A Christmas Surprise

I hate the rain. It’s cold, miserable, and makes walking to and from work terrible. Why I moved to a small coastal town that rains ten months out of the year, beats me. But I needed a new place, a fresh start, and this small town looked hopeful. It wasn’t.

I’ve lived here for nearly a decade now and it hasn’t gotten much better. I worked at a factory packaging sweets. But the job was nothing sweet.

After another deplorable day at work with my boss criticizing my performance, I walked home like I always do. The rain was heavy and cold. It smelled refreshing compared to the usual salty air, but the cold sank into my sore muscles and joints like daggers. The wind tossed the rain under my umbrella and against my jeans. My shoes wicked up the damp from puddles, even though I tried my best to avoid them. By the time I reached my apartment, I was shivering. It could be worse, it could be snow. But the snow would actually be nice and cheery and might brighten my mood for Christmas next month.

After sneaking past my landlord, I turned up the heat in my apartment and slipped off my sodden shoes. Well, more like wretched them off my foot since my wet socks wanted to cling to my Converse like lovers. After changing into dry clothes (the only acceptable attire for a cold day-fleece pajamas) I started making dinner. Cup of noodles. Very original, and affordable. I wanted to spice up my normal routine so I took out a pot to boil the ramen noodles and added vegetables and leftover rotisserie chicken I splurged on two days ago.

My apartment was small and what some people would call cozy. I called it affordable. It at least had its own bathroom, even though it didn’t have a door. Not that it mattered, because I was the only one here. The kitchen consisted of a microwave above the electric range stovetop that always smelled of fish, even though I never cooked fish, and a mini-fridge. I had a small sink to wash my dishes and a small counter to dry them. The living room was also the bedroom and I had my twin mattress on the floor. I scored a brown, loveseat a few years back on the side of the road for free and got my neighbor to help move it into my apartment for five bucks and half a leftover pizza. Its cushions were mashed to almost nothing and smelled of wet dog. At least I like dogs.

A slow, monotonous knock echoed from my door. I checked the eyehole and didn’t see anyone, so I returned to stir my pot of noodles. Another knock was heard. I ignored it, and a beep was heard in the hallway followed by another knock. I opened the door to chew out the culprit and stared at the drone holding a small brown paper package.

Delivery, the robotic voice said.

I frowned at the drone. I never received packages. I never order anything online. One needs money to do that and I barely can pay my bills. I rolled my eyes, irritated at who it could be from. My parents.

My sister probably let it slip where I had moved. I hadn’t spoken to them in years and this could be a ‘peace’ offering. But forgiveness is not easily bought.

“No thanks,” I said to the drone.

It hovered in front of me and repeated itself. Delivery.

“What if I don’t want it? I can reject it, can’t I?” No response from the drone. My questions were far more advanced for its basic programming.

Delivery. I wanted to kick it down the hall.

“Fine.” I took the package. It beeped at me.

Goodbye. It flew down the hallway and exited the building through the drone port near the mailboxes.

The brown package was damp from the rain and has a vibrant red ribbon wrapped around it. I hate Christmas.

I closed the door and heard the sizzling and smelled something burning in my kitchen. I tossed the package on the loveseat and ran into the kitchen.

“Damn it!” My pot of noodles had boiled over and burned the glass top of my electric range. I hate cooking. Why did I even try? The vegetables were cooked and the noodles were nearly mush. I propped my phone on a pillow and turned on Netflix to eat my mushy meal, wrapping my blanket around my legs.

When I reached over to set my bowl down on the window sill I saw the package in the corner of my eye. I really wanted to throw it out the window. It ruined my dinner. It irritated me. I hated thinking about my parents. I hadn’t seen them since I left before high school graduation. I had bought a bus ticket and didn’t bother saying goodbye. They never listened whenever I did speak, so why bother saying anything at all?

My sister found me a few years later and we reconnected somewhat. She was happily married with a family of her own. She tried to get me to visit mom and dad. But she didn’t understand. Nobody did.

Even with how much I hated that stupid little package, I couldn’t help but wonder what was inside. I pulled at the ribbon, which was tied in a knot and a lot stronger than I anticipated. I cut it with my teeth and ripped open the package. Inside was a poorly drawn picture of a little girl holding hands with her mom in front of a gaudy, glitter Christmas tree and an envelope. Was this an old assignment I did when I was a kid? The text on top of the picture read:

For Christmas, I want:

Then the picture took up the majority of the page and in terrible handwriting, it read:

To meet my real mom.

My heart stopped when I read those words. Real mom? Who sent this? Is this some kind of ploy to get me to reach out to my parents? Do they have her?

I forgot to breathe for what seemed like forever and my vision went blurry. I sent down the page and saw the envelope still inside the package. Written in cursive was my full name.

Why would they write my full name? Are my parents this desperate?

I fumbled with the envelope and found a short letter that read:

Dear Ms. Smith,

You may not know my name, but I know of yours. You gave me the most precious gift and there is nothing I can give in return. I ask that you will contact me so you will meet her. She asks about you and I want her to meet her mother.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Bradshaw

She left her contact information at the bottom.

