18
Russell
Christmas Eve in our home was always special. We always had my aunts and uncles over, along with my grandparents when I was a boy. My mother and grandmother would make a big dinner afterward. We’d adjourn to the living room for desserts and Christmas music in the background. I would sit on the floor and play games with my cousins while a crackling fire warmed our backs.
I was very blessed.
And I was well aware Ryan’s holidays were nothing like mine. My holiday memories were from a fairy tale, while his were born from nightmarish scenes.
I stood in the hallway between the living room and the kitchen. Behind me, a festive evening was taking place in the living room with my aunts and uncles, and my cousins and their kids. All shared fond memories over plates of pie and cookies while a friendly game of cards was being played between my father and uncles.
Faintly in the background, Christmas classics were playing while I watched Ryan in the kitchen. His hand rested against his abdomen, beneath the holiday scarf wrapped around the Stormtrooper’s neck on his shirt. In his other hand, he held his cell phone—which I was almost sure that I was going to want to throw as far as I could soon. Ryan was gearing up energy to call his mother.
Why? Because he felt he needed to. The cloud of guilt hung on to Ryan’s shoulders when it came to his mother. It was trash that was all spun from his brother. He made Ryan feel guilty for not doing more to help their mother before it was determined she could no longer live on her own. Everything was pushed onto Ryan’s shoulders.
And, just like the boy who still strived to hear some word of praise from his parents, Ryan continued to try to do what he thought was right. But in reality, it was more like he was trying to do what his brother and parents had made him feel was right. He owed them nothing, especially that woman.
I could see the stress on Ryan’s face over the internal struggle this caused him. I’d told him he didn’t have to do it, but his reply to situations like this was always that he felt bad she was alone in a retirement center. Often, I reminded him how alone he was as a child because of her actions. Rarely, he acknowledged her wrongs, and only concentrated on how he could make sure he did the “right” things.
I took a few steps closer to the kitchen when Ryan put the phone up to his ear. He paced around the kitchen island and then stopped when a loud voice filled his ear.
“Hello, I’m calling to speak to Elizabeth Hudson.” His hand was still flat against his stomach. “Okay, thank you,” Ryan said as he resumed pacing with his hand against his stomach.
Ryan had made a lap around the kitchen island and was starting his second one, when he suddenly stopped. He was facing the window that looked out to the side porch when his body tensed.
“Hi! Merry Christmas, Mom … It’s Ryan, your son … No, it really is. I promise, I’m Ryan … I’m not Chad … No … Mom, no. It’s Ryan.” Ryan was shaking his head to whatever she was mumbling about. He stopped and let it hang forward. “Did you get the Christmas flowers I sent?”
Ryan hadn’t moved from the spot where he stood when she answered the phone. I was pretty sure he was still holding his hand over his stomach too.
“Plant. Yeah, that’s what I meant. I forgot the poinsettia is a plant and not flowers … Did you like it? I know you always liked them. Remember you’d get one each year from work? No, from the bread factory. Dad didn’t bring them home, you always did … No, you’d put it on the steps of the porch. You said it looked festive and the neighbors could see … I think Chad and I knocked them down off the steps a few times … No, I’m Ryan … I signed my name on the card because I’m the one who sent you the flower thing … I mean plant. No, not Chad … Yes! I sound like Ryan because IamRyan.”
His voice sounded hopeful for a moment. Ryan desperately wanted his mother to recognize him. He hoped he would at some point hear an apology from her for everything she had done or stood by and allowed to happen. He wanted to hear that it wasn’t his fault or that he hadn’t deserved it. Ryan was still hopeful that he would hear these things one day. I knew better, though. He didn’t understand that it wasn’t the dementia that was causing her to never say the things he yearned to hear. She did heinous things to him far before the dementia kicked in. An apology wasn’t “lost” within this woman. She never cared in the first place. I walked into the kitchen and leaned against the island.
“You had dinner with Dad tonight?”
Ryan turned, and when he saw me, he quickly lowered his head toward his shoulder and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. A few tears laid on his gray t-shirt, darkening the material slightly. It hadn’t escaped my notice that his hand was now clenching his shirt around the scarf area of the Stormtrooper. A fistful of his shirt was what kept him intact right now. Ryan took a step forward and then stopped again. His movements were stiff. I hated that woman. I moved away from the island and toward him.
“You guys were?” I could hear her practically yelling into the phone. “I mean are?”
Ryan turned to look at me again, and this time he didn’t try to stop the tears. Seeing him like this killed me. When I was within touching distance of him, he took a few steps forward. His hand still clutched his Stormtrooper t-shirt. I stopped moving toward him for the moment.
“Okay, well, have a good time with Dad,” Ryan said into the phone. As he pulled the phone away from his ear he muttered, “Merry Christmas, Mom.”
He slipped the phone into the front pocket of his jeans and sniffled. I stood behind him and pulled him backward so his back pressed against my chest. I wrapped my left arm around him at his chest, and my right arm around his abdomen. I felt the tension and tightness in his body as he slowly exhaled.
“Good boy, take a deep breath.”
He nodded as he sniffled some more.
“I know it hurts, Ryan.”
“It’s all good. No worries, I’m okay. Sorry about that.”
I turned my head and kissed his ear. As I rubbed on his stomach, I felt him tense up and try to suck his stomach away from my hand.
“No, Ryan. There’s nothing to apologize for, my boy,” I whispered close to his ear. I tightened my grip across his chest and squeezed his shoulder. “Tell me what she said.”
He shrugged his shoulders against me and let his head lean forward.
