THE CHRISTMAS GIFT

By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2021

Warning: If you don’t like reading BCTS stories, then stop reading now.

Author’s Note: None.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

RT

-----000-----

Finally: class was over. Another day of high school finished.

I gathered my books and put them in my bag. I opened my purse and put my favorite pen in it. It would be windy outside walking home. I quickly gave my hair a quick brushing and did up a ponytail.

“Ready?” asked my best friend Andrea.

I stood and grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair. I know, I know. Jackets and skirts aren’t the greatest combination in early December. This would be the last skirt day for months. The chills in January and February were too much. Pants and thin leggings: perfect winter wear.

“Ready,” I answered.

We made our way out of the classroom and down the hallway. Here and there, we paused our exit to gab with some friends. No volleyball today nor for the next week: winter exams were coming. Leslie mentioned that she and Todd were still “on” for the weekend. Joy told us that her younger brother had asked Melanie out; we giggled imagining the scene. Brianna asked whether anyone had a spare tampon. Heather did; Brianna gratefully took it and disappeared to do what she had to do.

As soon as we turned the corner away from the school, we took each other’s hand and smiled.

We had been besties seemingly forever. Kindergarten. Minor league soccer. Elementary school. Birthday parties. Junior high proms. Double-dating: that had been a laugh! Greg and Tom had been blindsided watching our very affectionate kissing after having teased them before, during, and after a grisly slasher flick.

There had always been Andrea. Through thick and thin, my best friend --- dare I? my girlfriend? --- had always been by my side.

A lone child, I had been (somewhat) spoilt by my parents. There is a magnificence in being “the one”. No division of attention. No forgetting. No perceived lack of love. But I had always felt that something was missing in our home. Call it an emptiness, a gap: whatever. Perhaps call it lone child syndrome, one that Andrea had partly mitigated or often caused to be forgotten.

Fear not: my parents had always been a loving presence. And they treated me more maturely than other parents did their children, at least by my friends’ estimation. Perhaps my parents treated me differently was because they had me in their late thirties. They were in their early fifties now.

“What is your plan?” my mummy would ask.

“Please tell us how you reached your decision?” my daddy would ask.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” both would ask.

“You’ve given it much thought, and we appreciate that. Now do it: we’ll support you in this if you stick to it,” they constantly reassured.

By an early age, I was well positioned to make reasonable decisions regarding friends, school electives, extra-curricular activities, and, later, as I grew up, dating. I “tried” boys. However, by 13 years old, I knew my heart was not longing for them. I did persist in my attempts, but my heart clearly was not in it.

One day, after our team lost to a school from the east side of town and as we lined up to shake hands with our opponents, one girl from the other team held my hand, her eyes sparkling at me, and she swiftly pulled me in for a quick kiss. “I’d love it if you were on my team!” she laughed, and I never saw her again.

Yet, in the few years since that moment, I came to realize that she knew something about me that I hadn’t truly known of myself. I was different, much different than most of my peers.

And I came to know that of Andrea too, and she incrementally did of me.

A few snowflakes fell. The air was chilly.

“Text-fest tonight?” she asked.

I rolled my eyes.

“I can’t. Mr. Callaghan’s assignment is due tomorrow, and I haven’t even started it.”

“Something about antiques and old technology?”

I nodded, and we walked hand-in-hand.

-----000-----

I remember clearly that day three years ago when I had told them.

It was a sunny, May, Saturday morning. The lawns were green, the eavestroughs cleaned, and the flowers planted yet unseen.

“I like girls,” I said flatly but liberatingly.

They were ashen faced.

They glanced at each other.

“Nikki, could you please go to your room for a few minutes. We’ll call you when we’re ready,” my mummy hurriedly replied.

Half an hour later, they called for me.

Their normal interrogation followed.

Eventually...

“Are you sure this is what you feel?” both softly asked.

I nodded. I was going to be true to me. Today and from now on, I would be me, a lesbian.

It was me. Me. How I felt about me --- and Andrea. And every other girl I saw.

“You’ve not come to this decision lightly, it seems,” they said. Their trepidation hung in the air.

“You’ve given it much thought, and we respect that. We cannot and will not try to change your mind. We will---” my mummy paused, my daddy hesitated and sniffled, “---try to support you. It may be difficult for us at times. And you may change your mind. You may not. Regardless, we will do our best to be there for you.”

I had never seen my parents collapse into tears but that they did. They hugged each other as they sobbed. I teared up too and raced to hug them.

Them: my loving parents.

