Page 47 of Neo

“Hi, Elijah. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

*silence*

“Are you getting ready to go to your grandma’s house?” I asked him.

“Yeah.”

*more silence*

“You good?” he asked.

“Uh, huh.”

*torturous silence*

“You want to call me tomorrow when you have more time to talk?” I asked, not really knowing what else to say.

“Yeah, that would be good. My mom is waiting for me and my sister.”

“Right, okay. Tell everyone I said hello.”

“Will do. Holla at you later.”

“K.”

When we hung up, I felt disappointed in the quality of our non-conversation, but I also felt relieved when it was over. The only thing left for me to do now is fix myself dinner and watch a very corny Christmas movie, the kind that my mom would have had playing in the background all day while she prepared Christmas dinner.

So, Merry Christmas to me.

But maybe Kennedy was right. I’m not sure this was the healthiest way for me to spend the holiday. Being by myself, and losing myself in werewolves, hasn’t stopped me from thinking about the last time I saw my mother.

Last year.

Christmas Eve.

I can visualize her so clearly, sprawled out on the floor next to her bed. Her head next to a pair of black slippers with smiley faces on them. She was wearing an oversized throwback t-shirt with the MTV logo on it and a pair of pajama bottoms with snowflakes on them. Her eyes were slightly open, but her eyeballs were rolled back. It’s a haunting image. One that I will probably carry for the rest of my life like a scar in the center of my chest.

I’m sniffling with sadness as I open the refrigerator to search for whatever ingredients I can find to make myself a makeshift Christmas dinner. I consider boiling bowtie pasta but there’s no sauce. We used the last of that two weeks ago and I hate just eating butter and noodles. I contemplate making mashed potatoes. Those would be delicious, but we’re out of milk. It’s so like my unorganized ass to not have thought this whole thing through. I should have stocked the fridge yesterday.

I sit on the living room couch in a defeated posture when a knock on the door startles me.

“Who is it?” I ask, looking through the peephole of the front door which seems to be obscured by the back of someone’s head. Someone’s blonde head. My chest tightens from the mere possibility that it’s him.

“Who is it?” I repeat.

“It’s me,” he replies and then turns his head so that I have a clear view of his face.

His unforgettable face.

I hesitantly open the door, unclear as to why he’s at my front door on Christmas Day.

“You didn’t call to say you were coming,” I say, unable to stop myself from smiling. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere…else?”

“And a merry Christmas to you too, Grinch.”

He makes himself comfortable, walking right in and straight to the kitchen with two full reusable grocery bags and starts unloading them.