Page 27

Chapter

Twenty-Six

JOY TO MY WORLD

Madden

Past

“Falling in love with her felt like the magic of Christmas morning.” — M

I sit at the massive wooden table, my feet swinging a little above the ground, and I look around at the O' Sullivan’s.

They all look very jolly as they sit wearing tones of red, white and red. Willow’s mother made it a requirement for Christmas Eve dinner.

The dining room is filled with laughter and the warm glow of the Christmas lights strung up everywhere, twinkling brightly. Mr. O'Sullivan is at the head of the table, looking as scary as always but laughing at something one of the uncles says—something about catching rats, I think. The uncles usually look like they just stepped out of a mafia movie, their faces rugged and serious, but tonight they’re all smiles, cracking jokes and telling stories.

Especially the goofy one with all the tattoos, Cianne.

Mrs. O'Sullivan glides by, her apron dusted with flour, and gently fills my plate with turkey and stuffing, a mountain of mashed potatoes, and green beans. She’s been doing this since I got here, always making sure I have enough to eat. I watch her, the way she moves with quiet confidence and strength, her energy warm like the food she’s serving.

I don’t know how someone as kind and as sweet ended up married to a giant who looks like he eats children for dinner.

But she did and she looks at him as if he hangs the moon and stars for her.

Huh.

Is that how my mother looked at my dad? I guess I will never know.

More laughter rings while I sit here not happy myself but not unhappy either. It’s a strange feeling, like I’m floating in a bubble—detached, observing, but not fully part of it all. I take a bite of the turkey, and it’s juicy and I’ve never tasted one as good as Mrs. O’Sullivan. I look down at my plate, then back at the family around me, the weight of their joy pressing against my chest, mingling with something darker.

I glance around the table, and their laughter feels like a sharp knife in my chest. Everyone’s so happy, their faces lit with joy, but all I feel is numb.

This will be my last night here. I know it. I’ve tried to push the thought away, but it’s there, heavy and suffocating.

Milton won’t give me another choice. I know he will make good on his promise and ruin this for me— ruin them.

I can’t let that happen.

He’s ruined enough already.

Mr. O’Sullivan’s father, Cathan, cracks a joke about something I don’t understand, and everyone erupts in laughter. I force a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. I can’t shake the anger and sadness that grips me. My brother’s promise looms over me, dark and ugly, a shadow that stretches out to Mrs. O’Sullivan and Willow. I can see them in my mind—Willow’s laughter, Mrs. O'Sullivan’s gentle smile—and the thought of them in danger makes my stomach churn.

I want to enjoy this moment— these people, to laugh, to bathe in their warmth— but I know better.

I take a bite of my food, but it feels like lead in my mouth. The warmth of the house, the festive decorations, the spirit of Christmas—it all feels like a cruel joke. I glance at Mrs. O’Sullivan, her kind eyes sparkling as she talks with one of the uncles, and I want to scream, to tell her to run, to protect herself and Willow from what’s coming.

But I stay quiet, feeling guilty about my secret. I wish I could hold on to them, but deep down, I know they’re slipping away.

Lifting my gaze from the plate, I glance over at Willow, her sweet laughter ringing like music in the air, unashamed and authentically her. Here, with her family, she’s not afraid to use her voice. Here, she’s safe.

She catches my eye and smiles wide, her bright blue eyes sparkling with innocence and joy. I love her smile. I don’t love anything in this world but I do love her smile. That smile of hers—it pierces right through me, and I feel my heart crack a little more with each passing second. It’s so pure, so full of love and life, and in that moment, it feels like everything good in the world is wrapped up in her—in my fairy.

But then, the truth settles over me like a cold blanket. I won’t see that smile anymore. The thought feels like a punch to my gut. I won’t hear her sweet voice whispering about things that make her happy. I won’t get to see her twirl in the garden when she imagines she’s in a fairy land.

I. Won’t. Have. Her.

A life without this girl in it it’s going to be a sad and colorless one.

I want to reach out and hold onto this moment. I want to freeze time so I can keep her safe in my memory forever.