Mine: all mine.

-----000-----

Mummy and daddy weren’t due home for another hour.

I quickly set the dinner table, cut some vegetables, and went back upstairs to my room.

As a lone child, I had been given the second biggest room upstairs. Its light lilac color made it seem so much bigger. The glossy white trim accentuated its soothing. One wall was but closets and dressers (yes, full). Another wall was but bookshelves (yes, again: full). Above my double bed hung innumerable certificates and commendations.

While my parents guided my growing maturity, they had equally developed in me a pursuit of sorts for excellence. I was among the top students in my class. By Valentine’s Day, I should receive letters of acceptance to various established universities.

Not Harvard nor Yale type universities: I recoiled at the thought of them: too uppity. I wanted Point Loma Nazarene, Bentley, Rockhurst, and such. Very good but not uppity. Solid. Grounded. Reputable. Just like me: ha!

I sat at my desk and put my feet on a corner. I leaned back and clasped my hands behind my head. I stared out the window and wondered what sort of artifact might intrigue Mr. Callaghan.

I sat up and Googled various ideas and thoughts. I clicked on “images” and saw possibilities. A few moments later: there! A picture of a small plastic container, black with a grey top: a film container for a film camera.

I leaned back and put my feet back up. It takes a disciplined mind to see order out of chaos. As often happened to me (but not always: I did work hard for my marks), the indeterminacy of Mr. Callaghan’s assignment vanished; replacing it was an inspired turnabout.

No doubt, film containers were conceived for old technology, specifically, the dark storage and transportation of old film negatives. Yet, my research led me, they also heralded modernity. Plastic containers are everywhere and in their different shapes and sizes are made for everything today. I could make this old thing very modern!

I leaned back and stared at the ceiling.

My presentation came to me.

Time to develop it!

-----000-----

In the basement storage room, I sat before five open cupboards. Dusty shelves. Cardboard boxes, some small, some large, some dull, some bright. There were several trunks with my grandparents’ names and steamship stickers plastered on them. There was dress-up clothing tainted by the stench of mothballs. I well remembered the Godzilla costume!

And there was my first Princess gown too: I fingered it and reminisced for a sweet moment.

Sighing, I resumed my search. Somewhere my daddy put his old cameras. I giggled as I recalled that Christmas long ago when, at my parents’ suggestion (and with their financial assistance), I had gifted my kind dedushka and my beloved baba, my grandparents, a digital camera. After taking a picture of me, they had asked me how to wind the film! They died nine years ago...

Box after trunk after box after bag I searched. In a different world, I would accuse my parents of being hoarders. Honestly though, the clutter and accumulation weren’t that bad. My room was neater and tidier though, my closets too: not bragging, just saying...

Bingo! A box labeled “Cameras & Photos --- Do Not Throw Out” in my daddy’s script.

I opened it.

Bingo! His old Cannon and what seemed to be a much older Leica.

I rummaged through the box. Photos of mummy and daddy. On a beach, younger. At Aunt Helen’s for a dinner, older. Touring by the Eiffel Tower, older still. Sitting atop a mountain, timeless.

Yet my eye was drawn to something else.

In several of the photos, there had been a third person.

Yet I could not determine who it was.

That person had been blacked out.

Completely.

My curiousity aroused, I rummaged through that box.

And found at its bottom another box.

A small blue box.

Wrapped with a pink ribbon.

I opened it.

-----000-----

“Nikki, a word, please,” Mr. Callaghan said after class.

I took my seat at the chair next to his desk.

“Nikki, you are a very good student. You’re smart and bright,” he kindly began.

“However, your presentation today was, shall I say, substandard. Your introduction was disjointed. You didn’t articulate what the presentation would be about and then you rambled on about film being unwieldy and inconvenient and best left in the dustbin of history.”

He smiled at that.

“There was so much more you could have done with it. For instance,” he said, picking up the film container, “this small item lives with us today. What inspired it is gone but it itself lives on, for different purposes, in different ways, in different shapes, colors, and forms.”

He looked apologetically at me before telling me that the best he could give me was a C+ for delivery, content, and imagination.

I stared blankly at him as he spoke. Although he sat but three feet from me, I was far away. I liked him; he was a good teacher, a sincere person. I compelled myself to answer him.

“I’m distracted, Mr. Callaghan.”

He took a moment before speaking.

“I can help you,” he gently said. “Talk to me.”

I didn’t answer him. I wanted to cry.

“Do you feel safe?” he asked humanely.

