“The Ghost of Christmas Past. Call me, Margaret. Get up, we’ve got work to do, you miserable man-child,” she continued.
I sat up in bed and blinked at her. My tee hit me in the face.
“Get dressed,” she ordered.
I sent her a dark look, but got out of bed. The ghost watched unabashedly as I yanked on my jeans and tee.
“What now?” I growled out, not quite believing this was happening. I had to be trapped in a dream.
“Now, we look at your past,” she said and tapped me on my head.
“Mom, it’s Christmas!” a younger me yelled. I looked about three. In our small apartment, I ran down the stairs and gaped at the Christmas tree.
“I loved Christmas once,” I said, remembering the moment. “Mom did so much. Primal was never around to celebrate. He was random with his child support payments, so Mom often had to struggle. Bullet came along when I was one, but Mom didn’t let him move in until I had turned four and she could trust him.”
“Your father wasn’t present?” Margaret asked.
“No. It was a struggle until Mom married Bullet. While she was his old lady, they married when I was four. Primal left then, and Mom felt safe enough to let Bullet move in.”
The scene in front of me flashed forward, and I was five.
Bullet stood in front of a Christmas tree, which was crammed full of presents. He remained, legs splayed and arms open, as I rushed in. I jumped for joy, and Bullet laughed. Mom came in and gasped.
“Bullet, what’s all this?” she exclaimed.
“Happy Christmas, my love!” Bullet boomed.
“When did you do all this?” Mom drew a sharp breath.
“Only the best for my family,” Bullet replied and swept me up into his arms. “Come on, son, Santa came, let’s rip into this shit!”
I felt tears clog my throat. I could almost reach out and touch Bullet again. The memory kept unfolding, and it stung, damn it, fuckin’ hurt. Fuck, I knew I missed him, but I didn’t know how much until now. He’d been a big man, a tall, muscled, hairy biker. Bullet had been larger than life and my father.
“You loved him,” Margaret said, nodding at Bullet.
“Yes. He died too young,” I replied softly.
I stared at myself at fourteen. It was Christmas, but none like I’d had before. There were no decorations and a stupidly small Christmas tree. There were a few presents under it, but the cheery, happy atmosphere had disappeared. It was our first Christmas after Bullet’s death, and we were grieving.
“Sunny, open your presents,” Mom urged.
“Don’t feel like it,” I replied sulkily.
“Bullet loved Christmas. He claimed it was the one time he could spoil us without repercussions. Mom was a different person when Bullet was around. She was lit up inside.”
“And when he died, the light went away?” Margaret asked.
“No. It dimmed and stuttered, but it was there, just not as bright.”
“He loved you both very deeply,” Margaret said with such certainty in her voice that she made me glance at her.
“How would you know?”
“Because I can see it there,” she said as we watched my memory play out. It changed again.
“Holy shit, Sunny,” Mom exclaimed as I grinned.
“What do you think, Grandma?” I asked as I handed Liv to her. Liv wore a pretty Christmas dress with a bib saying, ‘Grandma loves me and I love her’.
