The Child Who Only Wanted to Wake Up on ChristmasSummer 2021

"He is not a normal child. Not normal at all. You think I could get him to care about hockey? You know how much money that gear is? And the driving - and holy christ - the other parents. How many excruciating, mind-numbing conversations I've had? Just so this kid could go out there and half-ass it." At this point Buddy's dad looked over to his wife to get some kind of acknowledgement—She was asleep sitting upright on the sofa. His eyes fixed on her slightly open mouth.

"HEY."

She woke, "what…? what dear?"

"Nothing. Nevermind."

"Buddy, unplant yourself from in front of that idiot-box and go to bed."

Buddy didn't move but a whine came out of him all the same. "Whyyyyyyyy?"

"Go. To. Bed."

Buddy knew the mood he was up against and decided a full effort to stay up any later would only result in a grounding. Or worse - missing out on that delicious pound-cake waiting for him on the kitchen counter. Cinnamon. Walnuts. Brown sugar. Heaven.

He grabbed his blanket and made a large but quiet performance out of leaving the room to go up the stairs. He hated being told what to do. He hated it more than cooked spinach. More than soap in his eyes. More than a stubbed toe. More than a splinter of wood in his finger or having to sit close to his mother as she pinched and needled the splinter out. More than Casey Hackleback from down the street, he hated being told what to do.

The book he retreated to wasn't special. There was no magic incantation, no ancient language, no hidden symbols discovered by accident. It was just a book with black words on a cream-white page. It didn't even have anything to do with what he was thinking about. It was a book about a tree that gave everything to a little boy. "Isn't that how it works?" he thought to himself. He often went for this book in particular when his Hardy Boy mysteries or Star Wars comic books didn't quite capture his mood.

Sometimes he'd get ideas in the tub. Sometimes when sitting in the yard watching Rufus run around chasing squirrels. As his energy dipped and his anger waned, a curious idea came to him. Christmas was the only time of year his dad was in a good mood. The only time of year he could play without guilt. The only time of year he could stay outside after dark making a snowman without being told to come inside.

As days passed, the neighbourhood trees shed their bulk. Buddy stared out his window onto Edgar street. Christmas felt so far away. He watched a boy with amusingly long hair struggle to walk against the wind down the street. He didn't care. His thoughts turned to the scolding he received for his third detention of the semester. Of the way Casey Hackleback made that stupid face when she laughed at him. Of the toys that should still be in his room if he wasn't "learning to behave". He called out without moving his gaze from the history lessons in front of him.

"Can I come down now?"

His mother replied from the kitchen below, "Absolutely, not. You stay up there and think about what you've done and finish that homework!"

Buddy groaned.

The sun went down as he sat at his desk, books closed. The desk had a coloured map of the world flattened into it and smoothed over with matte plastic. He traced the funny shapes with his finger and dreamed of adventures in exotic places. Mom stepped into his room and told him to go to bed. His eyes rolled so far back into his head that his groan of exasperation sounded like the second death rattle of a five thousand year old mummy.

He peeled off his clothes, stepped into his jammies, grabbed a book, and checked his flashlight for later. It worked. From the other room his mother called out, "Brush your teeth!" He flung the sheets off, escaping the gravity of just finally having touched his pillow and went to the bathroom. From underneath a great sigh he said "Don't tell me what to do".

He looked out the bathroom window as the toothbrush went round and round, circles small, gums and all. It was the North Star. As he stared at it, an irresponsible measure of toothpaste dripped from his face. Wondering if it was true that to wish upon it would actually reward him. "I wish for a closet full of brand new G.I. Joe". His face washed, he ran back to his room to check the closet - there was nothing but that old stale smell and clothes he never wanted to wear. He sighed his deep sigh, the very same one that his house witnessed a thousand times a day.

When he woke up that morning, he was different. There were no toys in his closet and oddly, strangely, inexplicably, he felt as though... someone or something somewhere had known his wish. Not quite heard it - but knew what he wanted.

After school, he ran with a lucky rabbit's foot throwing coins in wishing wells, praying at synagogues and churches, making a wish to the fortune teller on the pier, and throwing salt over his shoulder. He feng shui'd his bedroom (just the things he could move on his own). He did everything he possibly could to make this dream happen. He would only ever wake up on Christmas. Forever.

For Buddy, the sleep was like any other. He felt the weight of his comic book on his chest and the warmth of the flashlight on his hand right before the calm he waited for all day. For his parents, the next day was the worst of their lives. Each day after that grew harder and harder. They fought. They blamed each other. His dad blamed the government. His mom blamed Jesus. Their boy simply wouldn't wake up. And no one knew why.

It was the week before Christmas when the hospital released Buddy to his parents' care. In his own bed, family would come by, read a story to an unresponsive corpse, weep and move on. His parents lived around him, taking care of each other, tending to home maintenance, paying bills and the like. Ensuring that the processes of home would be there when he needed it.

Christmas morning came to a cloudless blue sky over crisp white snow. Buddy's heart rate sped up. Familiar feelings of tired excitement tingled his brain and activated his toes.

