Made-for-TV Christmas Movie
by KM Rockwood
I don’t know why I was making such a big deal about Christmas this year.
Last year I spent it sitting on the front porch all wrapped up in an old woolen army blanket. Drinking beer. Just like any other cold winter day.
But this year I wanted to do something special. Maybe it was because I was eight months sober. Not drinking left a big hole in my life, and I felt like maybe I deserved a little celebration.
A week and a half ago, I’d bought a fancy Christmas card, wrote a letter to put in it, and sent it to my daughter.
Ricky, my sponsor from AA, didn’t think that was such a good idea.
Shifting in his seat, Ricky said, “I was gonna go to my cousin’s place tomorrow afternoon for Christmas dinner. But that’s no big deal. I could come over and pick you up instead. They got that big turkey dinner at the rescue mission…”
“Nah. You got plans. No sense changing them now.”
“Well, okay.” He looked up at me. “I guess to you it seems like you been sober a long time. I don’t want to put down progress you’re making—you’re doing great—but how long has it been since you’ve seen your daughter?”
I shuffled my feet uncomfortably. Pain from my leg travelled up my spine and into my left arm, burning all the way to the fingertips. Only I didn’t have a left arm any more. Phantom pain, they called it. But it feels real enough. “I don’t know exactly. Ten years?”
“Ten years.” Ricky looked down at the inky coffee in his paper cup.
At least it was supposed to be coffee. I was never sure that the oily hot liquid they served at AA meetings really was coffee, not used motor oil. Or that those hard, little round balls were really donut holes, not stones pilfered from some landscaping site.
“And what kind of a relationship did you have with her at that point?”
“She was still a kid. Her mom fed her a lot of crap, and she didn’t want to see me. Couldn’t see any point in insisting, even with the court-ordered visitation.”
Ricky raised one eyebrow. “And I suppose you were an upstanding dad? Always showed up on time to pick her up? Sober?”
“Told you, she didn’t want to see me. Then I was deployed overseas.”
“How about child support?”
“Army took care of that. Came right out of my paycheck and got sent to my ex. Would have come out of the disability, too, only by then she was eighteen.”
“You haven’t been in touch with her since?”
“Well…”
“So the only way she remembers her dad is from before you and her mom broke up?”
I stared down at the cup clutched in my hand. A rainbow sheen danced on the surface of the coffee.
Ricky pushed a little harder. “And she’s supposed to jump for joy because this shadowy character that she only knew as a drunken bully wants to get in touch with her?”
Not the way I remembered it. But if I was learning anything, it was that I couldn’t trust my memory. And Ricky usually knew what he was talking about. I sighed. “When you put it that way…”
“It’s not me ‘putting it’ any way. It’s you being a whiny SOB feeling sorry for yourself. You gone a few months without drinking and think the whole world’s gonna pat you on the back. Don’t work like that, buddy. This isn’t some made-for-TV Christmas story.”
Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them away.
Ricky leaned back. “How’d you even figure out a way to get in touch with her, anyhow?”
“Public library. They got computers you can use. This lady helped me. Found pictures of Mandy on Facebook. And got an address. She don’t live but about two hours away.”
“I’m impressed.” Ricky glanced toward me. “You went to the library? Must have taken guts. And you actually asked somebody to help you?”
“Didn’t really have to ask.” Usually the only place I went was AA meetings. Store if I really needed something. And to the ATM to get money after my disability check got deposited. I used to go buy beer, but I don’t do that these days.
“I didn’t know how a computer worked. This lady was there. She asked what I was trying to do. I told her and she found it for me. Even gave me a piece of paper and a pencil to write the address down. Phone number and everything. She was real nice.”
I wasn’t used to people being real nice to me.
“And now Mandy’s supposed to drop everything ’cause her old man calls after ten years?”
“Not call.” I took a deep breath. “I figured that would put her on the spot. Wrote a letter—that way she can think about it before she answers.”
“If she answers. I think you ought to give it more time. Especially now—right around the holidays.”
“I think that might be a good time. Holiday cheer and all that.”
“You think wrong. I bet the memories she has of ‘holiday cheer’ are all about you being drunk and ruining everything.”
My throat was closing. Had I ruined past Christmases for Mandy? I remembered trees with fancy lights and piles of wrapped presents. I didn’t remember drinking so much back then. I dunno, maybe I did.
I sat up straighter. “How about Step 9? Make amends?”
Ricky snorted. “This ain’t about making amends. You’re not thinking about her. You’re only thinking about you. This is all about you wanting to feel better. Step 9, my ass.”
Sometimes Ricky can tell when I’m trying to kid myself better that I can. And he calls me on it. That’s one of the good things about having him for a sponsor. He doesn’t pull any punches.
