I went to a writing party last night (at @anyahatesbunnies‘ house!) and wrote a little Christmas story during one of the sprints. It’s not going to be in the novel at all, so I thought I’d post it here. But, as usual, it’s kind of depressing, so feel free to skip. 🙂 

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[Salmon Coal, age 12- Lyndoch, Massachusetts]

I watched the snow from the couch, ribs pressed into the backing until it hurt to breathe. My breath fogged the glass, but it didn’t really matter; it was too dark to see past the four foot circle of light cast by the lantern even if he /was/ coming home. Sighing, I let my forehead drop against the cool pane of glass and closed my eyes. 

There wasn’t a point to waiting up. Mom had given up two hours ago. The same thing happened last year, and the year before that. 

“He’s working,” she’d said. “You know how it is with film production studios; they have deadlines and tight budgets. It makes it hard for them to live a normal life.”

So why, then, did he get married and have a kid? Why buy a house all the way across the country? 

“Just because it’s hard doesn’t mean that he’s not human, that he doesn’t want to do those things…”

Her excuses slipped further and further away from reason and confidence. I knew she wanted to know, too.

I could get by most of the time without him. I went to school, did my homework at the library, and read until I fell asleep. I ran around with Theo and tried to help him with his grand schemes, even when they didn’t make any sense. Hell, I made sure to watch his show every week- new episodes every Thursday night -and it almost felt like he was home. 

But it was Christmas eve. Or, well, Christmas now… 12:05 am… and he wasn’t here.

Who doesn’t go home for Christmas?

Who has a family and stays at work anyway?

The card he’d sent, promising that he’d be there, had been abandoned on the table long before Mom had even gone to bed. 

“He probably had his assistant sign it for him.” She’d sniffed, wrinkling her nose like the card smelled rotten, and dropped it into my hands for me to look at. “Can’t even make time to sign a card… God, William…”

I let myself look at the dark driveway again- still empty -and drew a frowning face over my dim reflection. The snow was undisturbed; white and pure, unmarred by any tire tracks or footprints. If he’d come, even if he had to park on the street, I’d go out and help bring his things in. I wasn’t wearing any shoes, but that didn’t matter. I’d run. 

“Dad.” I muttered, keeping my voice low just in case Mom wasn’t really asleep upstairs. “Come home.”

If you come home, I’ll forgive you.

If you come home, it’ll be okay.

Mom won’t make good on her promise of this being the last time. She won’t give up on you. I won’t, either. 

There’s still time.

I settled back down on the cushions, breathing out slowly in relief when my side stopped hurting. 

The snow fell, drifting in careless circles before settling down to rest with its family. 

Maybe I should give up, too. If he really wasn’t coming, I could still go crawl into bed with Mom and keep her company until Christmas morning. Why was I sitting in my pajamas against the window? I was cold and stiff and my body hurt, cramped from being so still for so long. 

I was tired. All of me was. 

I looked to the stairs, dark except for the Christmas lights wrapped around the railing, then at the Christmas tree in the corner. Presents, wrapped by Mom and me, crowded around the trunk of our very real tree. 

Did we need Dad for a merry Christmas?