Ever since, it’s been Uncle Jake and I. My grandparents died when I was young and Jake never remarried after losing his partner, so we’re all each other has now. Our holidays mean turkey dinners at greasy diners that stay open 24/7, followed by snowball fights in random parking lots and watching old hockey games, pretending we have no idea who’s going to win.
Unfortunately, he can’t make it this year since his photography gig in Iceland got extended. I told him not to worry about it. That I’d be fine. It was a lie, obviously. But I understand how much he lives for chasing beauty in places most people will never see in their lifetime.
So I don’t expect his warm voice by the doorway. “Merry Christmas, Teddy Bear,” Jake greets me. “You’ve definitely looked better, kid.”
For a second, I’m convinced that I’m imagining him because I miss him. Then I catch his scent, familiar and homey. It signals my brain that I’m not making this up.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I whisper because it’s all I can manage.
“Turns out Iceland and the Northern Lights can wait. You can’t.”
I swear the shadows feel warmer and fuller following his words, a missing piece clicking into place. For as long as I can remember, Jake’s been the one who showed up when no one else did. Birthdays my parents forgot, games they couldn’t be bothered to attend, evenings I needed someone in the stands so I wasn’t alone. He was always there, camera slung over his shoulder and grin on his face. My uncle. My goddamn lifeline. Having him here when I thought I’d be facing this Christmas without him, it overfills my heart.
“The flight landed late last night. Sorry I didn’t make it sooner,” he says, as if flying hours to see me isn’t a huge deal. “Guess we still have time to find some old hockey games to watch.”
“You mean the 1965 charity game between the Woodpeckers and the Peacocks?”
He snorts and claps a hand on my shoulder. “You know me so well, Teddy. Now, let’s get more festive.”
There’s the rustle of plastic, then something soft and lumpy lands in my lap. “What’s this?” I ask, running my fingers over the thick, scratchy knit.
“I got us Christmas sweaters.” His voice is full of pride, like he’s unveiling a masterpiece. “Yours has a big-ass snowman in sunglasses on the beach. Mine has Santa riding a surfboard. Total classics.”
“Jake, c’mon,” I whine. “This thing is already irritating my skin and I haven’t even put it on.”
“Festive fashion ain’t about comfort and beauty is pain. Yule agony if you will.”
Despite everything, I yank the sweater over my head. It itches, rough like it’s made from fiberglass, but I wear it for him. He showed up and that’s more than I can say for anyone else with my last name. In fact, we don’t even share a last name because he’s my uncle on my mom’s side. But names don’t make a family. Actions do.
“Come on,” he says cheerfully, “they’re doing all-day breakfast downstairs for patients and family.”
The idea of being surrounded by so many people makes my skin crawl more than the sweater does right now. “Could you grab us food?”
“We’re leaving this room, because you can’t spend all your time curled up here.”
“Jasper took me downstairs just yesterday.”
“Not enough.”
“Says the guy who once spent an entire weekend in his recliner watching four seasons of some true crime show,” I mutter.
“That’s different. Let’s go, my dear Teddy Bear.”
Jake helps me to the wheelchair, and we get rolling. The closer we get to the cafeteria, the louder the laughter and conversation gets. Every time I step out of the safety of the room, there’s a bit of risk. What if someone notices what’s really going on with me? Luckily, people probably just assume every celebrity wears sunglasses indoors to avoid attention. That might be the only thing keeping me safe from speculation. For once, I’m glad to be ignorant of glances and staring. It doesn’t help that I’m wearing this stupid jumper. Then again, maybe it’s a shield of sorts.
Knowing me well, Jake steers us to the back corner, narrating every single thing on the way. “You should be aware of all the complimentary glances our sweaters are getting. One of the nurses even winked at me. They might’ve been flirting.”
“Please don’t get involved with anyone in my care,” I groan playfully.
“No promises.”
There’s a pause in our conversation while he grabs ready trays for us. The sound of his footsteps is muffled because of all the noise. When he returns, Jake says, “Today’s menu includes powdered eggs doing their best impersonation of food, mystery meat that might be sausage, and a sad little bowl of melon. Lo and behold, miracle of miracles, the French toast looks decent.”
He sets everything down in front of me. I pick at a corner of what I assume is toast, syrup sticking to my fingers. My appetite is shot, but I eat a few bites to make him feel better.Jake doesn’t push. He never does. That’s what I have always appreciated about my uncle—he knows when to talk and when to be quiet.
Even through the fog and static, I imagine him sitting across from me, recalling every tiny detail like the back of my hand. His medium brown hair—the same shade as mine—is probably a mess under the old knit beanie with a faded logo. I’ve offered to replace it more times than I can count. Same with his coat, far too thin for New York winters. He refuses to give it up, claiming it’s broken in just right.
He always comes back from a trip looking weathered, his beard grown out, his eyes red and glassy. Not from overwhelming emotions, but from pushing himself past his limit too many times while on deadline. Still, I picture the signature lopsided half-smile on his face at this moment. The same one that showed up at my hockey games, high school tournaments, and every milestone in between and after. The one that saysI’d move mountains for you, kidwithout making a big deal out of it.
