Once Upon a December: A Holiday Short Story Collection (3 page)

I figure if I’m going to prison for kidnapping, I might as well know the name of the kid who put me there.

“Xander. It’s
Alexander
. I just like Xander better.”

Huh.

“Weird. My middle name is Alexander.”

“Huh.”

Officially crazy.

“I’m Thomas Fisher.”

“I know.”

Of course he knows
.

“How old are you, Xander?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions.”

“Yeah, well, I’m hoping I’ll bore you to death and you’ll fall asleep. Then I can just keep on driving.”

“You don’t want to see your family?”

“It’s complicated.”

“That’s not a
no
.”

I mutter a curse under my breath.

“And you can keep driving, but we’ll end up in Kentucky. The roads aren’t so clear up there.”

I groan with annoyance and tell him to play his game.

Snow begins to fall as we get closer to Paisley Springs. Thankfully, the roads are still clear—of both ice and drivers, which makes the trip much easier. The two hours fly, and before I even realize it, we’re parked in front of my parents’ house.

“It’s been ten years since I've seen this place,” I murmur.

Christmas lights shine brightly from the front porch, and a gigantic gold and green wreath hangs proudly on the front door. Mom always loved decorating for the holidays. It seems a little minimal this year, but they’re older now. I try not to think about that too much.

“I can’t go inside.”

Xander nods. “Maybe just peek through the window?”

I can do that. I can just peek
.

It’s a slippery walk up the sidewalk. Of course, Xander’s right on my heels, talking nonstop and driving me nuts.
Doesn’t he realize how nervous I am?

“You’re just peeking,” the little mind reader says. “Don’t be nervous.”

We walk around the side of the house to the living room window. Taking a deep breath, I peek inside. A brilliantly decorated Christmas tree stands in the corner with only a few presents nestled below its branches. Like always, our stockings hang from the mantle of the fireplace, and above them, Mom’s Christmas village is displayed. I smile when I see the little train making its circuit around the miniature town. When I was a kid, I could watch that train for hours.

Suddenly, my family appears in the living room, holding small bowls. Mom and Dad sit down on the couch while my sister finds a spot next to the tree. I catch a glimpse of the pattern on the tiny bowls, and my heart leaps in my chest.

“Applesauce,” Xander says.

My eyes flash to him. “How do you know that?”

“I can smell it. It's my favorite food.”

“It's my favorite food, too, but you can’t
smell
it from here.”

“Sure you can. Try.”

I roll my eyes but decide to humor the kid. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply, and instantly, I’m ten years old again.

“Cinnamon!” I whisper excitedly.

Xander just smiles.

“Homemade applesauce was always a Christmas tradition,” I explain quietly. “It’s an old recipe of my grandmother’s, and when I was little, I used to sit on the counter and watch as Mom chopped up the apples. When I got older, she let me help. Every Christmas Eve, we would sit around the tree and eat our applesauce before we opened gifts.”

“You opened gifts on Christmas Eve?” Xander asked.

I smile as memories flood me. My first bike. My leather jacket. The keys to my first car.

“Yeah, but there were always more presents to open in the morning. Those gifts were from Santa.”

Xander says nothing as I look through the window once more. Of course, my parents look older, but it’s not their age that depresses me the most.

“They look so sad. I wonder why that is?” I ask, not really expecting an answer.

“Because they miss you,” Xander replies simply, as if this is obvious. “You’re their only son, and your mom decorates every year and makes homemade applesauce, hoping that this year will be the Christmas you come home.”

“She makes it every year?”

“Every year.”

My mom places her bowl on the coffee table and walks over to the Christmas tree. I hold my breath as she lightly traces her fingers along one of the ornaments. It’s red and gold, and I know without a doubt that it’s the ornament with my name on it. I’d made it in Sunday school class when I was eight years old.

“She hangs it every year. Just hoping . . .”

It’s too much. Too many memories and too much shame.

I close my eyes and lean back against the cold brick of the house.

Seeing my family so sad is complete torture. I thought they’d be happy that I’d stayed away all this time. I’d embarrassed them . . . shamed them. And I’d gone out of my way to avoid them for the past decade.
How can they possibly still love me?

“They love you because you’re their son,” Xander says. “They say the bond between a parent and child is nearly impossible to break, even in death. Do you really think a few thousand miles is going to change how they feel about you?”

With wide eyes, I stare at this kid.

“How did you get so smart?”

He just grins.

“I get it from my mom.”

“This is a bad idea,” I mutter as we drive down Main Street.

Paisley Springs looks just the same, except for a few new restaurants. When we were kids, Emma and I used to call it Mayberry, from the
Andy Griffith Show
. At the time, it wasn’t a flattering comment, but now that I’m older, I can appreciate the tranquility of my little hometown.

Maybe Mayberry isn’t so bad, after all.

“This is the best idea ever,” Xander says, bouncing in his seat. “You know you want to see her.”

“Of course, I want to see her.”

That’s when I realize I have no idea where to find her.
Does she even live in Paisley Springs?

“She works at the diner,” Xander says.

“The Paisley Diner? She’s still there?”

Xander nods, and in that moment, I feel a knife twist in my gut. If Emma’s still working at the diner, that probably means she didn’t go to college. She always wanted to be a lawyer.
Why didn’t she go to law school?

“Her high school GPA was crap,” Xander explains, reading my mind once again.

“No, it wasn’t. She had a 4.0 before . . . before . . .”

Before she miscarried.

“She didn’t have a 4.0 . . .
after
,” he says.