In her robe, Buddy's mother plugged in the tree lights, sat down and stirred milk into her coffee. His father closed the fireplace doors, content that his work would evolve without his poking and prodding. They sat quietly together each remembering Christmas mornings that were full of happy laughter. Lost in dreams, they barely registered the thud of Buddy's feet on the floor of his room or the running to the top of the stairs. And then, after all that agony, they heard his voice.

"Was he here?"

Toys that were never expected to be opened were rolled, built, toppled, smashed, laughed over. Buddy couldn't believe Santa brought that much for him that year. They hugged, and laughed, and every resentment, every argument, every angry tear was forgotten.

Pancake stacks filled with peaches and strawberries. Poached eggs, buttered toast and orange juice. The day was long for them all. A lengthy, cold walk to the lakeshore and three perfect snow angels. A delicious dinner and hot cocoa. The sun set faster than anyone wanted. The fire in the fireplace lit the room but the warmth came from three smiling faces.

"It was awful without you", his mother said as he sat on her lap. Tears welling again in her eyes. "It's very late now," said his father, "he should go to bed". They both looked at him like he was crazy. Buddy hated being told what to do.

There was a long silent moment no one wanted to break and then Buddy smiled, "See you next Christmas!" He dashed up the stairs, jumped into bed, pulled the sheets over his head and laughed himself into a long sleep.

Another painful year passed, another reunion made them all feel better. The heartache was unbearable. By all external appearances it was another unexplained coma. Followed by another Christmas. Again and again this happened. The world aged around the boy. Evidenced by newer, stranger toys. He didn't notice the circles under his parents' eyes. Nor their greying hair and new wrinkles.

He didn't notice their ongoing trauma, their wounds internal and external. If he did notice he might not have cared enough to address it. Life was exactly what he wanted it to be. Fun and food and toys all day, every day of his waking life.

For his parents it was something different. For his parents their lives had become desperate. Steep descents into spirits and pills and edibles for month-long stretches. His father was the first to break in year five. As soon as the boy went to sleep and the sugar wore off the darkness in his mind weighed too much. Buddy's mother found him swinging from a pipe in the basement like an empty shirt on a hanger.

She was at the grocery store when she first heard the sleigh bells that year. The horns, the strings. The tones that made that particular atmosphere from ether and repetition and floods of dopamine. She stopped in the aisle - a bug in amber - holding a jar of curry paste. People passed by without looking at her face. They didn't notice her agony or her tears. She put back the curry and went down the aisle in search of a can of cranberries.

Weeks later, the day arrived that her son would wake up, as he had now seven years in a row, to have what he felt was a real Christmas. To her it was the furthest possible experience from the holidays she knew.

The bourbon she polluted herself with spotted her clothes, glistened on her face, and smeared every thought with wet clouds. Buddy's mother drifted in and out of awareness. Quiet snow fell outside the living room windows. It was the witching hour. She might as well have been on the dark side of the moon. Embers in the fireplace. Her father's huge, 1972-era, soft-coloured bulbs in the tree. Her CBD/THC edible kicked in from zero to slobbering mess. She swam into a hard, dark sleep.

Three hours later the sun rose in the east streaming a blue light where it bounced off the snow and came through the window. Buddy's mother hadn't moved other than to breathe. The lightest hairs on her body lifted upwards. Electricity moved the air and dust lifted here and there. A pair of socked feet with robots and big blue toes made a thud on the wood floor of Buddy's bedroom. His mother's eyes opened wide, still, she didn't move. Something was off. This time the sound was different. Even to his mother's dulled senses, a slow realization occurred that there were two people walking. Buddy ran down the stairs.

He was unfazed by the stinking mess in the shape of his mother. His annual chorus of "Was he here?" was met with an attempted sentence that was more of a grunt, whimper, and groan rolled into one.

She didn't ever think she'd see her husband again. But there he was. One-stepping down the stairs with all the weight of invisible cement blocks for shoes. Mouth open, eyes dulled, head tilted just to the side like he was trying to make sense of a word in a foreign language. Though his speech returned and his face contorted in familiar face ways, he had a hollowness. As though his body was being controlled by a person in a deep cavern in the deepest, darkest ocean. Nothing would stop Buddy from getting what he wanted. Not even his father's death.

Games. Food. Snow angels. Every moment had a gift-card falseness. A patina of plastic over an organic living thing. Buddy's mother wanted him to have a great day. Buddy's father did too. No matter what hell they went through on the inside. The hurt. The longing. The exhaustion. They held it all together for no other reason than to see that boy's face light up. Buddy's smile lasted the whole day long.

It seemed that as suddenly as it began, it was time to end the artifice. The fire in the fireplace was down to its last crackle. The clock was five minutes to its last strike of the day.

Buddy sensed it was time. For him, it was exactly what he wanted - to only ever wake up on Christmas forever. He wasn't quite aware enough yet that his excitement about the day was just slightly, just ever so slightly less than the Christmas before. His brain was adjusting. Possibly somewhere deep inside he knew what he was saying or how he said it when he bid his mother goodnight.

"...if you get too lonely without us... maybe you can do what dad did".

