A Perfectly Imperfect Christmas

Most sixteen-year-olds spend Christmas Eve feasting with their family or unwrapping early Christmas gifts by a cozy fireplace.

Not eating pizza alone in an empty apartment.

"Christmas is the best time of year!"

On TV, a news reporter holds a microphone to a beaming red-headed little girl. Behind them, people glide along ice at the Rockefeller Center's ice-skating rink.

"Santa brings me every present I could've ever asked for." The girl's cheeks are almost as rosy as Santa's.

The reporter gives that overly forced-for-the-camera laugh. "And what is he bringing you this year?"

I take a bite of the now cold cheese pizza and watch the flame from the candles flicker on the table in front of Mom's plate. The little girl rambles on about all the toys Santa's bringing her this year.

I snatch the remote and aim it toward the TV, then smash the "off" button".

The constant commotion of Brooklyn outside of the window behind me returns: The steady rhythm of honking horns, the rush of traffic, and occasional siren blare.

Yes, even on Christmas Eve.

Rising from the table, I blow out the candle at Mom's place. The scent of cinnamon rises in my nose. I decided to be festive tonight and buy candles that are Christmas-scented, along with fairy lights to wrap around this table—an attempt to make up for our lack of Christmas decoration.

But I should've known Mom wouldn't be home early tonight. Why did I believe it when she said she'd be here so we could eat Christmas Eve dinner together?

At the kitchen sink, I splash scalding water and dish soap onto my plate and scrub at the grease and cheese. The dim light on the microwave reads 12:14.

An all-too-familiar mixture of anxiety and loneliness creep into my chest. What would happen if Mom never came home? How would I know if she was kidnapped or ran away?

My hand trembles as I set the plate inside the cabinet. I reach for my iPhone on the kitchen bar, preparing to call her—but then footsteps stomp to our front door. The doorknob twists open.

And in stumbles Mom. 

***

Mom's frizzy waves are untamed, making her hair look like a lion's mane. And I swear I smell alcohol radiating from her from where I stand in the kitchen.

The door clicks behind her. She shakes out of her snow-covered jacket and drops that, along with her purse, onto the floor.

A hand goes to my hip. "Where've you been?"

She giggles.

Did I miss the part of my question that was amusing?

"You know where I was. Jill had a Christmas party." Her words are slurred into one. "You weren't worried about me again, were you? I told you—" She takes a wobbly step forward and stumbles over her purse that lies on the ground. "I'm the mother here."

A disgusted laugh escapes from my lips. "Really? Because recently, I haven't been able to tell which role we're playing here."

She yanks a boot from her foot. It thumps to the ground. "Excuse me?"

"You said you'd come home early tonight, Mom." I throw the dish rag back into the sink. "I left Sarah's party so we could have a dinner together. As a family." That last word catches in my throat.