said she didn’t want to be the Angel Gabriel any more. Didn’t want to be in the nativity full stop.’ Melanie swallows hard and tries to look at me, but she can’t meet my eyes. ‘And it was the dress. This beautiful dress that any little girl should be over the moon to get to wear.’ Melanie reaches for her shoulder, brushing the palm of her hand down the length of her arm until it reaches her wrist. ‘It’s sleeveless, you see. Just has some little straps.’ She reaches for her shoulder again, keeping her hand there as she swallows. I reach for the box of tissues on the little table between us, holding it out towards her. Melanie frowns at the box. She blinks, releasing a fresh tear, and puts her trembling fingers to her cheek. ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, Melanie. And don’t worry – I’ve got plenty of tissues. We won’t run out.’

  Melanie smiles weakly and wriggles a tissue from the box, roughly wiping her face and nose before scrunching the tissue tightly in her fist.

  ‘I feel so guilty, you know.’ She places a fist against her stomach and grimaces. ‘She was so happy. You should have seen her little face when she ran out of school to tell me about being picked to be the Angel Gabriel. But the dress. The sleeves.’ Melanie presses her fist into her stomach. ‘She won’t wear it because it doesn’t have sleeves. It won’t cover the scars.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Livvy’s teacher? About the dress?’

  Melanie shakes her head. She’s crying again, but she either hasn’t noticed or is ignoring the tears.

  ‘Perhaps Livvy can wear a different dress. One with sleeves. Or maybe she could wear a T-shirt underneath? Whatever makes her feel comfortable.’

  Melanie looks at me, meeting my eye this time. Her eyes are wet but blazing. ‘But the scars will still be there. They’ll always be there and it’s my fault.’ She thumps herself on the chest to emphasise her point. ‘I may not have hurt her myself, but I didn’t stop him, did I?’

  ‘Yes, you did.’ I push the box of tissues towards Melanie again, but she disregards them. ‘You left him, Melanie. You left and you took Livvy away to start a new, safe life.’

  ‘But it’s too late.’ Melanie opens her fist and starts to shred the tissue. ‘Too late. Always too late.’

  ‘It’s never too late, Melanie, and you must remember how strong you are. You did leave him, when you felt able to. You broke the hold he had over you. You got the help you deserve. And you’re raising a wonderful daughter, on your own, which isn’t easy.’

  Sitting down at my desk after Melanie’s session, I switch on my mobile and tap out a message. It’s never too late, that’s what I told Melanie.

  Hi Jonas. I’m sorry for ruining everything between us. Can we meet up for a drink and a chat before the wedding? I miss you. Love, Maisie xxx

  I press send before I can change my mind.

  TWENTY

  ‘A watched phone never rings, you know.’

  �
��What?’ I look at Lily, blinking away the fog of confusion. I was in my own little world, lulled by the melodic sound of Norah Jones singing about it not being Christmas until her loved one returns home wafting from Lily’s stereo. She passes me a mug of hot chocolate and curls up on the sofa next to me.

  ‘Expecting a call?’ She nods at the phone clutched tightly in my hand.

  ‘No. Why?’ I slip the phone into my jeans pocket. Out of sight but not out of mind. I should have checked it was set to vibrate, just in case I don’t hear the text come in.

  ‘You’ve been glued to that thing all evening. You keep checking it every twenty seconds. You’re worse than Annabelle.’

  ‘I am not.’ I blow on my hot chocolate, making the gooey marshmallows bob on the surface. It’s far too hot to drink so I place it on the table to cool down, but it’s more to avoid eye contact with Lily than anything else. It’s been six days since I sent that text to Jonas. Six tortuous days where I haven’t received a reply – not even a message to tell me to bog off, which would be something, at least, and would put an end to the torment of checking for missed calls and texts.

  ‘You’ve been on another planet all day.’ Lily nudges me playfully. ‘Who is he? Someone I know?’