He ran up the stairs, hopped into bed and closed his eyes.

His parents were holding onto each other, staring deep into each other's battle-bruised eyes when Buddy finally fell asleep and his father disappeared. Buddy's mother was alone.

A thousand years passed but only minutes ticked by on the clock. Her eyes passed over objects in the room. Edible things. Dangerous things. Nothing registered in awareness. The snow outside melted. The dog just didn't come home one day. Bills piled up. The phone stopped ringing because the battery was never recharged.

By May, Buddy's mother was well-pickled and stranger to her own true mind. Not one more day, she thought. Not one more. It was an easy jump. A shuffle of the feet and the chair toppled. She blacked out in an instant. No pain at all. If anyone had cared to look she was in the exact same spot she'd found her husband's swinging corpse. Outside it was sunny with a light breeze. A fox sitting like a stoic in the yard squinted in the light. Buddy's house was quiet.

The Christmases they had together weren't what might have been expected. The house had been neglected long enough that the bank took it, selling it to a new family. Buddy's body was taken to a hospital on the other side of town. It was a small building with 1921 chiseled into a cornerstone. Above that, brick had been eaten away by the elements making a small home for mortar bees. Buddy wouldn't see it. He would wake up in his room on Christmas, exactly how he left it.

The new mother, father, two daughters and son were fine people. They didn't scream when their Christmas guests first came down the stairs. Buddy's mother thought this was an indication of good character despite their slack-jawed surprise. Buddy's dad thought the other dad wasn't much of a man and told him so.

For Buddy, a party was a great idea. He told the new kids about his wish and a life full of the best gifts and hilarity and celebration and all the food your stomach could fit. They were sold before he finished talking. Buddy's new friend one and new friend two pushed new friend three into sacrificing himself. Secrets were shared. Rituals performed. By the time the snow flew again the following winter the house had three more corpses and two more destroyed adults. And they weren't the last.

Seeing what these cursed families had only made newcomers jealous. A shiny new thing reflected in their eyes. Christmas forever. And they all soon fell. Every one of them. Enough to fill a house. Enough for a Christmas party.

"So what line of work are you in? I mean were you in - damn never getting used to that am I?".

Buddy's father sighed a bit under his breath easily masked by the wall of noise. Five families worth of conversations in one small room. Run DMC's Christmas in Hollis was too loud. Miracle on 34th Street on the big screen. Each of the kids wanted to be heard and practiced talking over each other through irrepressible laughter.

"I was with Juvenescence for 15 years before... well." Buddy's father looked into his scotch at the swirls of melting ice catching light from here, there and everywhere.

"Life extension technology?"

"Yeah, thats right".

"Oh that's rich," laughed another dad "That is RICH". He walked away laughing, spilling his drink and bumping into several people as he went.

Buddy's father looked out the window. He looked at the window. He looked near the window. He would have looked at the front door but people were in the way.

A fight was happening in the kitchen. Several dogs, none of whom sounded familiar, were howling in objection, or support. Impossible to say, really.

Buddy's mother stood near the tree looking away from two other mothers who were close enough that she could have been drunk from their breath. One put her hand on Buddy's mother's arm and said as sweetly as she could.

"It's ok dear, you can borrow something of mine next year."

The other chimed in. "Its not like anyone here is going to notice how plain you look."

Buddy was eyeing his playmates with some measure of wonderment and concern. He had good reason to be cautious but that didn't help him move faster when the older girl took an Etch-A-Sketch and hit him over the head with it.

He rubbed the slowly forming goose egg and looked right into his mother's eyes.

"Make it stop, Buddy. It's time. Make it stop."

Buddy's oversized eyes only looked vacant. He knew what she was asking. And he knew why. Buddy's father echoed his mother's sentiment with his eyes as another father slapped him on the shoulder, spilling his scotch all over his hand and shoes.

Buddy watched the violence in a slow explosion all around him. He couldn't stop it. He could only watch each moment as it happened. He could only witness.

"Do it now, Buddy." His mother's words sounded like a command but felt to Buddy like they were imploring. Like begging.

Buddy hated being told what to do. He hated it more than being hit in the head with an etch-a-sketch. More than his parents' raised voices. More than Casey Hackleback from down the street, he hated being told what to do. This was something else. Something new. When Buddy looked around this wasn't the Christmas that he wanted. It had become some kind of wild fiasco. Trapped for an eternity with these people? No, thank you.

He looked at his parents with fresh eyes and saw - really saw - the depths of their hurt. His eyes became waterfalls and his chest tightened. In that moment he'd do anything to spare them pain.

He ran out of the house. Once again, he ran with a lucky rabbit's foot throwing coins in wishing wells, praying at synagogues and churches, making a wish to the fortune teller on the pier, and throwing salt over his shoulder. He did everything he possibly could do.

The sun was down when he returned but the party was just as raucous as when he left. Love. Fighting. Jealousy. Commitment. Pettiness. Selflessness. Greed. Lust. Mess. So much mess.

Buddy and his parents slipped up the stairs without attention into what used to be a happy child's bedroom. One by one they fell asleep and welcomed the abyss.

The End.