“So in my humble opinion,” he said, “wait a while before you write.”
“Too late.” I took a deep breath. “I mailed it early last week.”
“You did, huh?” Ricky stood up. “And did you hear back from her?”
“No.”
“So good luck with that.” He crushed his cup and tossed it toward the waste basket.
With a lump in my throat, I stumbled to my feet. The meeting had broken up. A few people were putting up the chairs, washing out the coffee pot, mopping up. The scent of disinfectant floor cleaner overwhelmed the smell of burnt coffee.
We went into the windswept alley. Trash swirled along in front of us. Spits of freezing rain drummed on the dumpster.
“I been sober eight months,” I reminded Ricky. “Not one relapse in all that time.”
He laughed. “Yeah. Eight months. And what—90 days?—of that was pretty much forced ’cause you were locked up, right? That little drunk and disorderly charge?”
The comment stung. “Not totally forced. Lots of hooch being brewed in that joint.”
“And I suppose you had the connections and the coin to get a regular supply?”
It might have been a while, but Ricky’d been locked up, too. He knew how jail worked.
“You’re right. It did give me a chance to dry out. Time to think. But I had to work with it, get transferred to the cellblock where they had the AA meetings. The first thing I did after release wasn’t go get drunk.”
“And you wanted to.”
“Damn straight I wanted to. But instead I went to a meeting that afternoon. And another one that evening. Pretty much the same every day since.”
Ricky nodded. “You done good. You still going to that veteran’s PTSD group?”
“Yeah.”
“Way to go. Keep it up. You’ll make it yet.”
I flipped up the hood of my sweatshirt and tucked my hand in the kangaroo pocket.
“Where the hell is your jacket?” Ricky shoved his hands in the pockets of his warm coat. “It’s cold out here.”
I shivered. “In my garage. It got really soaked so I hung it out there to dry.”
pulled my hood even lower on my forehead and bent into the cold, damp wind.
I passed a now-deserted Christmas tree lot with sagging lights and bits of twine on the ground. A whiff of pine needles and hot chocolate lingered in the air.
The walk home in the wavering shadows gave me the shivers. Leaves danced across the sidewalk.
My eye caught a movement in the bushes. Some damn guy in dirty white robes with a rifle? Or a hand grenade? Should I hit the ground and roll under a car?
No, I told myself firmly. I was back here on good old USA soil. Not that nothing could ever happen, but this wasn’t a combat zone. Nobody here waiting to take me out. I hoped.
Whatever it was that was moving slid out from under the fence and scuttled toward a storm drain. Just before disappearing down, it turned and looked at me with a furry, masked face. A raccoon.
I realized I was holding my breath. I exhaled slowly.
Some kids on bicycles rounded the corner. I straightened up a little and deliberately didn’t look toward them.
A bit dark for them to be out on their bikes, but if parents or anybody ever kept an eye on them, I’d never been able to tell.
Damn kids liked to taunt me, and I didn’t used to handle it well. In fact, they were the reason I picked up those 90 days on drunk and disorderly.
They’d do things they knew would set off my PTSD. Sneak up next to my porch and holler, “Incoming!” knowing that it would make me dive for the floor. Put a cherry bomb firecracker in my garbage can to watch me panic when it went off.
Before I sobered up, I’d stand on the porch, shake my fist at them and spew threats. They’d laugh and ride up and down the street on their bikes, giving me the finger and popping wheelies.
Then one afternoon they caught me out on the street, coming home from the beer outlet. One of them rode close enough to knock the 24-pack out of my hand.
I grabbed his bicycle by the handlebars. He tried to wrest it away from me, but even though I had just one hand, I held on tight. Screaming and cursing, spraying spittle, I brought my face within inches of his startled eyes. He finally jumped off the bike, stumbled and ran.
Still ranting, I took the bike and smashed it against a big tree again and again.
Somebody called the cops. I was still slamming that bike into the tree when they arrived. It put a big gash in the trunk. Every time I walk by, it reminds me I need to keep myself under control.
The kid ended up with an ugly scrape on the side of his head.
He must have fallen as he scrambled away from me. I’m pretty sure I never touched him. But I was looking at an assault charge. Of a minor.
All things considered, I got off easy. The kids said they were just pranking me. The judge took a dim view of that, what with my military service and missing arm and all. I got away with the 90 days on a misdemeanor charge. I had to pay for a new bike. Plus a stern warning to deal with my anger issues.
Turns out that was just what I really needed. I spent the first month in jail sulking and wallowing in self-pity. The second month I pondered where my life was going, or not going, and decided I didn’t like what I saw. Not that long ago, I’d been a proud soldier. Now I was a bum. If I were willing to work for it, I could reclaim my dignity. Even in jail.
