2.52PM, Thursday, Dec. 24th
400 West 37th Street, New York
“Summer? Are you okay? Only you’ve been making quite a lot of noise up there…”
“I’m fine,” I replied. My response was muffled by the debris (the incessant amount of clothes, art magazines Mom had forced me to read and school text books) that was currently blocking my mouth, as I desperately tried to lock my wardrobe up again. Finally, it held and I pulled away, wiping the sweat from my brow. “I’m just trying to find something.”
A couple weeks before, I’d made a present for my Dad. It wasn’t anything big – a painting of a night sky, dotted with stars. It was meant to be a thoughtful gift – after all, my Dad loved astronomy but he was the type of guy who was too busy working to stay up to watch the stars. So I’d spent some of my paint supply and a canvas on painting him the night sky…And it was to scale and everything. But if I lost it…
The phone rang. I attempted to make my way through the marsh of decaying potato chip packets and empty cans of coke, but the ringing stopped after two rings. Mom must’ve picked up. If it was for me, she would say. I waited, but nothing happened. It wasn’t for me. I went back to looking for the painting, mentally cursing myself for letting myself lose something so important. Who made my room this messy, anyway? I kicked away a month-old Bagel wrapper, and my eyes widened. Falling to my knees, my finger scrambled away at the broken bits of biro, until I finally uncovered the corner of the frame. I tugged it out, and held it to my chest.
I can’t wait to see the look on Dad’s face when –
“You dirty –” Mom yelled. There was a sound of smashing plastic, and then there was nothing.
I scrambled out of my room, opening my door with a huge amount of effort. I saw my Mom sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, her face in her hands, the phone, smashed to pieces, lying next to her.
“Mom,” I said tentatively, biting down on my lip. “What…?”
“You father,” she answered, her voice so unusually cold and strained. “He’s not coming home for Christmas.”
“What?” I gasped, dropping the painting I was still holding. It clattered down the stairs. “Dad’s not coming back?”
“No,” she said shortly. Her face was drawn and pale. “He says that the office is busy and he needs to work.”
“At Christmas?” I yelled, tears suddenly spilling down my face. “How could Dad do this is us? What about Sammy? He hasn’t even spent a Christmas with his own father yet! Dad promised that this year would be different, he promised that this year he would come! Mom, you have to do something! You have to beg him, you have to plead with him until he comes –”
Mom just looked up at me, her eyes silencing me. I stared down at her. She looked so helpless, so devastated my mind went completely blank. My Mom was never like this. She was always strong, no matter what happened.
Until it came to my Father, a little voice in the back of my head said. It was true. My Mom always had a soft spot for my Dad, no matter how many mistakes that stupid workaholic made. She loved him, even if he was a douche who missed Christmas…and my Birthday. But he was my Dad. I couldn’t change that, no matter how hard I wished.
My cell rang, breaking the moment.
“Hey, Summer! Happy Christmas Eve!”
“Hey, Blane,” I said, clearing my throat. Mom turned away from me. “What’s up?”
“I was just wondering if you could come out with me tomorrow,” Blane said, trying to suppress the excitement in his voice. “I can pick you up, right? Around one?”