“Here?” he asked officiously.

“At home?” he asked very cautiously.

I immediately nodded.

We’re reminded yearly at school about harassment, consent, sexual assault, respect, dignity, charity, and so on. We know there are resources for those of us who need help. Well, at least I did, as did all of my friends. I sympathized for those who experienced grave troubles but I couldn’t empathize with those among them who never sought available assistance.

I slowly wept.

“I’ve learned something about my family,” I finally confessed.

Mr. Callaghan looked at me expressionlessly.

“I need help,” I said.

He lurched forward and put his hands on the edge of his desk. Enthusiasm and charity were set on his face.

“I’d like to suggest that we go down to Ms. Rajewski’s office and there we---”

I interrupted him.

“No, Mr. Callaghan. I neither want nor need her help.”

I looked at him beggingly.

“I need your help.”

I turned from his astonished face and opened my school bag.

I drew from it a small plastic bag.

I put it on his desk.

I opened the bag.

I emptied the contents onto his desk.

I looked at him; he looked at them.

Five plastic containers.

Five plastic film containers.

Five rolls of undeveloped film.

-----000-----

I masked my emotions before my parents. I had to; otherwise, I might have for the first time in my life exploded at them. I stewed at their deceit, their betrayal, their hypocrisy.

I feigned cramps and shuttered myself in my room immediately after dinner each night. I pretended to be studying Saturday though my thoughts were of my parents’ incredible malevolence. Good things come to those who wait, I reminded myself.

I needed to wait for Mr. Callaghan.

Mother and father would not tolerate, however, my shrugging off Sunday services. I dressed --- “Your Sunday best, sweetie!” mother had needlessly said, --- and sat next to my parents in a pew near the front.

That fucking priest spoke. A smidgeon of Latin here, a morsel of modern English there. Yeah: HE spoke.

For years I had listened to HIM. I had accepted that, no matter my God-given nature, HE would not, could not, ever accept me, had HE known of it. HIS smirk and false handshakes: four years I had endured them.

No more, given what I now knew.

I wanted to vomit. I feared what would come next even though I knew what would come next. I watched HIM, the acolytes, the altar. My memory shot me a pic Tweet someone had tweeted years ago: “There’s no hate like Christian love.”

HE began his sermon.

I listened. Oh yes, for the final time, I listened to that fucker spew HIS venom and hatred. I don’t remember all the words. Yet HIS message was clear as an azure sky. I distinctly recall the tone: creative invective and vile vituperation. Damnation. Purgatory. Pious pontification from HIM, that fucking pompous priest.

I noticed my parents’ occasional turning to look at me.

Father seemed nervous again, as he always had during each and every sermon since I told them, years ago, that I was a lesbian.

Mother placed a hand on mine, as she had always too.

I withdrew mine from hers and clasped my hands together.

Shocked, she withdrew her hand.

I could not bear anymore of HIS filth.

I turned to mother and simply stated without room for discussion, “Calculus tomorrow.”

I rose in the middle of HIS sermon and swiftly took my leave of that congregation.

HE stopped talking while I left.

As the sun hit me, I heard HIM continue as though my departure was unmentionable.

-----000-----

Mr. Callaghan found me in the hallway after my exam. I was certain I had done well, despite my distraction.

“Nikki, could I speak to you, please?” he asked.

We sat as we had before.

“How much do I owe you?” I asked.

“Nothing. Consider it a gift from a teacher who supports you and wants to help. An early Christmas present?”

I said nothing. I nodded my thanks.

He smiled and opened a drawer. He took out a plastic bag. He removed from it five thick envelopes. He gave them to me. I took them and placed them in front of me.

We looked at each other.

I opened the one on the left.

-----000-----

I finished my exams. My marks were very good, despite my distraction. They weren’t as good as they could have been, but I had done my best under the circumstances. I knew that the time was right. My hiding my feelings for those past weeks had burdened me. Mother and father, to whom I never had any reluctance to share secrets? I had avoided and evaded and eluded them.

But no more.

I sat at the dining room table. Oak. I recognized it from the old pictures. It was as dark as it had been years ago, as it had been in those pictures of a baby in a roaster on it in the center. Pictures with my parents in them. Laughing. Much younger parents. Happier times. More innocent times, perhaps.

Mother and father sat across from me.

They didn’t anticipate the deserving torment I was about to unleash upon them.

Their doing. Their fault. They would pay.

I looked down at my school bag by my side.

I picked it up and put it on the table.

In the center.

Where that roasting pan had once been.

