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violet

Christmas Eve

The soft blue glow of twinkling lights draped around our small but mighty Christmas tree illuminates the room. Large snowflakes dance in the chilly night air, gently touching the window panes, painting a perfect Christmas picture.

“Turn it up, Mom!” I shout, our laughter echoing in the small quaint living room of our old townhome. Mom likes to keep the heat obscenely low to save money, but that’s okay, because this Christmas Eve we’re dancing.

Mom smiles and turns the volume knob. The speakers come alive with the lively beats of holiday hip hop, modern renditions of classic Christmas songs with an energetic bass. I can’t help but laugh as my mother shakes her butt to the beat against the tree.

“This is how we used to dance back in the day, Violet. Back when boys and girls actually danced together and weren’t twelve feet apart.”

“Just so we’re clear,” I giggle. “You’re dancing to Run DMC with a Christmas tree.”

“But back in the day, this Christmas tree would have been a good-looking boy in a pair of Levis and Adidas sneakers.”

“A boy like my father?” The question slips out of my mouth before I can stop myself. My father is not a topic that the two of us discuss because he’s been out of the picture since I was four-years-old. I know little about him. Just that he was my mom’s college boyfriend and, for reasons unbeknownst to me, he chose not to be a part of my life.

“Yeah, sweetie, just like him.”

Maybe because it’s Christmas and I’m feeling wistful or perhaps because I just watched an over-the-top Christmas movie, I clasp my mom’s wrist and ask her a question I’ve always wanted to know but was always too afraid to ask.

“Ma, were you in love with my father?”

The look on my mother’s face changes from jubilance to melancholy.

“Your father and I cared a lot about each other once upon a time.”

“But?”

“But we were freshmen in college, too young, and we definitely weren’t in love.”

“And how do you know when you’re in love?”

“Clearly, I’m no expert, but I believe true love is what you can lean on when everything in your life seems like it’s gone to shit. It’s nobody’s fault, but me and your dad just didn’t have that.”

“And other couples do?”

“The lucky ones.”

“I’ve never seen an example of one of those lucky ones.” I think about all the high school couples plus a few college ones I’ve seen come and go. And even though I have a guy I’m seeing right now, when I examine all the surrounding examples, it all seems like a lot of sex and heartache.

“Maybe it doesn’t happen in our family, but there are definitely couples who make it. Like really make it.”

Mom then holds the star we always put on the top of the tree, taps it to my forehead, and closes her eyes as if she’s conjuring something.

“And my Christmas wish is that you shall find genuine love one day, my child,” she says in her fake Egyptian Pharaoh voice.

“I see that someone’s been watching a rerun of The Ten Commandments again.”

She laughs and says another line from the movie in the same voice. “So let it be written, so let it be done.”

“Will you please?” I cackle. “And stop wishing silly stuff on our Christmas star. Why don’t you ask the star to help me pass my classes next semester instead?”

“You think my request is silly? Humph, you never know. I may have just broken a generational no-love curse with a ten dollar Christmas star blessing.”

A new song plays and the two of us dance around the room, grabbing ornaments from my Grandmom’s velvet-lined box, each with its own story from Christmases past. My mom’s salt and pepper colored “phony pony” as she calls it, swings along her back as she moves, contrasting with my deep brown natural curls that shine under the tree’s ambient light.

“Remember this one?” I hold up a porcelain angel. Her wings chipped at the edges.

My mom nods, a nostalgic glint in her eyes. “Your grandmother gave that to me when I was about your age. She said it was to watch over us–always.”

“Wow, these ornaments must be very powerful,” I jest as I place it at the very top of the tree, just below the star. “One will ensure I find true love and another works as a conduit of the dead.”

Mom chuckles.

“There,” I say, placing the angel on the strongest branch I can find. “Now Grandma’s watching over this Christmas, too.”

“She certainly is.”

Hours seem to fly by as I find myself in my happy place, cocooned in warmth and joy on another Christmas Eve with my mom. Presently, I’m a sophomore at a local state school ten minutes from our home, but quickly realize that moments like this may become rare once I graduate college and move out on my own.

As the clock nears midnight, both of us yawning and stretching, we finish tidying up the living room. “Bedtime,” mom announces, the fatigue clear in her voice.

I nod in agreement, my eyelids heavy. “Best Christmas Eve ever, Mom. Night.”

Mom kisses my forehead like she has hundreds of times before. “Sweet dreams, hun’.”

The house settles into its nighttime rhythm, the gentle hum of the heater finally kicking on, punctuating the quiet of the night. Upstairs, my room is awash with the soft hues of the fairy lights I’ve had hung up with wall tacks since I was eleven years old.

“We’ll have breakfast at nine. No cheating before then.”

“Ma, I’m twenty-years-old. I will not sneak a peek at my presents.”

“Or smell them or shake them?”

“Agreed,” I giggle.

When mom motions to turn off my lights, I ask her to leave them on.

“It’s Christmas.”

“You don’t pay my electric bill.”

“Ma, please?”

“Fine, see you in the morning.”

“Merry Christmas, Mom.”

“Merry Christmas.”

It takes me a while to get settled. I’m still just as excited about Christmas morning as I was when I was ten-years-old. Some things, thankfully, never change.

Just as sleep pulls me under my warm comforter, I think I hear something—a soft creak, a whisper of movement. At first I dismiss it, attributing it to our old house’s tendency to groan and moan. But then, more distinctly, comes the sound of a heavy thump.

My heart races.

That definitely wasn’t no damn Santa Claus.

Suddenly, all I can remember are awful news stories I’ve seen lately about local fires and increased home invasions in the area. Taking a deep breath, I slowly place a foot on the floor while simultaneously reaching for the phone on my nightstand.

I call 911 as I tip toe outside my door.

I don’t see any movement, just the flicker of the tree lights downstairs.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“I think someone has broken into my house.”

“What is the address of the emergency?”

“4320 Pilgrim Road.”

“Is this a house or apartment?”

“House.”

“What is your name?”

“Are you sending somebody?” I ask, frightened.

“I need your name, miss.”

“Violet Tate.”

“Violet, where are you in the house?”

“Upstairs.”

“Do you see anyone moving inside the house?”

“No.”

“Do you still hear movement?”

“No.”

“Find a safe place to hide until the officers arrive. I’m dispatching someone now. Stay on the line with me, okay?”

“I need to get my mom.”

“I recommend you stay where you are.”

But I don’t listen.

If we have to fight an intruder off, we damn sure are going to do it together.

I creep slowly toward the shut door of my mother’s bedroom. She must be sound asleep and hasn’t heard a thing. I carefully open her door but clench my teeth when the hinges make a sound. “Mom?”

Then I go completely still and release a wail that comes from deep within my soul.

“Miss,” the emergency dispatcher urges. “Can you tell me what’s happening?”

I’m kneeling by the body of my mother as I carefully lay my ear down to her chest, but I already dread what I’m going to hear.

Absolutely nothing.

“Miss!” the dispatcher repeats louder.

“It’s Mama,” I tell the woman, not even recognizing the hollow sound of my own voice.

“What about your mother?”

“She’s gone.”