Chapter Text
December 1994
Snow fell to the ground outside as I waited upstairs in my room— waiting to hear the sound of my dad's car pulling up. He was often late, and often left me alone, which was fine. I didn't always mind having time to daydream and think about a more hopeful future.
Eventually, I did hear a car pull up, but I knew better than to get my hopes up. Voices were chattering below, and none of them were as loud or annoying enough to be the one belonging to my dear father.
"Wait here," I heard Laura's voice tell someone, presumably Neal, inside the car.
Sliding off my bed, I peeked out my window, and low and behold, I was correct. I couldn't even bother being surprised at his tardiness anymore, after enough time living with him, you get used to those sorts of things... Or, you leave. In my case, I didn't have a choice.
There was shuffling to the front doorsteps, then a small knock. Crossing my room, I made my way down the stairs to greet my... ex-stepmother and little brother at the door.
"Hi, Laura," I mustered up a polite smile as I opened the front door-- green with the paint chipping at the corners.
"Angie," She replied, very obviously peering around my shoulders to the dark house behind me. Her eyes scanned the room, then she let out a disappointed sigh.
It wasn't that I had any sort of grudge or ill-favour towards Laura. We were polite, and civil, which was a lot more than could be said about her relationship with my dad. I was ten years old when she married my dad, a marriage that lasted a chaotic bloody mess of three years. She was never the maternal type, not that I wanted her to be, and it wasn't until Charlie came along that I saw any genuine warmth from her, mostly claw and dagger fights with Dad. Today, she seemed to be more like a distant relative, or an aunt who only showed up out of obligation when she felt Charlie needed to see Dad.
"Angie!!" Charlie burst through the door with a shining smile, hugging me tightly around the middle.
While I wasn't necessarily close with Laura, Charlie was the only light that came from those three years together. Not that he'd admitted it verbally, but I had the feeling that the real reason he put up with spending the occasional holidays with us was more because of me, and not because he wanted 'father-son bonding time'.
I ran a hand through Charlie's fine dark hair and hugged him tighter. Charlie eventually wiggled free, running inside and setting his overnight bag down in the hall.
"Where's Dad?" He looked around, his little face falling in disappointment.
"He said he's running late again." I didn't meet Laura's gaze because I knew the face she'd have.
She didn't like dropping Charlie off when Dad wasn't home, as if I, an adult eighteen-year-old woman, couldn't handle him for a few hours... And honestly, I felt that I took care of Charlie better than he did anyway.
"Yeah, I've heard that one before." Laura scoffed, "Look, why don't we--"
"You can come in if you'd like," I took a step back, "Until Dad gets here, at least."
"Oh, I-" Her eyes widened, her mouth pausing open.
As if right on cue, my dad's little grey car pulled up. He parked and jogged, (somewhat awkwardly), over to us. He wore his business clothes and a smile so fake and cheesy that it almost pained me to look at him.
"Oh! Sorry I'm late, hi." He said as he pulled Charlie into a side hug.
Charlie smiled but I could tell he only did so because Laura had probably sat him down and told him to beforehand.
"Hi," Laura's eyes pierced daggers at him, her lips tightening into a thin smile.
"Did you want to come in for a minute?" He gestured towards the door, then paused, his eyes falling on me. "Oh, Angie, I didn't realise you'd be home yet! I thought you had your concert... thingy." He waved his hand up, hesitating before he said "concert thingy" as if he forgot what a performance was called.
I rolled my eyes, not caring if I was being polite to Dad. Laura wasn't my mother, and I hadn't gotten a sit-down beforehand like Charlie had.
"Well, that's what happens when you're almost an hour late," I said, face straight and humourless. "The performance ends , and I get to walk home in the snow since you took the only car."
Dad's face froze as the tension in the air only grew more with his ex-wife and children staring at him, "I'm...er, sorry kiddo." He gave a forced smile, "Um, I'll make it up to you... Laura, did you guys want to come in?" He asked again, sounding a little more desperate this time, as if it would ease any unrest created in the doorway.
"Well, uh," Lauara pointed a hand over her shoulder to the glistening street, "Neal is waiting in the car, so,"
Neal's car was still running. His fingers tapped impatiently at the wheel, and occasionally he'd glance over with an irritated look.
"Why doesn't he come in?" Dad asked her, a bit annoyed that our weird little broken family couldn't just have a nice awkward moment altogether.
"Cause, Daddy, he says you'll just end up saying something snotty," Charlie said, turning to meet Dad's eyes.
"Not necessarily, could be rude or sarcastic. Whatever it takes." Dad crouched over, peering outwards, giving a strange twisted face, almost the type you'd make if you took a spoonful of lemon juice, and waved to the man in the car.