I put my hand in my bag and removed the picture I had placed on top. I looked at it and briefly mentally meandered back to my bedroom one last time.

Could I ever look at it again the same way after this?

My room.

My closets.

A crib.

Baby clothes.

Baby shoes.

And baby-blue walls.

I flippantly flipped the picture to them.

Mother knew not what it was and leaned forward to look at it. She clutched her heart with both hands and stared at me. Yes, she’s just seen a ghost, I thought. Father looked at mother puzzledly and then looked at the picture. He blanched and sat upright.

Everything I ever loved about my parents had been irrevocably altered. They had never told me. They had hidden this from me. They had obviously cautioned our extended family who too had kept their mouths shut. A conspiracy of silence. By my family.

They had taught me to be transgressive. “Daughters can do anything!” they had taught. “Never let anyone hold you back!” they had instructed. “Don’t take shit from anyone!” father had (with mother out of earshot) instilled.

They had taught me well...

I was going to show them how well.

I took the birth certificate out of the bag and flung it toward them with contempt.

“Boy,” it said.

-----000-----

The morning of Christmas Eve.

Under normal circumstances, today would be final cleaning and preparation. Tomorrow would be presents, stockings, turkey, stuffing, merriment, a sneaked sip of mulled wine, and such.

Normally.

I walked toward Andrea’s condo. She lived with her parents closer to downtown than I and mine did. The breeze was chilly. The sun hung low in the late afternoon sky. The sidewalk’s concrete looked cold and stark. My little boots clicked on the sidewalk as I made my way. My jeans protected me from most of the chill. So did my hat and gloves. And did my school bag on my back.

My research, plans, and preparedness steeled me for this. I had left without telling my parents where I was going. I counted on their worrying.

I made my way to the elevator and up to her door. Her mummy answered it and welcomed me in. I declined: “I just have to see her for a minute, Mrs. Brown.” That she found this unusual was etched on her face.

“Okay, sweetie.” She left the door opened, called Andrea, watched us greet each other, and then respectfully retired to the condo’s innards.

“You aren’t coming in?” she asked.

“Not today. I have something to do and it... It’s very important and personal.”

She was puzzled.

“Andrea,” I caringly began, “you have been my best friend for so long.” I cupped her face with my hands and kissed her. I did love her. “I need you to do something for me,” I pleaded. I almost cried saying it.

“What’s the matter?” she asked hugging me. I had to let her go.

I gave her an envelope.

“In two hours, please call my parents and tell them that I was here, gave you this, and --- if they ever want any relationship with me, then they will come for this envelope immediately. And please don’t open it. It’s for them, only for them. Promise?”

I cried as I softly spoke.

Andrea started crying too. “I promise. What are you doing? What’s going on?” she begged.

I wiped her tears away.

“I love you, Andrea. Keep your promise.”

Before she could reply, I dashed to the emergency staircase and fled.

-----000-----

The sun had warmed the sidewalk, a tad. The city seemed warmer; it’s wonderful what bright light can do to one’s mood. I strode confidently toward my destination: a very tall building in the downtown core. I had never been in it before, let alone noticed it. Cool: forty-four floors.

Five-hundred-and-thirty or so feet high if my calculations were correct.

Deadly, no doubt, if one fell from it, I rather detachedly thought to myself.

I approached my destination and looked up: a modern pillar of glass dazzling the pedestrian with its reflection. I didn’t notice the people bustling by me as they did their last-minute shopping.

I hadn’t bought any gifts for mother or father.

I wanted that they get the free one I intended to deliver to them directly, whether it chilled their soul or not. I didn’t care about them now: I was too focused on what I had to do next.

I patiently waited and then slid myself into the building behind a young couple. We shared the elevator. They got off on the second floor.

I pressed the “Door Close” button.

And again.

And again.

The door too slowly closed.

So, I relaxed and mused, this is how it ends. My life to this point.

The elevator moved.

My teachers. Mr. Callaghan was a good man. Ms. Shaw was so generous and supportive. Mr. Dunning had always been kind and challenging. There are good people in this world. Me and my wonderful teachers.

The elevator passed the tenth floor.

Rita our dog; I still missed her and forever would. I remembered riding my bike through the parks with her by my side, trotting along, tongue hanging. Me and my dog.

The elevator passed the twentieth floor.

Sam, one of my better friends and her sleepovers. Amanda and Lara and Lisa and Girl Guides. My soccer teammates and our victory over Westdale four years ago. And our volleyball loss last year. Friends all. My friends. Me and my friends.