  ‘What are you going on about?’ I know what she’s going on about. Of course I do. But playing dumb will save me the embarrassment of admitting I’m waiting for a text from Jonas.

  ‘It’s got to be a bloke, hasn’t it? I played all these games when I was single. My least favourite was sitting by the phone, waiting for it to ring.’ She gives me a pointed look and I’m forced to avert my gaze, because I’m afraid of cracking under close scrutiny.

  ‘There’s no bloke. I’m happy being single, remember?’

  My hand is itching to reach into my pocket to take out my phone. What if I’ve accidentally knocked the mute switch and Jonas has replied? But I can’t do it. Not with Lily here, waiting with her ‘gotcha!’ face (which also doubles as her smug face).

  ‘Hmm.’ Lily shoots me a sceptical look, but at least she drops the subject and returns to her favourite topic. ‘I sent my wedding day playlist to Jonas last night.’

  My body jolts at his name, and I freeze, hoping Lily hasn’t noticed.

  ‘You know, my shortlist of songs to walk down the aisle to? He prefers the Daniela Andrade one too.’

  ‘He replied?’ My hand is desperate to reach into my pocket, to see if there’s a text waiting for me.

  ‘Yeah.’ Lily frowns at me. ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Dunno.’ I tuck my hands firmly under my thighs. ‘I thought maybe he’d be too busy on a Saturday night to listen to your playlist.’

  The corners of Lily’s mouth turn down. ‘Busy on a Saturday night? The man’s too busy moping about the break-up to have a social life.’

  My body convulses again, as though I’ve been jabbed with a cattle prod. ‘Jonas and Liz broke up?’

  I only know about the relationship through Lily, so I guess it makes sense that I’d find out about the break-up from her too. It isn’t as though I’m on Jonas’s list of confidantes these days, and I’ve never actually met his girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend. Poor Jonas.

  ‘Yup. Messed up my seating plan for a while there, but don’t worry, it’s all sorted now.’

  ‘Phew.’

  If Lily detects my sarcasm, she doesn’t show it.

  ‘I don’t think he was ready to start dating again anyway. The divorce hit him hard.’

  I nod, guilt gnawing at me. I should have tried harder. Explained things better. Maybe I could have saved Jonas the pain he’s going through now if I’d acted sooner. Or maybe I’d have made things worse. Who knows? And I can’t change the past anyway, especially now the dreams have stopped.

  ‘We need mince pies.’ Lily unfurls herself from her position on the sofa. She’s barely out of the door when I reach into my pocket.

  ‘A-ha! I knew it.’ Lily bounces back into the room, face smug, pointing at the phone I’m clutching in my hand. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘There isn’t a bloke.’ I shove the phone back in my pocket. There isn’t a reply to my text, anyway. ‘I was only checking the time. Annabelle will need picking up from Rosie’s soon.’

  ‘Liar.’ Lily flops back down on the sofa. I’m disappointed we’re not actually getting any mince pies. ‘I know you, remember? There’s a bloke, and I’ll find out who he is.’

  It’s torture, but I keep my hands off my phone while I’m at Lily’s, even when she nips to the loo, just in case it’s another ruse. It isn’t until I’m in the car that I dare to check it again.

  Nothing.

  I’m jostled awake by a leaden weight falling onto me, the impact taking my breath away, the mass pinning me in place. My skin prickles as panic floods my body, my heart racing painfully, my breathing laboured under the load crushing me to the bed. My eyelids snap open, expecting my darkened bedroom, but the room is bright. Too bright, too sudden, and I squeeze them shut again before I’m able to take anything in.

  I’m not in my bed, though. I don’t need to see to realise that. I’m sitting upright, in a hard seat, and the room is spinning. No, not spinning. Rocking, as though we’re experiencing a mild earthquake. And I can hear people around me, murmuring voices creating a hum of background noise beneath the roar of what I think is singing.