I wished they would just leave. I was not in the mood for petty bickering tonight, not after walking home, nearly freezing my ass off. Of course, how these drop-offs always went though, the odds didn't seem to be in my favour. I tugged at the edge of my pyjama shirt, rubbing it between my fingers as they continued talking.
"I really gotta go," Laura, kept looking between the car and the house as if desperately wanting to leave.
Just leave then. I thought to myself.
There was no reason for her to want to be here either. She didn't care for me much, definitely didn't like Dad, and Charlie would be just fine like he always was. We usually hung out upstairs in my room anyway, since Dad would go finish some work of some sort and leave us alone.
"Come on, come on. It's Christmas Eve. Just a minute?" He tried to reason with her.
Reluctantly Laura stepped inside the house, nearly slipping on the steps, but I caught her by the arm and helped her up. She muttered a quick thanks, stomping her boots off on the welcome mat.
Charlie followed me into the living room, Laura and Dad usually didn't make it far past the hallway.
"Angie, do you think Mom and Dad will ever get along?" He asked quietly as he looked around our living room.
"You know Charlie, maybe if you make a big Christmas wish they will," I smiled, putting a hand on his shoulder.
I could tell that he was disappointed in what he saw, and I couldn't blame him. Our house was the only house on the block without Christmas lights. We had a Christmas tree-- an old plastic thing from years ago, and a few dusty old ornaments I'd put up. Dad wasn't big on the whole Christmas thing, other than the money it brought in at work.
Dad and Laura had already started up, their voices echoing down the hall.
"-Christmas at the pound," Dad called, followed by some howling, and cat noises.
Great, I thought.
For a man who claimed that he wanted to get along with his family, he sure didn't try very hard. Charlie would have to keep wishing this Christmas.
"There aren't that many presents here," Charlie climbed onto the couch next to me, a pout forming on his lips. His eyes flicked to the commotion in the halls, and he scooted closer to me.
Poor kid. He didn't deserve all of this.
"That's because Santa hasn't come yet!" I tried to cheer him up, "Those there are just presents from Dad and me."
It was true, usually, we would hide a few extras... Well, I would hide a few extras in my closet to bring down for him on Christmas morning. Dad wasn't the best shopper... Well, I did all the Christmas shopping around here too. It was part of my responsibility. I was Charlie's person-- I sort of had to be.
Usually, the Santa talk was all it took to distract Charlie. But he avoided my gaze, dark eyes falling to his feet dangling off the edge of the sofa.
"Neal doesn't believe in Santa."
I paused, my mouth momentarily freezing open.
"Well, Neal's head comes to a point," Dad walked through the archway into the living room.
"Dad!" I snapped, turning to give him a sharp look.
Charlie furrowed his dark eyebrows in protest. "He's smart! He's a doctor!"
Outside, Neal had decided enough was enough, and honked his horn twice. It was as if he could channel the negative energy flowing through the house, though whether he too could hear our conversation was debatable.
"He's not a doctor, he's a psychiatrist," Dad argued back with my child younger brother.
Who was I kidding? Petty arguments, especially petty arguments with little eight-year-olds would happen with or without Laura and Neal inside.
Neal continued honking his horn like an impatient toddler having a temper tantrum.
Dad pulled Laura's arm into the hallway. "Did that jerk tell Charlie there was no Santa Claus?"
They started "discussing" particularly loud, their voices rising once more.
"Right, because you don't want kids running around using their imaginations." Dad huffed.
I could easily imagine the annoyed look on his face, the look of bewilderment on Laura's.
Charlie beside me looked like he was trying to block it all out, hands over his ears.
"Charlie, you stay here. I'm going to go talk to them, alright?"
Charlie nodded, his hands not leaving his ears.
I stood, storming into the hallway. "Both of you, stop it." I hissed, "If you actually cared about
Charlie in there, you would at least attempt to get along! This is ridiculous-- How is it that I have to be the adult here? You're the grown-ups, act like it!"
"We're not fighting!" Laura crossed her arms bitterly.
Charlie came running around the corner. "You are too fighting! Why do you always have to fight!" His voice cracked, and he looked like he was fighting tears.
The moment Charlie walked into the hall, Dad and Laura plastered on cheerful smiles, the kind that felt stretched and artificial, as if grinning wide enough could erase the tension that clung to the air. It didn’t.
"It's your mom singing, Charlie," Dad said with exaggerated cheer. "Sounds a lot like fighting, doesn't it? Cats even." He then launched into an absurd series of yowling noises that made me want to sink into the floor and disappear.
