It’s not easy to pull on a pair of tights when your hands are shaking! I glanced at my ten-year-old sister and noticed she was already working on her long, brown hair. I wasn’t sure how she was staying so calm. Our parents had stopped yelling at each other a few minutes ago, which meant that my mother could burst into the room at any second. If she did, it would be curtains for us. Again we’d be getting a beating for God-knows-what. She liked to do her talking after the fists fly.

            I pulled my Christmas dress over my head and smoothed the material down around me. A few deep breaths helped me calm my runaway nerves. It’s hard to be brave when you’re eight years old and you have good reason to fear your mother.

            “Let’s go!” my father called from downstairs.

            “Here,” my sister offered. “Let me do your ponytails real quick.”

            Sadie parted my hair in record time and slid my frizzy, blonde locks into red barrettes. “Okay, move,” she ordered, setting down the brush. “We don’t want Mom coming in here to get us.”

            I flinched but said nothing. Instead, I followed Sadie out the door and down the stairs. In the hallway we pulled on our winter jackets, carefully listening for the smallest sign of our mother’s enraged approach.

Our mother was no where in sight, but our father was waiting at the door. He seemed calm enough. “Let’s go,” he told us, ushering us out the door. We followed without a word. “Your mother is staying home,” he informed us once we were buckled into our seats. “We’re going to your grandparents’ house to celebrate Christmas Eve without her.”

The mood in the truck on the way to our grandparents’ house was a mellow one. Apparently our father had recovered from the argument we’d heard earlier, though he never explained why our mother wasn’t with us.

Things improved dramatically once we got to our grandparents’ house. Everyone was jovial and happily celebrating one of the only days we could all come together. Dinner was buffet-style, and there were sweets all over the place. I quickly snagged a candy cane and joined my cousins at the kids’ table.

After dinner, we heard the famous holiday whoops of every kid’s favorite saint. I recognized one of my uncles beneath the festive Santa suit. Gifts were passed around and laps were filled with loot. It didn’t take long for the wrapping paper to cover every inch of the floor. It was the only time of year you would find a mess at my grandparents’ house.

All too soon, it was time to head home. We gathered up our goodies and said our goodbyes. Sadie and I were thrilled! It was only Christmas Eve. Christmas Day still loomed in the future, and we’d already gotten several gifts we loved. I knew with certainty that I couldn’t wait to use my new brush set, which came complete with handheld mirror and eye makeup.

Our father seemed unusually quiet after he packed our gifts into the truck. His festive mood had dissipated as though he was a balloon fizzled flat. Sadie and I looked at each other nervously when he started the engine but didn’t pull onto the road.

We sat there for some time before he turned in his seat to tell us, “We have to go to the police station before we go home. Your mother threatened to kill us with my shotgun if we went to your grandparents’ house tonight.”

I wasn’t sure if the chill I got was because of the night cold or the sudden fear I felt. I wanted to cry. I risked a glance at Sadie. Her chin was thrust upward bravely so I didn’t dare cry. I sat quietly while our father finally pulled into traffic.

When we got to the police station, our father went inside the building to lodge a complaint.

The second we were alone, Sadie commented, “She’s crazy. I swear to God, I hate her guts!”

“Me too,” I murmured. I could feel my bottom lip trembling precariously. I fought the tears. I didn’t want my father to see me crying when he got back in the truck. I wanted to be brave like Sadie.

Strangely, when our father put the truck in gear, he didn’t tell us what was happening. However, when I glanced over my shoulder I could see that a police cruiser was following us home.

When our father pulled into the garage, he cut the engine and told us, “You girls wait here until I make sure it’s safe. The police are waiting for me to shut off the outside lights. If I shut them off, everything is okay and I’ll come out to get you girls. If there’s trouble, I’m going to flash the lights off and on.”

Sadie nodded and looked behind us as the garage door descended. “Will we be okay here?” she asked with a trembling tone.

Our father nodded and slammed the truck door. We watched silently as he moved towards the kitchen door.

Finally Sadie was showing signs of fear. I was pretty sure I was incapable of speech at the moment. I kept picturing my mother holding a shotgun, pointed straight at my head. I’d seen her blue eyes pale icily a hundred times. They were snow covered diamonds in a ruddy, pudgy face. One glance from them could cut just as deeply as any knife.

My heart skipped a beat when Sadie said, “The outside lights just went out.” Her hazel eyes had been anxiously pinned to the garage door window since our father’s disappearance. She turned in her seat to tell me, “Everything’s going to be okay.”

I nodded my agreement. Curiosity was just too strong a pull, though. I had to be sure. I squirmed in my seat to see the absence of flashing lights with my own eyes. For a second, I could swear I saw the lights flash – a quick glint in the ebony night. It was hard to see over the pile of gifts behind me, so I slid over the top of the seat to get to the trunk space.

I landed on my knees with a small whimper. I glanced around to see why my landing had been so rough. I scooched to the side so I could lift the quilt my parents kept in the truck for naps when we took long trips. There, beneath the folds of the quilt, was my father’s shotgun!

I moved the quilt back into place and quickly slid over the seat. I landed safely beside Sadie a heartbeat before my father’s return.

“The coast is clear,” he assured us in a whisper. “You girls go straight to bed when we get inside,” he advised while retrieving our gifts from the backseat.

Sadie and I tiptoed behind our father. He piled our gifts on the floor of the bedroom Sadie and I shared, and then he said goodnight. “Get some sleep or Santa won’t come,” he joked on the way out of the room.

Once the door was shut, Sadie remarked, “Can you believe she was going to kill us with a freakin’ shotgun? She’s out of control. I never want to be like her!” She shook her head sadly and started to get undressed.

I pulled my pajamas out from under my pillow, and then I countered, “Probably she couldn’t kill us with a shotgun that’s hidden in the back of Dad’s truck, huh?”

Sadie’s face was a mask of astonishment. “Seriously? You saw it?”

“Yeah,” I said sullenly, pulling my nightgown over my head.

Neither one of us said another word. We climbed into our respective beds and turned out the lights. It was nearly midnight, and we were exhausted from the drama.

“Sadie?” My voice trembled in the dark. The tears I’d been fighting all night had finally spilled free.

“Yeah?” she responded. Her voice was shaking, as if she too had been overcome with emotion.

“Merry Christmas,” I told her, knowing that it wouldn’t be a happy Christmas.

Her sobs found me in the dark.

I can’t speak for Sadie, but I felt weaker than ever. We were caught in the middle of a vicious game played by adults. On the very night we should have been experiencing giddy anticipation, we were feeling fear. I didn’t want morning to come. In fact, I never wanted to celebrate Christmas again.

Copyright 2008 – Sheila Roy