The elevator passed the thirtieth floor.

Mummy. Daddy. I slipped away to memories of playing chase in the yard with daddy, of baking my first cookie sheet with mummy. Those were good years. Growing up in security and trust: enviable for most, taken for granted by me probably. But that trust...

No, I commanded myself: only good memories of mummy and daddy, only good memories now.

They were human. They had made a mistake.

I was simply going to make them account for it.

The elevator passed the fortieth floor.

-----000-----

A lone child.

A lonely child.

Throughout my life, I had sensed something off, something missing, something incomplete. A ghost of sorts haunted my house. I never saw it. Yet intuitively, I sensed it was there, behind the love, the cheer, the laughter:

Repudiation. Rejection. Renunciation.

That sort of ghost.

-----000-----

I looked at the number by the door: 44-17. That condo would be on the west side, directly across from the city square. And the Santa booth for children, at maximum capacity today, Christmas Eve. I had been at that booth several times --- happily --- when I was younger and much more ignorant of life and my family's dark secret.

44-17.

Seventeen. My age.

I pressed the buzzer.

Instinctively, I quickly smoothed my clothing and my hair.

I heard sounds within approaching the door.

The door opened.

A woman I had never seen before stood there. She looked puzzled. I put on my desperate young girl face and desperately asked if I could use the bathroom. I squeezed my legs together.

The unknown woman warily invited me in and pointed to the (presumably) guest bathroom in the foyer. I dashed in and locked the door. I had seen the large window and balcony and the lesser bright sky; I was indeed on the west side. The balcony door was about twenty feet away. The condo seemed clean, I thought, as I sat: it was a nervous pee.

I briefly smiled at my research abilities. It had taken a few days on Google to find this place. What I had fleetingly seen in this condo --- the color, the shape, the features --- confirmed my confidence. This had to be the right place.

I took a few panels of toilet paper and wiped. I flushed. I washed my hands and stared in the mirror: yes, I can do this. Now I just had to do the right thing, just like mummy and daddy had raised me to do. I returned to the foyer.

The stranger looked at me askance.

I nodded.

Hers was a stylishly decorated condo. Sleek Scandinavian furniture. Beautiful rugs. Intriguing knick-knacks. I was impressed. Mummy would be impressed. Daddy would be too by the impressive artwork and innumerable books.

I started crying.

In the softest of voices, she asked me if I was alright. Again, there are good people in the world, there are. And she to me, a stranger to her, seemed to be one of them.

“A tissue, please, if I might ask.”

She went into the bathroom.

I hurried into the living room. I looked around.

There! Right there! There is where I would stand!

Surprised perhaps by my audacity in her home, she froze by the foyer and held tissue in hand.

“Can I help you, kid? Tell me what’s wrong. I’d really like to help you.” she gently asked as she began to ever so imperceptibly advance toward me.

“Please stop,” I whispered.

She stopped.

I finally stared at her.

She was in her mid-thirties. Her raven hair graced her shoulders. She had enviable bushy eyebrows. A straight nose. Beautiful lips. Her body befitted an enchanting princess. Tall. Elegant. Confident. A beautiful woman.

She exuded a presence I could only wish for.

I glanced at the balcony.

I removed my school bag and placed it on the floor. I unzipped it. In it were the birth certificate, the trove of photos spanning a young lifetime, the medical records, the clinical notes from child psychologists and others, copies of several prescriptions, and...

And our family Bible, the family heirloom Bible my parents had undoubtedly used when, surely torn, they had made their fear-mongered decision years ago. I’ll never go to church ever again. No wedding. No funeral. Never.

I threw it on the carpet between us.

The woman looked at it and, plainly astonished, raised her eyebrows, and stared at me.

I knew then that it was time and that it was the right thing to do --- here, with her. I smiled weakly and turned to the low cabinet under the television.

I pointed to a photo, an old photo, a family photo: a child and two loving parents.

“I have many photos just like that one. I was a lone child too.”

I wept. I wiped my nose with my sleeve. I continued:

“You must know that there’s an emptiness growing up alone. It’s even harder being alone and different. I would have died to have had a sibling. Older. Younger. Boy. Girl. It wouldn’t have mattered. Someone with whom I could share games, toys, and secrets. Shared memories. A voice to trust. An ear to confide. A hand to hold.”

My wet eyes stared at the woman, this stranger.

I extended my hand and sobbed uncontrollably.

“I’m Nikki. I’m your younger sister.”

END