I asked for a transfer to the addictions treatment cellblock. In that third month, I worked hard on the AA twelve step program, and I left jail determined to change my life.
When I got back, the kids didn’t quite know what to make of it. They could pull their pranks and still get some kind of a reaction. But not get that rise out of me. I’d grit my teeth and ignore them as much as I could. They didn’t find it nearly as much fun anymore.
Every once in a while, they’d still pull some trick or other, but even if I went into panic mode, I learned to focus on my own reaction and not them. A panic attack never actually killed anybody, even if at the time it felt like it would. Or so the counselor told me.
Headlights rushed up behind me. I tensed as they swooped by and continued on their way. Just an ordinary car.
The bicycles stopped down the street a bit. Nothing to do with me. When I got to my mailbox down by the curb, I reached in. A surprising amount of mail. I hadn’t brought the mail in yesterday. Maybe not the day before, either. Probably mostly ads and catalogues. How did I ever end up on so many mailing lists? Not like I had a lot of money to spend.
Just as I turned to go up the walk to the front door, a loud burst of staccato clatter filled the air.
My muddled brain screamed, “Ambush!”
The noise ended as quickly as it had begun. I didn’t move. My stomach clenched and my one arm twitched.
Not an enemy attack. Firecrackers.
Damn kids.
They pushed off on their bikes and rode away, their laughter floating on the air behind them.
I lay there, forcing my eyes open and concentrating on my breathing like they told us in the PTSD group. Cut the panic attack short.
Count to ten, inhaling slowly. Count to ten, exhaling.
Force myself to look at the familiar surroundings. The mailbox. The cracked concrete walk. The wooden steps up to the porch. They needed a paint job.
Repeated my mantra. I was safe. This would pass. I would survive this.
Gradually my muscles relaxed. I could stop paying attention to my breathing. I felt a little dizzy, but I could sit up.
I rose to my feet. The wind had blown the mail around. I picked up the pieces nearest me. My head spun.
Some of the talk in the group had dealt with how to deal with the kids. Not much I could do about what they did. What I could control was how I reacted. Not let them get to me.
It wasn’t easy.
The catalogs lay on the sidewalk, but the wind had picked up some of the flyers and envelopes, blowing them under the hedge that the neighbors had wrapped with Christmas lights. Some might even have slid into the grate by the curb. They were probably just ads. Trash. I could take a look in the morning.
Now was one of those times when it was pretty obvious why Ricky said never to keep any alcohol in the house, even for visitors. Not that I had any visitors. But if I’d had any alcohol then, I’d have drunk it.
I took a shower and got dressed, but I left my boots on the floor in the bedroom. I couldn’t go out to buy beer without boots. A small thing, but putting them on would give me a few more minutes to remind myself I didn’t need a drink. I heated up a bowl of tomato soup.
Predictable. And comforting.
Tomorrow I could go to one of the churches in town, sit in the back, and listen to the choir sing Christmas carols. Then I could go to the turkey dinner at the rescue mission.
Maybe not a great Christmas, but an okay one. Better than the last few. As long as I didn’t drink.
Damn, I wanted a beer.
I could always call Ricky if it got too bad. I patted my pocket. No phone. I looked around, puzzled. The charger was lying unplugged on the kitchen counter, but no phone. Not on the table.
Probably I’d left it in my jacket pocket, out in the garage. I opened the side door. Freezing rain was slashing down. In the light from the house, puddles glistened in the driveway between the house and the garage. I’d have to put on my boots if I wanted to retrieve my phone. Not worth it.
The video on TV churned along toward its inevitable ending. Tinkly sentimental Christmas music played. I collapsed into my chair. Handle this on my own.
I fell asleep before those perfect people living perfect lives in that perfect town shared the perfect Christmas hug.
***
Overnight the rain turned to snow, which stopped at dawn. Enough to have a textbook white Christmas, but not so much that it would interfere with anyone’s holiday plans. Except, of course, for the poor souls who drove the snow plows and gravel trucks. They’d miss Christmas morning with the kids, but if they were lucky, they’d get home in time for dinner.
The front walk needed to be cleared. I went out to the garage for the snow shovel. My jacket was cold, but it was dry. I slipped it on. The cell phone was in the pocket.
Ricky came along, bundled up against the cold. “I’m on my way to my cousin’s place. I wanted to check in with you. Your cell phone’s dead, so I stopped by. You okay?”
“Yeah. I guess I haven’t charged it in a while, is all.”
“Wish I could take you to my cousin’s, but I don’t think my family would go for that.”
“Can’t blame them. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yep. Church first, then the rescue mission dinner.”