Laura caught my eye, and for a brief second, we shared a mutual look of disdain. She didn’t even bother to mask hers. It was sharp, palpable. Sometimes I wondered how they had ever ended up together in the first place. Then again, I knew the answer. I just didn’t get it. They of all people—so fundamentally different, so fundamentally wrong together.
"Neal and your mom don't believe in Santa because they were really naughty, which is probably why they'll get lumps of coal in their stockings. Unlike me, who will get everything he desires because I do believe in Santa." He seemed to be trying too hard to push the point.
“Well,” Laura began, her voice calm but clipped, trying to interject before he could dig the hole any deeper.
"Yeah, everything you desire," I muttered under my breath, sarcasm curling around the words. "So, more avoiding your family to do work… We get it." I wished I could say it louder, to call him out properly, but I knew better. Dad thrived on pushing buttons, and adding more fuel to the fire never ended well.
"Maybe you should get going, I wouldn't want to keep Dr Pinhead waiting." Dad walked into the kitchen, allowing the two to say goodbye.
After Laura left, the silence in the house turned heavy and awkward, like a storm cloud refusing to pass. I knew Dad would probably try to talk to Charlie and me about what happened, most likely circling back to push the whole Santa thing on him. I couldn’t figure out why he was so insistent. Sure, Charlie was young, but I wasn’t much older when I stopped believing. Something about watching your mum die slowly over the course of a year, losing her to an illness that couldn’t be cured, tends to drain the magic out of Christmas—and every holiday after that.
But it wasn’t my place to rip away Charlie’s belief just yet. Both his parents were alive, and even if the constant fighting and gaslighting would probably give him some family trauma down the line, he still had his innocence. His imagination was bright and fun, and I didn’t want to be the one to dull that.
Eventually, Dad called out something about dinner, followed by an instruction to help Charlie get comfortable. So I brought him upstairs to his bedroom, figuring a change into pyjamas would be a good start.
Charlie broke the silence as I unfolded his clothes. He sat cross-legged on his bed, fiddling with his hands. “Angie, I don’t know… It’s starting to feel kind of babyish to believe in Santa.”
I gasped, pretending to be scandalised. “Charlie, don’t be ridiculous! I believe in Santa Claus, and I’m not a baby!”
He shrugged, unconvinced. I sat beside him and wrapped him in a side hug, squeezing lightly.
“Listen, Charlie, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks,” I said, my tone turning serious. “You get to decide what you believe in. If the other kids make fun of you, or Neal says something different, that doesn’t mean you have to change your mind.” I placed my hands on his shoulders and looked him in the eyes, making sure he understood.
Charlie nodded, his face softening a little. “Do you really believe in Santa, Angie?”
I smiled, giving him a playful wink. “Well, where else would all the presents come from tomorrow?” I thought briefly about the stash in my closet but kept that part to myself.
Before we could talk any further, the sharp, piercing beep of the smoke alarms interrupted us. We both bolted downstairs to find Dad in the kitchen, wielding a fire extinguisher like a sword, spraying foam all over a blackened turkey. Flames licked the sides of the oven, filling the room with the nauseating mix of smoke, burnt meat, and extinguisher residue.
Charlie pinched his nose, his voice small and disappointed. “Those flames were really big, Dad.”
More than just the turkey, almost everything on the table either looked burnt or undercooked... Usually, we would spend Christmas with my Mom's parents, but they moved to California, and with them, they took the only talented chef in the family.
I sighed, looking at the carnage. “Did you try to cook the turkey faster by turning up the heat?” I asked, glancing at the manual in my hands.
"Maybe, but I didn't know it needed 4 hours! What is it doing in there? Getting some beauty sleep?"
Charlie peered over my arm at the instructions. “It says here that the long cooking time makes it taste better because all the flavours can—”
“Point is, I didn’t know,” Dad interrupted, cutting him off. “Now, do we want turkey or not?”
We all stared at the burnt, smoking bird as he pulled it from the oven. After a long pause, Dad sighed and grabbed his keys. “Alright, I’ll drive.”
So with that unlikely chain of events, we decided it would be best if we ate out. Denny's– not my Christmas pick, but the pick nonetheless. Not the first pick, mind you, but the only pick that was affordable and available last minute.
Cold turkey was better than burnt turkey I suppose, but my mashed potatoes were runny, and my bread was slightly stale. Even my decaf coffee had some coffee grinds in the bottom of the cup, which wasn't great.
What was even better is that I got to hear Dad talking down about Neal more, which wasn't as entertaining the billionth time you hear it. In my opinion, he was more of a father figure to Charlie, although I didn't agree with a lot of the stuff he told him at the same time.