I let the letter slip from my hands as tears filled my eyes. The memories that I have buried for so long, that haunt me in my dreams came flooding back.

*

I tried to keep it from my parents as long as I could. But my little sister couldn’t keep her mouth shut. I shouldn’t have told her where Jake was going to take me that night, but I needed her to cover for me. She wanted an answer and I should have lied.

“You’re pregnant! How did this happen?” My mother screamed. Like she didn’t know how babies were made.

“That boy, I told you he was no good for her!” My father punched the dinner table. My sister let my condition slip right before dinner ended.

“I’m going to get rid of it! Tonight!” I shouted at them. They were not pleased.

“You will do no such thing!” My parents were firm believers that a baby was a gift from God, even if it was out of wedlock and would embarrass the family. They said God would never forgive me if I had an abortion.

That’s what began my house arrest. I was taken out of school for ‘medical’ reasons and homeschooled by my mother. She took me to all my doctor appointments and meetings with an adoption agency. Other than that I was not allowed out of the house. They took my phone and cut me off from contacting the ‘outside’ world. My friends would call and my parents would make an excuse for why I couldn’t speak to them. My parents made excuses for why I never left the house. The church was praying for my recovery from my mystery illness. My father refused to speak to me. For months I was miserable, depressed even. I hated how controlling they were all growing up, but this was next-level insanity. I had no say about anything.

I grew enormous and my mother showered her anxiety on me. I guess she felt trapped that I did. She worried about what the family would say, what the neighbors would say, what people at church would say. I didn’t care what anyone had to say, I just wanted to speak to someone outside that gaudy, perfect house. An imperfect daughter did not feel at home in a perfect house.

The closer my due date came and the more I felt my baby kick, I loved her more and more. I would speak to her because I had no one else to talk to. Sometimes I pretended she kicked in response. At least one good thing could come of this. One morning I approached my mom about possibly keeping her. She rolled her eyes at me.

“You’re 16! A child! What do you know about taking care of a baby? Besides, we’ve already met with an adoption agency. They’re finalizing everything soon.”

In my last effort to regain control, I insisted on open adoption at our last meeting with the adoption agency. My mother tried to politely hide her fury in front of the agent and said no family would be open to that. The agent said they had a family lined up to adopt my little girl. They would know my name and how to contact me, but I would have to wait for them to reach out to me. My mother doubted that would ever happen, so she agreed and we signed the paperwork.

My labor was long and painful. I was so scared and I thought I was going to die. My mother wouldn’t leave me be and tried to tell me what to do to ease my pain. I had enough of her stress storms and I screamed at her. All the rage I kept inside I let out. I doubt she’d ever forgive me for the things I said to her.

When I held my baby girl for the first time I cried. I didn’t think I’d be this happy ever. Her tiny little hands and feet were so perfect. How could I make something so beautiful, so precious when I wasn’t? If I knew that was the only time I would hold her, I would have never let her go.

After they took my baby away I cried for months. My parents kept everything quiet and I tried to reach out to my friends. But they had changed. I had changed. Their lives had continued without me, including Jake’s. I was alone and wished I could start over.

Shortly before high school graduation the next year I left home. I had enough of my people’s empty sympathy, my mom’s anxiety, and my dad’s silent rage. I packed a bag and never looked back. My sister found me a few years later and we stayed in contact. She wanted me to mend things with mom and dad, but how could I? She never understood what they put me through. She was their golden child. I was their stain. How could I ever forgive them? There was nothing to mend.

Now, all these years later I finally found her. What would she think of me? Would she like me? What did she look like? The butterflies in my stomach wanted to leap out of my throat. I started pacing. I stared at her contact information all night and decided to call first thing in the morning. What will I say to her?

*

Snow had finally fallen a few weeks later. A long bus ride took me to a coffee shop in an unfamiliar town. The lampposts were decorated with wreaths, garlands, and lights. Banners celebrated Christmas, declaring peace and joy in this season. The smell of roasted coffee beans, peppermint, and gingerbread aroused my nostrils when I entered that coffee shop. My heart fluttered when I saw her.

She had brown hair, just like mine, but her eyes were dark like his. She reminded me so much of myself that I felt I had just gone back in time and found a younger, happier me. Innocent and full of hope and joy. But at the same time she reminded me of her father. She had his dimples and his charming smile. I choked back the tears and wrangled in my emotions when I approached them.

Her mother greeted me and she smiled up at me.

“Hi. My name is Clara.” She hugged me, failing to hide her giddiness.

“Hi, Clara.” A tear slipped from my eye.

She gave me a dimpled smile.

We spoke for hours and I answered all her questions the best I could. She told me about all her friends, her ballet lessons, and her dog named Chubbs. She had such a wonderful, joyful life. I was so grateful she now wanted me to be a part of it. And that her parents were willing to include me. I did not think I would be able to see her again, or that she would want to meet me. My heart swelled with immeasurable joy. A joy that I don’t think I had ever felt before since the day I first held her.

“Came you come to Christmas? Please!” She begged.

I smiled and her mother nodded approvingly.

“Of course, Clara. Anything for you.”

“This is the best Christmas ever!” she shouted.

I couldn’t help but agree with her. I guess Christmas isn’t so bad after all.