Page 7 of One More Day
It won’t feel like Christmas without you.
That one stung, I admit, but there’s no going back now. I am leaving. In fact, I’m leaving in the next few seconds if she’d only stop messaging me so I can go.
It took me a long time to make this decision. Now my bags are packed, the car is filled with fuel and Max is all set for the journey. Helena knows how to press my buttons, so I must be assertive and maintain my stance.
I still can’t believe I’m doing this, but I am.
I glance around the house I once loved with all my heart and remind myself that this – a Christmas alone – is essentially my fault. Just like me, my home has lost its soul and is an empty shell of its former self. The living room which was once bursting with colour and festive cheer looks as bare as the trees that stand in the front garden through the window outside, huge weeping willows grey and stark, and for the past two years I’ve lost interest in making it look or feel any more homely.
It’s now meticulously clean and white inside, with nothing out of place. No plastic toys scattered on the floor, no tiny trainers in the hallway, no muddy pink wellington boots by the back door. No mac and cheese to serve up on demand, or Cheerios for breakfast. My house serves its purpose as a place of work with a home office in the spare room, and a place to eat and sleep, but that’s as far as it goes.
It doesn’t feel like a home any more. There are photos of Rebecca everywhere: on the table in the entrance hallway; on the living room mantelpiece; on the dining room walls. They capture so many stages of her young life. Her first Christmas on Santa’s knee looking more terrified than anything. Her first ride on a mini rollercoaster whereIlook more terrified than anything and she is ecstatic with her arms in the air. Her first day at school where her schoolbag looks like it might tip her over. My gaze falls on a picture of her horse-riding with Helena on a beach near the Giant’s Causeway … so many memories, frozen in time and enough to break my heart every time I glance their way.
I stare into the empty corner where a Christmas tree used to stand so proudly at this time of year, full of decorations made with tiny hands and surrounded by a rainbow of red, green, gold and silver presents all waiting to be torn open on Christmas morning.
Even the television set haunts me. I close my eyes, picturing her in cosy pyjamas with festive slipper-clad feet dangling off the edge of the armchair as she watches re-runs of everything fromHome AlonetoElftoThe Snowmanon repeat.
Right, that’s it. I need to go.
My phone bleeps. Helena again no doubt but I don’t have time to check. I don’t have time, yet I do check. I always do.
Charlie, I got a new green velvet dress for Christmas Day but I’m not so sure about it. If I send you a photo, will you tell me the honest truth? Have you left yet?
I count to three before messaging her back.
Yes, send me the pic and I’ll give you my honest thoughts when I get to Donegal. I’m leaving now.
Iamleaving right now.
I really don’t want you to go, she replies.
I put my hands to my head and sit down for just one moment to think it all through again.
She is the one person in the world who needs me now. Now that my daughter is off playing happy families with her mum and new stepdad in another country, this is it. Just me, Helena and Max against the world.
But it’s not enough. How can it ever be enough?
I lean my face into my hands and close my eyes, but every time I do I see Rebecca’s tear-stained face at the airport when we were forced to say goodbye six weeks ago.
She didn’t want to leave me. I didn’t want her to go. Am I doing the same thing now to Helena? Am I causing the same pain to her that’s been inflicted on me by leaving her at Christmas?
Oh Rebecca. How can I get through the holidays without you?
This isn’t right. I could punch something. This isn’t Christmas. This is purgatory. What do I do?
Maybe I need to stay and face up to the fact that this is the way it’s going to be from now on. Me, Helena and Max in this white-walled, love-starved corner of Belfast where I feel like I’m pleasing everyone but myself as bloody usual. A life where I live in this torment, knowing I can’t be a real father to a child that’s thousands of miles away, on the other endof a phone, yet smile and put on a brave face for everyone else to see?
No. I can’t stay here. I can’t spend Christmas here without my daughter.
Max is in the car waiting. I blow out a long breath, grab the car keys and shut the door behind me before I let Helena change my mind. I need a break. She knows I need a break. I need to do this for my own sanity. I’m already hanging by a thread.
‘County Donegal, young Max,’ I say to my seasoned friend who at six years old – actually, forty-two in dog years to give him his dues – is probably the only thing keeping me functioning these days. Well, Max, Helena and the twelve clients who tell me their problems every week and remind me that even though my own world has been tipped on its axis, I still have a whole lot to live for.
I may not have Rebecca to take to see Santa, or to open presents with, or to sing cheesy carols with, or to watch on with pride from a packed audience full of smiling parents at the school nativity, but I can and I will get through this.
It’s not Christmas without her, so I need to do what I need to do to get over this first Christmas without my baby girl. I need to forget it’s even happening.
Max jumps up onto his hind legs and looks out the window.
