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“Vicky?” I asked, my voice soft, barely traveling past the slightly cracked door of my sister’s room. “You awake?”
“Yeah,” came the answer, equally soft. Vicky sounded tired, but there were no signs of sleep in her voice. I hadn’t woken her up.
I slowly slipped through the door into her room. This was still a sacred space, even as often as I entered it. I couldn’t help flicking my eyes around the darkened space, cataloging the positions of every item and trying to deduce what she might’ve been doing since last time I was in here.
Vicky scooted over, making space for me to climb into the bed with her, something I only rarely did anymore. “Nightmares again?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Nope,” Vicky confirmed. “Tomorrow’s Christmas. You excited?”
No, I thought, before I could stop myself. It won’t be a real Christmas. That’s a holiday for people with family, and you’re the only family that ever cared about me. And I can’t have you the way I want you.
Instead of saying any of that, I shrugged. “I guess,” I answered noncommittally. “You know it’s gonna be. Weird. Mom will insist we still patrol or something. There’s going to be someone who needs healing. It won’t really be a special day.”
“Yeah,” Vicky agreed. “Plus, Mom’s presents are always a little…” She trailed off, looking for the right word.
“Passive aggressive?” I suggested, the corner of my mouth tilting upward into a rare smirk.
“Ha,” She chuckled quietly. “Yeah.”
The room returned to a full-throated silence. I stared at my sister’s face, softly illuminated from behind by the silver moonlight. Those dark thoughts and feelings were starting to rise up in my chest, but I didn’t have the heart tonight to crush them. She was so beautiful, and I’m just… so me.
“Hey, Ames,” Vicky said, still staring contemplatively at the ceiling. “We could do our own Christmas. Tonight. Just you and me.”
I blinked. “We could?”
“Yeah!” Vicky answered, her voice picking up in excitement, but still quiet enough to not wake Carol and Mark in the other room. She floated up from her bed, over to her big walk-in closet. The sounds of clothes and boxes being haphazardly tossed around started to emanate from her direction a moment later. I couldn’t muster the energy to sit up and watch, but I listened.
“Mom gave me these a few months ago,” Vicky continued, “Test prints for a new line, her guy sent ‘em over. I think Mom eventually decided to go with cheaper stuff so,” Vicky floated back over carrying a cardboard box, “These are one of a kind.”
I peeled back the edges of the box and peeked inside. Pajama shirts. One for each member of New Wave. Lady Photon, Flashbang, Brandish… I dug a little deeper. Down at the very bottom, one in my white and red, with “Panacea” embroidered across the front in a cutesy font, and a little hood attached. It felt warm.
“Where’s the Glory Girl…” I started to ask, then glanced up. Vicky was holding a pajama top close to her chest, and as I looked at her, she thrust it at me.
“Merry Christmas, Ames,” Vicky said. She glanced at the alarm clock on her nightstand. “Hah, as of six minutes ago.”
I looked down at it. A soft, warm pajama top. “Glory Girl!”, streaked across the front, her sun-rays tiara design underneath in gold. Tears started welling up in my eyes.
I shoved the Panacea shirt at her, unable to meet her eyes. “Merry Christmas, Vicky,” the rest of the sentence echoing unspoken in my head for the rest of the night, I love you.
7 Years Later
I sat, feet pulled up under me, the warm socks defending against the frigid cold of Europe Gimel’s winter. There wasn’t much Christmas Eve to celebrate, especially not for me, with a full shift at the Asylum today, and another tomorrow. A knock came at the door.
“I got it!” My roommate, Adele, shouted from across the house, her French accent heavy on the words. I glanced at my phone. 12:07am. Just after midnight.
The phantom hands caressed my shoulders, phantoms of the Vicky I had made years ago. The hallucinations – or whatever it was – had been getting more frequent. I tried to ignore them, tried to focus on the healing I’d been working with that therapist for. But I didn’t have the strength to put into any of those coping mechanisms tonight. I felt myself unconsciously lean into the touch.
I did, however, try my best to ignore the sweet nothings the Vicky in my mind whispered into my ears.
“It’s for you,” Adele said, coming back into the room. “Some pretty blonde American cape, handed it to me and flew off.”
My heart clenched in my chest as Adele set a small, wrapped present on the couch next to me. A small name in sharpie addressed it to “Amy” in unmistakable handwriting. The phantom Vicky paused, three of her hands resting on my shoulders, rather than the more risque positions they usually preferred.
Carefully, I lifted it into my lap and peeled the wrapping paper off, doing my best not to tear it. If it really was from her… Soon enough, I revealed a plain cardboard box. Opening it, revealed a folded expanse of black fabric, and a letter nestled on top.
“What’re you afraid of?” The Vicky in my mind asked, her voice dripping with a sugary sweetness that I knew could turn to malice in a heartbeat, “I’m right here, and you know I’d never hurt you.”
You aren’t Her, I thought back at it. Still, I reached in and unfolded the letter.
To my sister, if she still exists, it started. I’ve been thinking about you, as the holiday approached. Hope you’re well. In honor of what we once were. Victoria. Just a few simple lines, and in smaller text, a postscript.
P.S. Please don’t take this as a reconciliation or anything. I still don’t want to see you, I’m just working through things, same as you.
P.P.S. Stick with the therapy, it’s good for you. Hope you’re healing. You don’t need me to have a happy life.
P.P.P.S. Merry Christmas, Amy.
“You’ve always needed me,” The phantom Vicky whispered, “And I’m right here, with you, forever,” she purred, as a pair of her hands crept upwards towards my neck.
I ignored her, pulling out the fabric and shaking it out. A black pajama top, with Antares’ gold sun/hand design in the middle, and a hood. No text on the front, but on the back, “In Memory, Christmas 2010”.
“You dating someone new, Amy?” Adele asked. “You know it’s a crime not to tell me if you’re tapping someone that hot.”
“No,” I choked out, as the phantom hands closed around my neck. I peeked inside the pajama top, and where a manufacturer’s tag would be, was a small embroidered line of text. To my sister, may she find herself again. “Just… the one that got away.”
I jumped, as the phantom Vicky planted a kiss on my cheek. “Merry Christmas, Ames. I love you.”