Lance
Christmas songs play constantly on the radio as the big day approaches. Our house is in a funny stage of limbo over the festive season, with Hannah being too old to believe and David being too young. Hannah gave me a full lecture on the reasons she stopped believing this year when I asked her what she wanted for Christmas.
“Now, Dad,” she began. “It’s physically impossible for one man to be able to deliver a gift to every child in the world in one day.” She lifted her eyebrows. That knowing look I’ve become used to on her face. “All us kids know that Santa’s a mystical figure concocted by the drinks industry to sell overpriced pop.”
“Really?” I smirked. “So does that mean you won’t be wanting a gift then?”
She shook her head in disgust. “Don’t be daft. Just because I don’t believe in Santa doesn’t mean I don’t like Christmas. I’veprepared a list for your use. I’ll email it to you; all the links to buy the stuff are there too.”
Nothing surprises me anymore. I just nod and tell her she can send me it, but I don’t promise to stick to it. She gives me a blank look, then pops her earbuds in and returns to whatever crap she’s listening to. I wonder if hating young people’s music is something that just happens overnight. I feel as though I went from young to old in the blink of an eye.
Amy is calling me tonight. After the fiasco in London, we’ve kept in touch. She’s keeping me informed of the situation in New York as much as she can. She says she thinks Katie is hiding the truth from her, acting as if everything is okay when it clearly isn’t. We talk every week, sometimes for ten minutes and sometimes for hours. We’re both feeling the loss of Katie. Amy has lost her best friend, and I’ve lost my chance with the woman I love.
“Hello,” she says. She sounds happy today. Amy can be high one minute and morbid the next. Her mood swings wildly depending on what outside influences are affecting her each day. “I spoke to her yesterday. She admitted she’s struggling to settle. Told me she’s finding it hard to make friends.”
“Did she say anything about how he’s treating her?” I ask. That’s always my first concern. Has he hit her again? Is he treating her well? But I know the man I saw in London is dangerous. Every good day will be followed by bad. That’s how abusers work. They keep their prey on the hook, loving them just enough to convince them to stay. Just enough to maintain the façade that each slip is a mistake.
“No, just that he’s looking after her. He’s encouraging her to take a break from her writing for a while so she can get used to the city.”
“Hmmm,” I grunt. Yep, stage one, isolate. He’s working the playbook.
“Lance, I don’t think she’s happy.” She pauses. “But I doubt she’s coming back anytime soon.”
David’s crying interrupts the call. It’s a good excuse to get off the line, as I don’t want to hear any more. Every time she phones, I hope that it will be the news I want to hear: that Katie is coming back to London. At least if she was in London, I could reach out to her. Then we would have a chance, at least. Or I could be sure she’s safe.
Picking my son up from his crib, I rock him gently while preparing his bottle. As soon as the nipple is in his mouth, he calms instantly. Like father, like son, I think cynically. The proximity of a woman can calm any man, no matter what age. It is a magical power they hold. Men are never truly in charge, no matter how many times we tell ourselves we are.
“Stay away from girls,” I whisper into his wisps of hair. “They’ll break you.”
***
The four of us sit around the tree, staring at the piles of presents. I invited Amber to enjoy Christmas Day with us. Her family has all but disowned her since she disappeared, telling her she humiliated them with the media hype.
We’re forging some sort of routine with her visiting regularly and helping care for David. I don’t want my son to grow up minus a parent the way I had to; I will do everything to keep his mother in his life for as long as it is possible.
We are moving toward friends, but still have a way to go. I need to be able to trust her completely. Her unpredictability unsettles me, so I insist on staying with them when she visits. I still have fears that she’ll try to run with David, but these are unfounded on my part. This is a boundary I’ll need to relax soon; she’s given me no reason to doubt her sincerity.
Aviemore is becoming her home. A local hairdresser offered to rent her a chair at a discounted rate until she can obtain steady clients. She has three months until it increases to the full rate.
The social work department placed her in a shared house with another young woman, and they’ve become close, supporting each other on their journey toward whatever normal life they can carve out. She seems to enjoy the network we have created, and Hannah has taken to her as well. They chat about music and TV, all thegirl thingsI’d never understand.
Hannah is ripping the paper from each present merrily, delighted with the gifts she receives off her specified list. I have no idea what she needs heated rollers for, but who am I to judge? I did draw a line at the two hundred pounds’ worth of high-top sneakers. I’ve told her she can save for them herself.
Amber gives me a shy smile and pulls a small blue box from her pocket.
“This is for you,” she says, embarrassed. “Just a small thank you for your help these past months. I can’t believe you’ve been so understanding. I do appreciate it.”
“We all have our demons,” I say, taking the box and opening it. It is a metal keyring with a car on it, and the wordDaddyis spelled out on the number plate. I’m momentarily taken aback by the thoughtfulness of her gift. “Thank you. It’s lovely. This means a lot. I’ll put it on my car keys.”
The day continues. We enjoy a slap-up meal, then play random family board games. Amber heads home early evening, and the kids and I settle down to watch a Christmas movie. By 9 p.m., they’re fast asleep, snoring softly as the rain batters against the windows. I sit, enjoying the quiet and the gift of having them here with me. Life without them is a distant memory.
My mind wanders to Katie and what she’s doing now. Was her first Christmas in the States as magical as she imagined? Did she walk hand in hand through the light-filled streets with him,skate on the huge ice rink, and steal kisses beneath the towering Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center? Did he buy her sexy lingerie? Or was it the living hell I had a glimpse into in London?
The idea of her cowered in a corner somewhere wrecks me. The way she did at the cottage before, when I let her go. When I watched the woman I adore disappear into her fear. If he’s sent her back there, I’ll never forgive myself for letting her go, or her for leaving.
Him hitting her replays in my head yet again. It does so every day. I’d wanted to kill him in that moment. But when she said she was still going, it’d blown me apart. I couldn’t comprehend why. Then I saw the terror in her eyes, and knew there was no changing her mind.
I’ve seen that look before, the one when men stare down the barrel of a gun. And complying seems like the safest option.