Christmas Song

Come they told me, pa rum pum pum pum

A newborn king to see, pa rum pum pum pum

Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum

To lay before the king, pa rum pum pum pum

So to honor him, pa rum pum pum pum

When we come

 

 

It was three days before Christmas and their parents had left them home alone.  It wasn’t unusual – this brother and sister dynamic duo had braved long hours solo before and they weren’t afraid.  If anything, they were excited to see their parents blow air kisses in their direction as they whisked out the door.  This would give the children time to look for their presents, since the elder sister had finally broken it to the younger brother that Santa Claus wasn’t real.

“Mom and Dad hide the presents in the attic,” the sister said as she turned the carols up on the stereo.  “When they leave, we’ll look up there.”

The brother was still feeling dizzy from the realization that his entire childhood had been a lie up until this point.  He only half-trusted his sister as it was and he wasn’t certain she was right about this news, except that he’d asked around at school and everyone else in the second grade seemed to be privy to the same information as she was. 

“Dummy, you still believe in Santa?” one of the boys chided.  “Dummy.”

He wanted to retort that his sister was in the fifth grade and she’d only known for a year and a half but he didn’t bother.  Details like that were unimportant in a cafeteria powwow like this one.

He felt similarly powerless when his sister turned, eyes gleaming, towards him and said, “Good, they’re gone, let’s get up there.”

She was afraid of nothing, not the dark, not thunderstorms, not even spiders.  He was afraid of all of those things and they seemed to be converging on him in this moment as rain began to pelt the window with a ripe roll of thunder ripped across the lower register while his sister grabbed him by the hand, pulling him down the dark hallway to the door leading up to the cobwebby attic.  Standing outside, she rubbed her hands together with determination and turned the handle.  Downstairs, “Angels We Have Heard On High” blared from the speakers.

“Shit,” she said.

The attic door was predictably locked.  Their parents had a strict rule about the children not playing up there and they knew it, but for some reason, the sister had blocked that out of her mind – or perhaps she thought her sheer force of determination to get up there would burst open any locks standing in her way.  The brother stood meekly beside her, partially relieved at this expected turn of events but also worried because he was certain his sister wouldn’t give up so easily.

“Let’s play hide and seek,” she said slowly.

“It’s too dark,” he said.  

“Nonsense,” she said.  “You go hide and I’ll seek, OK?”

He turned begrudgingly away from her and moved in a slow trot downstairs where there were at least some lights on, leaving his sister to mull over her options in the dark.  The sister stared at the locked door for a moment tapping her finger against her lip and then turned quickly on her heels into her parents’ room.  Her mother had a jewelry box in the top dresser drawer that she was specifically forbidden to touch because of the valuables it contained.  The sister knew, in her heart, that this is where she’d find the key.

Downstairs, the brother crouched on the cool kitchen floor behind the island their father installed himself that summer and waited for his sister to come and find him.  Outside, the rain had picked up and was steadily pelting the kitchen window.  Every time the thunder clapped, he shook a little more, wrapping his arms tightly around his knees.  Not even Bing Crosby singing “Silent Night” could assuage his fears.  Where was she already, he wondered.  Finally, he got up and peeked around the island to see if she was doing that creepy thing she liked to do and stare at him from the staircase.  But she wasn’t there.  Moving slowly, he crawled back up the stairs to the hallway where he’d left her.

“Sis?” he called when she didn’t immediately appear, exasperated that he wasn’t hiding like he was supposed to. 

Outside, the wind howled and roared as the rain turned to sleet and pelted the windows.  Otherwise, things were still and silent.  He crept slowly down the empty hallway back to the attic door and instinctively turned the knob. It opened effortlessly.  Blinking in confusion, he rocked weight between his feet and tried again.

“Sis?” he called.

The wind sounded so much louder from the bottom of that enclosed stairwell.  He could hear nothing but the storm – the carols were shut out and replaced by this terrible phase of winter coming inside his home.  He was drawn forward, up the stairs, one by one, and when he reached the top, he felt an awful chill as his eyes fixed on a window likely broken by a wayward tree branch, floorboards warping even more than was typical.  The old white velvet Christmas tree skirt with the red wine stains lay over a wooden chest and he moved towards it, getting his socks wet as he went along.  Their mother had bought a new tree skirt this year – a cotton one that wasn’t anything fancy but it also wasn’t the one her now-dead mother had given them. 

“Grandma won’t mind a change in tradition,” their mother had said as the children protested the change.  “Out with the old, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Ow,” the brother said as his foot rocked over something sharp.  He looked down with worried eyes as a tiny spot of blood seeped out through his white sock.

“Be careful,” his sister hissed in his ear, appearing out of nowhere. 

He jumped and stumbled away from her, sliding on the floor.  “I stepped on glass,” he said.

“I see,” the sister mused.

“How’d you unlock the door?” he asked.

“Found the key in Mom’s jewelry box,” she said.  ”Our presents are over in the corner.”

The brother followed the direction of her gesture and sat up a little taller.  “Anything good?”

“Everything we asked for,” she said with a shrug.  Reaching over, she helped him to his feet.  “Let’s go take a look at your foot,” she added.

The brother stood still.  “I want to see,” he said.

“Why?” she asked.  “You’re bleeding all over.”

They both shivered as the wind and rain blew towards them. 

“Did I get a drum set?” he asked hopefully.

“You’ll have to wait and be surprised,” she said with her tongue sticking out.

He balled his fists and pursed his lips together.  “I’ll just come up here by myself and look,” he sputtered.

“No you won’t, you chicken,” she laughed.  “You’d never come up here unless you were under adult supervision.”

“You’re not an adult,” he said.

“I’m not afraid,” she retorted.

“You got to look,” he said.  “You tricked me and made me go hide while you came to see what we were getting for Christmas.”

The sister shrugged.  “I knew you’d have, ya know, moral qualms about digging through Mom’s stuff to find the key.”

“You know I’m afraid of thunderstorms,” the brother went on, his lips quivering.  “You know I hate the dark.  But you left me alone anyway.”

“I didn’t leave you in the dark,” the sister said.

“I want to see,” the brother said again.

“After we clean up your foot,” the sister said, taking his arm.

“No,” the brother said, jerking backwards and losing his balance. 

It was as if life was suddenly in slow motion.  The brother took a poorly planned step back in an attempt to right himself but instead he slipped over the edge of the staircase and fell backwards down the steps in a percussive tumble.  The sister stood stock still, her hands frozen in midair with her eyes fixated on the trail of blood he’d left behind.

 

Years later, the sister sat in yet another therapist’s office gripping the edge of an Italian leather chair telling the story of the day the brother became paralyzed. It was all my fault, she said for the hundredth time.  I was so close, I could have saved him, I could have stopped it, I could have made sure none of it happened at all.  She paused as she always did in the retelling.  “Little Drummer Boy” was on the stereo while I dialed 9-1-1.  I cry every time I hear that song.  Sometimes I turn it on in the dark during thunderstorms and just cry and cry.  Maybe that sounds crazy, doc, but that’s the magic of Christmas to me.  As she paused, the therapist sat blank faced and waited for her to go on.  

"Christmas Song" was written in 2013

Inspired by "Christmas Song" by Anomopoly