  ‘Sorry, love.’ The weight increases, pressing further into my chest and making me wheeze before it goes completely. I gasp for breath as my eyes flicker open again, squinting against the harsh light.

  ‘You okay?’

  There’s a bloke hovering over me, swaying with the earthquake-y room, squinting against the light too. He belches loudly. My nose twitches involuntarily as I’m hit with the yeasty stench of stale beer. His stance, I realise, has nothing to do with the wobbly, too-bright room. He’s pissed. Utterly bladdered. He can hardly stand upright.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’ He reaches out – for my shoulder, I hope, but he ends up tapping my boob. I swat his hand away.

  ‘Get off me. I’m fine.’

  Confused. A bit queasy with the weird motion of the room. But physically fine despite being squished.

  ‘Alright, love. I said sorry.’ The drunken bloke straightens, staggering backwards, but there isn’t much room and he almost ends up in someone else’s lap, only just steadying himself using the back of their seat. I look around me, at the people reading books and newspapers or chatting to their neighbours. There’s a small window to my left, with fields whizzing by beyond it. We’re not experiencing a mini earthquake at all. We’re on a train.

  ‘Terry! There you are, man.’ A hand claps the drunk bloke on the back as the singing grows louder. I peek behind me. There’s a group of lads staggering down the aisle of the train, roaring the words to ‘Last Christmas’ and punching the air. Terry-the-drunk-bloke is swallowed up by the group as they move along the carriage, howling their sorrow at being betrayed during the festive period.

  One of two things has happened here. Either I’ve been kidnapped in my sleep – because I definitely went to bed and snuggled down not long ago with my hot water bottle – and have been dumped on a train going God knows where, or I’ve time-travelled again.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The train pulls into Manchester Piccadilly, spewing its passengers onto the platform. I’ve had a bit of time to think about where I am and why I’m on a train. Finding an abandoned newspaper with the date helped; if it’s Christmas Eve in 1998, that means I’m on my way home for the first time since I started uni. I won’t have seen Mum and Dad or Kurt since they dropped me off at the station in September, and I won’t have seen Lily or Jonas since our farewell drinks in the Farthing. The only familiar faces I’d seen over the past few months were Tina’s when she visited with Mabel one weekend in November, and Aaron Dean’s when I bumped into him at a Halloween party.

  I shuffle off the train with the bag I found in the overhead rack. It looked vaguely familiar and after a quick peek in
side, I established it was mine.

  ‘Maisie Mack!’

  I barely have the chance to register my name being called before I’m swept up in a pair of arms, my feet leaving the ground as I’m twirled around. I don’t have to see him to know it’s Jonas spinning me around the platform – the smell of leather filling my nostrils is enough – and I cling on tight, pressing my cheek against his shoulder and squeezing my eyes shut, thanking whatever strange phenomenon that’s responsible for this time-travel thing. Because present-day Jonas may not want to respond to my text, may not want to have anything to do with me any more, but I’m here with him now.

  ‘I’ve missed you.’ My chest aches as we come to a stop, expanding as it fills with the love I feel for this man.

  ‘I’ve missed you too.’ Jonas places me back on the ground, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles down at me.

  ‘You look different.’ I reach out to touch his cheek. It’s cold against my warm hand.

  ‘Good different? Or bad different?’

  I place my other hand on the opposite cheek. ‘Good different. And you’ve grown. Look how tall you are.’ I take a step back. The crazy, gothic rock hair has gone and in its place is a shorter, more refined gelled-back style, but Jonas has bleached his hair white so he hasn’t quite conformed and lost his individual style. The lipstick has vanished, but the eyeliner is still present, stark against the white hair, and his nails are painted jet black. Although he’s wearing a leather jacket, it isn’t his usual one, the one his father left behind when Jonas was a little boy. The new one is long, almost floor-length.

  ‘You haven’t changed at all.’ Jonas looks me up and down before pulling me into another hug, though my feet remain on the platform this time. I breathe him in, filling myself to the brim with that familiar, comforting leather.