Page 3 of Unholy Night

Even if we, humans, often seem to work counter to that base instinct in the choices we make, but once a year a fat man in a red suit somehow reminds us to be better people.

Except I can’t find the wonder this year.

I’m spent. I have nothing left and I am pulling on reserves I didn’t know I have to keep going. It’s all for Mandy. I’m driving on fumes to keep her safe. Happy. Secure and loved.

I just don’t know how much longer I can hold on.

I read her‘Twas the Night Before Christmasand she smiles and quotes the book by memory with me. We both know the words to this poem down to our marrow, but we read it nonetheless, the very same story my parents read to me as a child, the pages worn from use, some scribbled on with crayon, whether by her or me, it’s impossible to say at this point.

This book has seen us through too many moves. Too many new beds during the holidays as I chase jobs that have any hope of paying enough to keep us fed and clothed and safe after a messy divorce that left me broke and alone.

The one silver lining of this year, as much as it’s driven me crazy at times, is I have had more time with this little girl who I love more than life.

It’s a nice change of pace after so many long days away, working late without overtime pay, for an amount that barely covers the cost of childcare and gas, only to come home exhausted and to a baby already asleep. It feels good to finally be here for her, to slow down a bit. If only the money didn’t also slow down.

I have hoarded one indulgence, one mommy treat, a gift from my job before they laid me off. “Sorry but we can’t afford to keep a paid staff while we’re shut down. But… here.” Stewart awkwardly handed me a parting gift, and through the months of this pandemic I’ve kept it safe.

I creep out of Mandy’s room, grateful I still have my own room for now. It’s very likely we’ll have to move to a studio if things don’t improve… or more likely beg my parents to let us live in their camper trailer in their backyard... I dread the day it comes to that..

But today, for right now, I have this apartment, and electricity, and one burnt cookie frosted with love, and my pandemic downsizing gift.

I tiptoe through the house, knowing Mandy is fighting sleep to hear Santa’s sleigh, and grab the bottle of red wine on the top shelf. Stewart even put a bow on it, which seemed an odd choice at the time but I had bigger things to worry about. Of course, now that I think about it, the wine had likely been a re-gift considering the festive bow on the bottle.

I lock up the downstairs,take my cookie and the wine and head up to my bedroom. I slip out of my pants, put on an old shirt and sink into my bed, then put my headphones on and reach for my phone to play my current audiobook when I realize I left it downstairs in the kitchen.

Shit.

I weigh the pros and cons of getting back up and walking all the way downstairs, and I just can’t. Cannot. I’m done.

I reach for my laptop on the dresser next to my bed instead and play the audiobook that way. Mandy will wake me up in the morning and I won’t need my phone until then anyways.

I poura generous glass of wine and take a long drink, then a bite of my cookie.

And then I cry.

It’s a sadness that rolls through me like a storm in the sky, upending my insides and drowning me. I can’t stop. The sobs wrack my body, shaking me and crashing into me like the sea.

I don’t know how long I stay like this. But my eyes are puffy and heavy when I finally stop. I pour more wine and wipe away stuff from under my nose that I don’t want to think about. I take another bite of the cookie and close my eyes again. Losing myself to the murder mystery I’m listening to until everything around me fades away.

I don’t even realize I fell asleep until something jolts me awake.

I sit up, my heart beating against my ribs like a trapped hummingbird.

I’ve still got my headphones on, the voice of the narrator a calm presence in my ear. I look at the wine bottle. Empty. And the glass. Also empty.

I have cookie crumbs on my T-shirt, an old oversized thing that is more gray than black after so many washings.

I look around, searching my room, and my eyes land on the dimly lit wall clock. One minute past midnight. What woke me?

I pause the audiobook and take off the headphones slowly. It’s dark in my bedroom. And cold. An icy wind blows through a window I didn’t close all the way.

And then I hear it. Talking. Arguing, really. Two men.

And it’s coming from my living room.

My pulse lurches, my head aching from the wine and this new danger.

I look around for my cell phone and curse myself. Right. I left it in the kitchen and was too lazy to retrieve it.

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