“Okay, but I can stay if you want me to…”
“I’ll be fine,” I said again. “You go on.”
Ricky shrugged and walked down the block.
I was tempted to call out to him that I didn’t want to be alone. But he had family who’d invited him to dinner, now that he was a few years away from drinking. I didn’t have either family or a few years away from drinking. But I could make it on my own. Without a drink.
The snow was heavy, but not deep. I got the front walk and the sidewalk shoveled. Only having one arm made a lot of things tougher than they used to be. No need to do the driveway. I didn’t have a car anymore.
Ice coated the Christmas lights on the hedge. The low places on the sidewalk, where rain had puddled before it changed to snow, had slick patches of ice, too.
Up next to the garage, I had a bin where I’d kept gravel for the driveway. It was left over from before I started drinking so much and I still had a car. A few shovelfuls ought to take the skid out of the icy spots.
The lid on the bin was frozen shut. I got a crowbar from the garage and went to work opening it.
Something smacked the back of my head. A snowball crashed against the side of the bin. I heard derisive laughter. The kids were back.
What were they doing out on Christmas morning? And on their bikes? The snow wasn’t too deep to ride in, but it had to be slippery.
Sure enough, as I watched, a tall, lanky kid with spikey green hair charged toward me on his bike, arm poised to launch a snowball.
As he let loose with the snowball, his bike skidded sideways, its front wheel lodging in the grate by the curb. He landed on his butt, but he jumped up and yanked at his bike.
The snowball hit the ground next to me.
Crowbar still in my hand, I started toward him.
The others scattered.
As this kid gave the bike another desperate tug, his feet slipped out from under him and his boot slammed into the curb cut for the storm drain.
He tried scooting backwards, but his foot was stuck.
As I approached, his eyes opened wide, staring at the crowbar. He began to whimper.
I stopped in front of him. I was tempted to say something like, “What goes around comes around.” But I remembered my military training and took a deep breath. Proper bearing and dignity regardless of the provocation.
Inserting the crowbar in the grating under the tire, I gave it a quick jerk upward. The bike popped free.
I turned my attention to the kid. “Think you broke your leg or anything?” I asked.
“N…n…no,” he blubbered, snot bubbling out of his nose.
“Try turning your foot sideways and see if it’ll slip out. Otherwise you might have to take your foot out and let me pry the boot free.”
A good twist and a few wiggles and the boot came loose.
I dropped the crowbar and held the bike upright with my one hand.
He flexed his foot a few times, wiped his nose with his sleeve, and climbed on the bike. “Thanks, mister,” he said so low I could barely hear it.
I shrugged.
He turned the bike and rode down the street. Just before he reached the corner, he turned back and gave a tentative wave.
After a few seconds, I waved back.
I spread some gravel on the slick spots on the sidewalk and bent to pick up the crowbar.
A car pulled over to the curb. None of those rotten kids were old enough to drive. Had one of them gone to fetch a parent or a big brother or something? I deliberately ignored the car.
But the driver got out and approached me.
Aside from the problems with the kids, I couldn’t think of anything I had been involved in lately that would make anybody want to approach me. And I didn’t need trouble. I turned away and took a step toward the porch.
The person stopped.
“Dad?”
I turned and looked up.
My heart leapt into my throat. “Mandy?” I managed to choke out.
“I tried to call, Dad. But your phone was turned off or something. And I mailed you a note. It should have gotten here by now. I thought maybe you’d changed your mind about getting together for Christmas, but I decided to come anyhow…”
A tear trickled down her cheek. “I’ve wanted to look for you for a long time, but I was afraid if you didn’t want to see me, it’d hurt too bad. Then I got the card…”
Now a tear trickled down my cheek, too. She reached her hand out. I took it. We gazed into each other’s eyes.
I could’ve sworn I heard Silent Night playing somewhere in the background.
The End
Very nice, KM. Should put all of WWK readers in the Christmas spirit.
ReplyDeleteWhat a wonderful Christmas story!
ReplyDeleteLove the way you took a spin on the typical made-for-tv movie. This definitely put me in the holiday spirit!
ReplyDeleteGreat forgiveness story, KM!
ReplyDeleteThanks for reading the story.
ReplyDeleteI hope you enjoyed it.
Kathleen
This is lovely, Kathleen. Thanks for the touching story.
ReplyDeleteWhat a wonderful, well-written Christmas story! I enjoyed reading it, liked the character and his growth. Thank you for posting.
ReplyDeleteA really good one, Kathleen! Thank you. You really have a way with dialogue and character. Have a Merry Christmas!! Nancy Nau Sullivan
ReplyDeleteWorthy of a Hallmark Christmas movie!
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ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
ReplyDeleteI really enjoyed reading this!
ReplyDelete