I don’t bother asking how he knows that. I stopped asking questions right after I smelled the applesauce.

Emma’s still living in Paisley Springs and working at the diner—the same place she’d worked back in high school. Has she never worked anywhere else? Did her grades really suffer that much? And if so, how did I not know that? Had I honestly been so wrapped up in my own adolescent selfishness that I didn’t realize how much losing the baby affected
her
?

I feel like such a fool. I’ve spent the last ten years avoiding everyone I love, thinking that’s what they needed in order to move on with their lives. But in reality, for all of them, time has stood still.

Have they all been waiting for me?

We reach the diner, and I park the car. Xander takes my trembling hand in his as he leads me up the gravel path and toward the entrance. The place looks relatively vacant, which isn’t too surprising since it’s late on Christmas Eve.

“Are we peeking again?” Xander asks.

“Yes.”

He sighs and pulls me toward the window. The diner really is empty except for a few coffee drinkers sitting at the counter.

“She could have gone to community college,” I whisper into the air. “Did she even try?”

“Nope. She was waiting for you to come back. You’d made plans.”

We had made plans. We’d planned to move away from Paisley Springs and attend college . . . together.

I forced myself to move on without her . . . to live without her, and all this time she’s been waiting for me?

Just then, a waitress appears from the back. She’s holding a coffee pot and smiling at the customers. Her long red hair is pulled into a ponytail. And her eyes . . . her green eyes are still the most beautiful eyes in the world.

Xander’s hand tightens around mine.

“She prays for you every night,” he says as we watch her pour coffee into a man’s mug. “She prays that you'll come home, but if you don’t, she hopes that you’re at least happy.”

Emma wasted her prayers on me. I haven’t been happy in more than ten years.

“And she never loved another soul.”

Neither have I.

“She must hate me,” I whisper, the agony so intense that I think I might collapse under the weight of it. Xander just holds my hand a little tighter.

“She still loves you. She’ll forgive you.”

“She doesn't look
unhappy
.”

But even as the words slip out of my mouth, I know it’s a lie. Even now, I know every curve of her smile and every sparkle in her eye, and I can tell she’s faking it.

“It’s almost closing time,” Xander says. “You can’t walk through locked doors, so I suggest you get inside.”

I look away from the beautiful angel standing behind the glass and down into the eyes of this crazy, green-eyed boy.

“You'll come with me?”

He smiles brightly.

“Don't you understand? I'm already there.”

I don’t understand, and I tell him so.

“Don’t you see? I’ve watched over both of you for the past ten years. She prays for you every night and you think about her a thousand times a day. You’re still crazy about each other. I just wanted to see you guys together.”

“I . . . don’t understand.”

The child’s bright green eyes meet mine. “My name is Alexander, and I love homemade applesauce. I have my dad’s crazy hair and my mom’s green eyes, and all I want for Christmas is for my mom and dad to be happy.

A tear trickles down my face.

It all makes sense now.

Is he an angel? A ghost? A figment of my heartbroken imagination?

It doesn’t matter, because behind the glass, his mom is waiting for me.

But first thing’s first . . .

I kneel on the ground and place my hands on each side of his face. He really is a beautiful child. The spitting image of her. And of me.

“I’ve always loved your mother. And
you
. I didn’t know it then, but I do now. Never doubt that.”

My son smiles. “I don’t doubt it. We love you, too.”

I lean close and kiss his forehead.

“By the way, you should know that Mom isn’t able to have children. She never was.”

“Never?”

“The doctors said never. It wasn’t your fault.”

I wrap my arms around my son and pull him close, hugging him tightly.

“Mom’s waiting,” he whispers.

With a nod, I climb to my feet.

“Are you leaving?”

“No.” Xander smiles and points toward the window. “I’m peeking.”

I smile through my tears. “Will I ever see you again?”

“You'll see me every day.”

“But how?”

“Anytime you feel like you’re missing me, you just have to look into her green eyes. I’m there. I think her eyes will be brighter now. Oh! Wait a sec . . .”

Xander pulls a piece of mistletoe out of his pocket and hands it to me. I don’t even bother asking where it came from. Nothing makes sense tonight, but maybe it’s not supposed to.

“Use this. You know, in case you need motivation to kiss her.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” I chuckle and kiss his forehead one last time. “Thank you, Xander.”

He pushes me toward the door, and I take a deep breath before reaching for the handle. As I walk inside the diner, I take comfort in knowing that my son’s standing just outside the window . . .

Peeking.

The diner’s completely deserted now, so I gently turn the closed sign on the door before making my way to the counter. I sit down on a stool and wait. My entire body trembles with anticipation, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out just as Emma walks through the swinging doors, holding a bowl.

“Sorry, we’re—”

She stops talking.

I stop breathing.

Emma blinks a few times, looks down into her bowl, and then up at me again. She’s probably trying to decide if she’s finally lost her mind.

I can relate.

“Thomas?”

“It’s me.”

Suddenly, she smiles the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.

“Xander sent you?”

“More like . . . dragged me, but yeah.”

Emma laughs, and with that sound, every ounce of tension leaves my body.

“He told me he would. I didn’t believe him.”

Emma places the bowl in front of me on the counter. I don’t even look down. I can smell the cinnamon.

“You see him, too?”

She nods. I look behind my shoulder and through the glass, but I can’t see him anymore.

“Will he come back?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I never know. But I have to believe he will.”

I reach over the counter and lift my hand, letting my fingers drift along her face. Tears spill down the softest cheeks I’ve ever touched.