‘Why you hate Christmas so much? Was it terrible behaviour from family? Poverty? Addiction? Mine was poverty and addiction. Dad was an alcoholic. He eventually got sober but we had a rough few years there for a while.’
‘Um…’ he said, thinking. ‘I try not to think about it too much. There’s not much happy stuff in the memory board.’
Christa picked up a piece of the rhubarb fudge. ‘You don’t have to answer. I was just curious. I’m nosy. I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘No, it’s fine. I know I’ve been giving mixed messages about Christmas.’
Christa laughed but not meanly. ‘You don’t want a tree, then you buy the biggest one ever cut down. You say no decorations and now the house is beginning to look like Santa’s wonderland. It’s hard to stay on what is what day to day.’
Marc put his head down on the table. ‘I know, I know.’ He raised his head and looked up at her. ‘I’ve been pretty crazy.’
And she smiled at him so kindly he thought she might already know his life story but he knew that would be impossible.
‘Not crazy, but I have learned the more you try and push the memories away, the more they come shooting back like a pinball in a machine, harder and faster every time you try and avoid them.’
He thought for a moment. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘So put me in the second category. Parents who spent their money at the bar instead of on food or even a small present under a shitty plastic tree is what I dealt with. Three younger siblings who didn’t know anything about what was going on and me trying to keep them fed with my money as a delivery boy. I think I hoped it was all fake. Then I would be the one who knew better, you know?’
He looked down at his coffee, thinking about the debt collectors coming on Christmas Eve and taking the car. The one thing they had that made life easy for them to get to the shops or Dad to get some work as a handyman. Without the car they were stuck in the outskirts of Los Angeles and without a car, they were sitting ducks for homelessness.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You deserved better than that. So did your siblings.’
He nodded. ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Was Christmas especially difficult? Besides it being your birthday, which is what date, by the way?’
Christa smiled at him. ‘Christmas Eve. Which is why I am called Christa.’
‘A Christmas Eve baby. Did you hate it growing up, having to share your birthday with a baby named Jesus?’
‘Not at all. My dad was great about it. We always had a separate celebration and presents.’
‘And your mom?’ he asked.
‘She died when I was four. I don’t really have any memories of her but I know I was loved. I guess that matters doesn’t it? Knowing you are loved and cared for?’
Marc thought back to the apocalyptical fights with his parents and the police coming and the arguments and the violence between his parents at Christmas. It was strange how it could be such a special date for someone and the worst date for another.
‘Yes, you’re right. I hope my boys know they’re loved. I’m not always great at telling them. I need to get better at it.’
She smiled at him. ‘They’re such great kids, Marc. Honestly, they’re a delight.’
‘That’s not something I hear very often,’ he said. ‘It’s nice to hear.’
A sadness washed over him. He looked at Christa. ‘What is it about you that makes me want to tell you my whole life story? You’re like some sort of emotional siren.’
The blush on Christa’s neck rose again. ‘Oh I don’t know, people do seem to tell me things. I guess I’m just a good listener?’
‘It’s more than that,’ he said. ‘You get it, whatever “it” is.’
He hoped he wasn’t coming across too strong. He wasn’t even flirting; he was being his true self and it felt foreign and yet liberating. He didn’t talk about his feelings to people, especially people who worked for him, but Christa wasn’t here for long and she challenged him in a way that wasn’t combative but instead thoughtful and putting the boys first.
Her finger was circling the rim of the tea mug, slowly as though she was performing telekinesis on the cup. He wouldn’t have been surprised if there was a small whirlpool in the cup.
‘My dad went through some tough times. As I said, Dad struggled with alcohol. I mean it can’t have been easy raising me from so young and trying to keep up with bills and rent and trying to grieve for your wife.’
Marc nodded. He knew what it was like to have alcohol ruin a childhood.
‘When I was nine, we didn’t have any money or food, or heating, so Dad took me to the shelter for Christmas lunch. I remember thinking it would be awful but it wasn’t. I mean it wasn’t the Pudding Hall experience but it was okay.’
‘Tell me about it,’ asked Marc.