Back home, Dad tucked Charlie into bed and read him The Night Before Christmas . I stood in the doorway, watching from a distance. For a moment, I saw a glimpse of the dad I used to know—the one who was funny and warm, who lit up every room he walked into. That was before Mom died.
After she was gone, he became distant, colder, like a part of him had been buried alongside her. Watching him with Charlie stirred something bittersweet in me. It wasn’t fair. Charlie got glimpses of the dad I’d lost, the dad I needed most when my world had fallen apart. But I couldn’t begrudge him those moments. If anything, I hoped Charlie could hold onto them longer than I had.
I blinked a couple of times, trying not to get lost in this train of thought. I didn't want to be bitter while Charlie was here.
"What's that?"
"What's what, Charlie?"
"A Rose Suchak ladder?"
“It’s not a ladder,” I said, holding back a laugh. “It’s ‘Arose such a clatter.’” Dad nodded along from the doorway.
"It means, "Came a big noise." Dad tried to expand.
Charlie still seemed confused by this, so he went on.
"Arose is a word that means "it came", and clatter is a big noise." He sat in the white chair next to his bed, and I finally walked in and sat on the toe end of Charlie's bed. "Now please, go to sleep. Shut your eyes." He picked up the book again, flipping through it.
"How do reindeer fly? They don't have any wings." Charlie peeked over his thick comforter at me.
“Um… magic fairy dust,” I said, throwing out the first thing that came to mind.
“That’s Peter Pan,” Charlie shot back, matter-of-fact. “Santa doesn’t have fairy dust.”
“Horns,” Dad cut in, pointing to the book.
“Antlers,” Charlie corrected, a little smug. I was proud of that—he’d learned the difference from me. Bonus points for calling Dad out on it.
"Whatever. Their uh, antlers give them... You know there's a slipstream effect." Dad swooped his hand forward, trying to illustrate what he was saying. "The air goes... They move fast..." He stumbled from word to word, while I fought the urge to shake my head at him.
“They’re weightless,” I added, trying to save him.
"But if Santa's so fat, how did he get down the chimneys?" Charlie was clearly made of questions tonight, as his little face twisted, signaling the gears in his brain were turning, trying to make sense of things.
"He sucks it in, like Grandpa does." Dad sat up, sucking his stomach in.
"Or what about when people don't have a fireplace? How does he get into their house?" Charlie continued to fire question after question before Dad stopped him.
“Charlie,” Dad interrupted, setting the book down. He paused, clearly searching for the right words. “Sometimes, believing in something just means… you believe in it.” He nodded like he’d solved world peace. “Santa uses reindeer because that’s how he gets around.”
Charlie squinted at us. “But you believe in Santa, right, Dad? Angie?”
“Of course,” we said at the same time.
“Absolutely,” Dad added, stroking Charlie’s hair. “Now go to sleep.” He flipped off the light and headed out.
“Angie,” Charlie called as I reached the door. I turned back.
“Yeah, bud?”
“Don’t forget to leave cookies and milk out, just in case.”
“Dad, preheat the oven!” I whisper-yelled down the hall.
"If he's doing it, don't forget the fire extinguisher," Charlie yelled louder so Dad could hear.
"Good night, Charlie," Dad yelled back, a hint of exacerbation in his tone.
I joined Dad downstairs, where he leaned against the counter, looking frazzled. “Angie, do you think I’m doing the right thing? Keeping this Santa thing alive for him?”
I sighed, tugging at my shirt hem. “No offence, Dad, but… you’re doing a better job this time.”
"Thanks, kid." He responded sarcastically.
“No, I mean… at least he’s asking questions,” I said, leaning on the counter. “It’s better for him to be curious than to just give up on it. I don’t think it’s wrong—as long as he eventually learns the truth.”
Dad paused, then glanced up. “When did you stop believing, Angie?”
I blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
“You used to be like Charlie,” he said with a small chuckle. “Always going on about Santa and elves. You even swore Santa and an elf visited you once, said you were going to be an elf when you grew up.”
"I already told you, it must have been a strange childhood dream, okay?" I laughed along. "I don't even remember that hardly." A moment passed as I thought. "I guess I stopped believing when Mom died... In a sense, I feel both of us did." I sat down on one of the counter chairs.
Dad nodded. "Angie, I am sorry. I don't want to make the same mistakes with Charlie, but I don't want you to think it means I love you any less." His openness surprised me. He was usually "all tough macho man".
"I know Dad," I gave a tight smile, "It's alright. Charlie is what's important now... I'm going to bed I think." I said, and left quietly without another word to go upstairs.