But it’ll only hurt more.

I try to smile back at her, but it feels like a mask. My lips move, but the joy doesn’t reach my eyes. It can’t. Inside me, there’s a deep pain that I can’t make go away, a hollow emptiness that grows with every passing second, I have to pretend that all it’s okay. I wish I could tell her that nothing will ever touch or hurt her. That she will always be safe and that I’ll always be here to play fairies with her but I can’t. Life doesn’t work like that.

At least mine doesn’t.

I’m leaving her—leaving the colorful world she’s created for me here. And the world outside these walls? It’s dark. Uncertain. Full of shit I can’t control, yet I’m used to it.

I don't want to say goodbye to her, but I have no choice.

Half an hour passes, the table is cleared, and everyone gathers around the tree, the room pulsing with excitement. I sit on the edge of the couch closest to the Christmas tree, watching as each of the family members take turns opening gifts.

Willow told me that her parents allow her to open one gift on Christmas Eve that is from them and on Christmas Day she gets to open the ones Santa delivers.

I didn’t tell her the truth that every adult and messed up street kid like me knows— Santa Claus is not real. He’s made believe.

But the idea of him makes her happy and if she’s happy well I am too.

That’s the Willow effect.

The family’s laughter and chatter swirls around me, but I feel distant, wrapped in my own thoughts. I don’t expect anything for myself, not really.

I didn’t expect presents from my own family either. Christmas means nothing to me.

But then Mrs. O’Sullivan leans down and hands me a small box wrapped with wrapping Christmas cactus theme paper. A gift?

For me?

I frown down at it as if it somehow offends me but deep down my heart skips a beat.

Looking up at Mrs. O’ Sullivan I think about rejecting it but then her kind smile won’t let me. I take it from her and carefully unwrap it, revealing a silver chain. At the center dangles a four-leaf clover charm. It looks expressive, and I can’t help but run my fingers over it, feeling the cool metal against my skin.

Mrs. O’Sullivan leans in close, her voice soft, just for me. “So, you always remember how lucky the people around you are to know you, sweet boy,” she says with a smile. “Merry Christmas, Madden.”

Her words settle in my heart, a warmth that fights against the cold creeping in. I look up at her as she tries really hard to maintain eye contact, and my throat tightens. Mrs. O’Sullivan is on the spectrum but even though her brain functions a little bit differently than most, she’s still the best person and the kindest human I know. She’s brilliant and clever. Funny and strong. She’s much more than just a disability just like her daughter.

I want to tell her all of that and how much this chain means to me, how her kindness has made me feel like maybe not everything in this world is going to hurt me. But all I can manage is a small nod, the lump in my throat too big to speak around.

While she smiles down at me, I slip the chain over my head, feeling the weight of the clover resting against my chest.

I can tell by the way her hand reaches out to me that she wants to touch me but then she stops herself and just smiles before going back to her family.

For a moment, I close my eyes, trying to capture this feeling, this warmth, before it slips away and turns fully into the ugliness I’ve always known.

When I open my eyes, the living room is still full of life and laughter. The enormous Christmas tree sparkles and the scent of pine and cinnamon lingers in the air.

I glance up at the clock on the wall, and a wave of dread washes over me. The hands inch closer to midnight, and I can feel it in the pit of my stomach— soon, this night will end. Their laughter will fade, the lights will dim, and I’ll have to walk out the door, leaving behind a place that’s felt like home, even if only for a little while.

I tell myself that I should be used to it by now—that slipping unnoticed without saying goodbye will be easy. I’ve done it many times before.

But it won’t. This time is different. This time I’ll be leaving behind a dream.

As the clock ticks on, I think of ways to slip out of this house without anyone noticing—quietly, unnoticed, before anyone realizes I’m gone. My mind races, running through every possible escape, until, suddenly, an idea hits me.

On my many times out in the garden, I’d discovered a hidden path, winding its way through the trees, leading to the beach.

That’s the only way out of this house.

It’s ironic and little but heartbreaking how the path to my escape runs through the Willow tree.