Changes With The Seasons

I suppose you can't really call it my most memorable Christmas if I barely remember it. I do remember that it was Christmas, though, and that I had been given Bruce Almighty as one of my presents, something which only sticks in my mind because that was what I was watching when my Dad came to talk to me.1

It was three or four years ago, I think. Can't have been much longer than that - I don't think Bruce Almighty was on DVD before then. The year was ending better than it had started, and I had things to look forward to that I had completely given up hope on. 2

The spring was interesting. At an age, either thirteen or fourteen with summer on its way, when I should've been savouring my soon-to-be freedom, I spent most of my time indoors. My Summer holidays started horrifically, with tears and hurt and anger, all thanks to the one Sunday when I actually decided to come home on time.3

It was a day late into spring. I was getting used to having a social life in preparation for the long summer holidays, and had spent the weekend surrounded by friends. It was close to dinnertime, and two friends wandered up the path with me. It was one of them that alerted me to the sound coming from the back garden. Even shorter then than I am now, I struggled to peer over the fence. I wish I hadn't, it only got my friends interested. 4

With equal confusion we spied on my Mum, who sat with her head in her hands on the old wooden bench. It was only when she raised her head that I noticed the tears staining her cheeks.5

Shooing my friends away as politely as I could, I ran into the house. The hallway was veilled in a cold grey, so different to the the bright, May afternoon outside. I should've known then that there was something wrong, but for some reason I was confident when I strode out into the garden.6

Mum couldn't look at me. She was haloed by the setting sun, her sandy hair being gently tugged by a feeble breeze. A cup of coffee sat neglected and cold at her side, and her face was blotted with red. I moved from the patio to the grass, only a few steps away from her, and she whispered, eyes still averted:7

"Go see your Dad."8

I paused for a second, just watching her. Then, without a word, though longing to just sit and throw my arms around her and never have to hear what Dad had to say, I nodded and turned back to the house. Behind me I heard her beginning to sob again, but I spared her dignity and didn't look back.9

I'd walked right past him when I'd gone into the house, too eager to get to Mum. He sat in His Chair, the chair my brother, sister and I had all been trained to avoid, with a grave look. His grey-tinged hair looked fully slate black in this light, and his wrinkles were glossed over by half-darkness. Whatever had happened, it somehow made him look young and terrifying to me. 10

He took my hand in his, and when I embarrassedly looked away I saw the bag at his feet. 11

Dad told me he was leaving and I laughed in his face. I didn't need to ask if he was joking, his face told me everything, but I did anyway. He just looked at me with a hollow expression, and I had my answer. I left the room before he could, leaving him in the chair that had once been his. He'd abandoned it, just like he'd abandoned us. It wasn't his chair anymore, and we weren't his family.12

-----13

Two weeks into the Summer holidays, he told me he was coming back. I laughed again.14

I couldn't help laughing, it was just so surreal. My parents: who never fought. Then, my parents: who never did anything but fight. I had seen a horrible transformation in both of them over that time, but as I wandered into the bathroom early one morning, wiping dried tears and sleep out of my eyes, I was intercepted by Dad. With a cheeky grin, he narrowly beat me to the bathroom and closed the door in my face.15

I was apparently still looking dazed when he came back out, because he gave me a nonchalant nod and jogged down the stairs as though he'd been doing it every day for the past two months. I took the hint and said nothing of it when I went downstairs. 16

-----17

It was Christmas morning, and the past five months had been eerily good. I think if you'd taken a picture of us all, we'd have looked like a family in the 50's, who smile so much you'd think no one ever died or got sick, or that Dad had never had that affair five months ago. 18

I can't remember how I found out about it. I think my brother filled me in on it one day, and told me how Dad had turned up in the middle of the night, and him and Mum had somehow sorted it all out. I was the naive sort, the kind that always thought that Mum and Dad met and had never had another girlfriend or boyfriend and only had sex three times - to make me, Chris and Jennie. To hear the word 'affair' and learn that that's what had threatened to ruin my life, it was like I'd suddenly been dropped into reality ten years ahead of my time. Like I said: naive.19

Christmas day was blissful. The whole ordeal was completely forgotten about as I sat watching Mum kiss Dad in thanks for her gift - something very expensive, I think, bought with equal parts love and guilt - and I couldn't help grinning as they sat in each other's arms, watching with interest as I opened my gifts. I wanted someone to watch my new DVD with me, but Bruce Almighty didn't seem to be their thing. I forgot about it for the night, and just enjoyed the day.20

I don't know if I saw something on the horizon that day, something awful that would take my Christmas away from me, but I got as many hugs from my Dad as I could. I told myself that I was just happy to be celebrating it with him, when a few months before I would've seen it as impossible, or even something I didn't even want. 21

Now, though, I'm not so sure that I wasn't expecting something. 22

Boxing day is a bit of a nothing day to me, it's just the boring day after a really good one when you can sleep off all the excitement. I didn't see much of Dad during the day, he went for a lot of walks, as he always likes to when he has the chance. 23

Once, though, he was out of the house for longer than usual. I was upstairs reading one of the books I had been given, and just heard the door close again. I looked to the clock, and saw that it was a few minutes after 3 - not a bad time for a walk, I thought.24

It was close to 9 o'clock when he came back. 25

The rest of us had been picking at our dinner, having been reluctant to start without him. Mum got to her feet as soon as she heard his key in the door, leaving me and Chris in awkward silence. Dad and Mum stood talking in the kitchen for a while, and eventually they came back with their food. I glanced up from my plate, suddenly not hungry as a pit opened in my stomach, and saw the solemn faces of my parents. 26

There was no sadness between them, and that told me enough. I managed what I could of my food, and silently rose to put my plate in the kitchen. Chris was on the computer, where he spent most of his time. I glanced at him as I passed his door, but he didn't notice me. I wondered if he was lucky enough to be oblivious to what had just happened, but somehow I doubted it.27

I was up to my favourite bit in Bruce Almighty, which I watched alone in my bedroom, where he's causing Evan to mess up his words on the news. There was a soft knock on my door, which I bitterly ignored, pretending that it was so quiet that I hadn't heard it. After a minute, Dad stuck his head around the door. I saw this, but didn't acknowledge it. In fact, I don't remember looking away from the TV at all, but I know I wasn't watching the film anymore.28

He knelt at my side and I let his words wash over me. He said he was sorry, he hated to do it again, he couldn't help it. I simply nodded mutely, told him it was okay. I don't think he believed me. He just rose to his feet again and walked out. This was the second time he'd done it, but the first where he'd actually physically walked out and left me.29

I cried, then. I didn't care about the film anymore, I couldn't bring myself to laugh at it or even focus on it. Everytime I thought I'd collected myself enough, I would look up at the screen and the tears would start to pour again. In the end, I switched it off, and just lay on my bed. I looked at the decorations my sister Jennie and I had put up: the different coloured fairy lights along the skirting board, the fibre optic christmas tree propping up my books, the bow I'd taken off a present and put on my door. 30

The bow fascinated me the most. I'd taken it off a present from Dad, and the tag was still attached. It simply read: 'Love, Dad x' without even my name. I wondered, then, who the woman was who got his love now. Who he had left us for before and now left us for again. I wondered if he'd come back, if we'd get a replay of it all next Summer, if the cycle would continue until none of us wanted him back. 31

That was three or four years ago, and I'm still wondering.32