Well, I had hoped for this to be a longer series – one with several parts to it, but with our wonderfully busy December and the fact that I didn't get the idea for The Christmas Eve Chronicles until about two weeks ago, it will be incomplete. Perhaps next year I will be able to do the whole thing.
But here is story one: His Daughter. I actually wrote this story last year, but for some of you it may be new. I hope you enjoy it. Merry Christmas!
His Daughter
The banister slipped smoothly beneath my hand as I tiptoed down the staircase. It was three in the morning, but I couldn't sleep. Even though I'd been so exhausted only a few hours earlier. And it wasn't just because it was Christmas Eve.
I paused on the landing. Light glowed through the living room doorway, throwing shadows onto the hall rug. I glanced toward the stairs. I hadn't woken Mom.
Pulling my robe around myself, I stepped toward the living room. My slippers made gentle brushing sounds on the floor. A cat looked up, blinking, from its place on a shelf. Brad loved cats.
I sat down on the couch facing the tree. The twinkling colored lights had been left on. Drawing my knees up to my chest, I rested my chin on them and took a deep breath. Why did I care what that woman had said? I didn't even know her name. I wondered if she'd even been invited. There had been so many people at the party – maybe Mom hadn't even noticed who was here and who wasn't. She'd been so stressed out yesterday afternoon; maybe her mind was occupied with other things. She probably hadn't cared who came, just as long as there was plenty of eggnog for everyone.
"Lori, go make sure Brad got the wine. Did you get everything on the table?" Mom glanced at her watch. "Oh, I need to go take a shower. Take out the kitchen trash!" I opened my mouth to speak, but she'd rushed out of the porch before I could say a thing. Shrugging, I reached up to hang the last sprig of holly above the entrance. I stepped down from the footstool and smiled. Perfect.
There was a muffled knock at the door. I pushed the stool out of the way with my foot and pulled it open. A snow-covered young man stood on the step, holding a large brown box which looked almost too heavy for the unfortunate boy to carry.
"Please, come in!" I smiled at him. He looked very anxious and very tired, and I wondered if he'd gotten a friendly word all day.
He tumbled through the door, tracking snow and ice onto the newly vacuumed floor. I sucked my teeth. Whoops.
"Where do you want this?" he asked, glancing at the decorations.
"Oh, anywhere." I pointed at a corner. "There would be fine. Brad can move it if he needs to."
The boy all but dropped the box, two feet shy of where I'd suggested. On his foot. He closed his eyes as his toes were crushed, stifling a yell. "There...you are, ma'am." He shuffled toward the door, limping. I stopped a giggle.
"Wait a minute – don't leave yet!" I dashed out to the dining room, where I snatched three cookies, a tart, and a little tuna sandwich from the table. Grabbing a napkin, I wrapped it all up and ran back to stuff it into the boy's hands. "You look hungry. Merry Christmas."
The boy looked down at what I'd given him. Some of the worry vanished from his eyes and I thought he was going to smile. But before he could, he realized that the snow he'd brought in with him was melting everywhere and his cheeks flushed.
"Merry Christmas." He stumbled backward and was gone.
I sighed. Poor kid. I hoped he had family to go home to tonight. I was sure it would be terrible to be alone on Christmas Eve.
I swept out most of the snow and shut the door, hoping Mom wouldn't notice the carpet was soggy. Folding up the footstool, I took it back to the upstairs bathroom. My stepdad was shaving over the sink.
"Don't forget to clean up any mess you make." I wiped a speck of shaving cream from the mirror. "Mom already cleaned everything. Oh – she wanted to know: did you remember to buy the wine last night? She couldn't find it in the fridge."
"It's in the basement. Lori, please move – you bumped my elbow. Thank you." Brad shook his head briefly in irritation. "Did you clean your room yet?"
"This morning." I closed the medicine cabinet. "Mom wanted me to take out the trash, but I don't want to go outside. It's snowing really hard."
"I'm sorry." Brad nicked himself with his razor and yelped. "Lori Wallace, get out of here."
I watched a glass ball turn and sparkle in the firelight. I ran a hand through my hair and frowned. You aren't a Wallace. That's what the woman had said to me. But that wasn't true. I was a Wallace. I had been one for just about forever. When Mom and Brad had gotten married, a few months after I was born, they'd given me his name – my father's name. Brad was my father. He'd raised me – not my blood father. That's what I wanted to be. A Wallace.
I leaned against the dining room bureau, lifting a glass of punch to my lips. My muscles ached from cleaning all day. I just wanted to sleep. Sleep for a week. I rested my head on the wall. The grandfather clock chimed ten. Only an hour more, and then I could crash. Just collapse on my bed and rest my weary body.
A slender, middle-aged woman caught my eye. She was looking at the family pictures on the upright. I smiled and forced myself to walk over and talk with her. She looked slightly familiar, and Mom had told me to be hospitable.
"That's my dad." I pointed at the photo she was staring at.
The woman hummed. "You aren't a Wallace."
"Excuse me?" I raised my eyebrows in confusion. "That is my name. Lori Wallace."
"No, it isn't." The woman glanced at me for a second, before turning to a baby picture of mine. "Such a pretty child. All of us were attractive babies. Your Uncle Robert, especially. Never grew out of it."
"I'm sorry, but I don't have an Uncle Robert. I have an Uncle Tom, but not a Robert." I tapped the frame of another picture. "That's him."
The woman bent to inspect it closer. "Tom is handsome enough. But he is a Wallace."
"So? I'm a Wallace, too. What's wrong with you? Are you a friend of Mom's?"
The woman's face creased with bitter sadness. "She was my friend, once upon a time."
I lifted the open photo album from the coffee table and flipped through it, looking for a picture of the woman. There were pictures of me as a toddler – in my stroller; learning to wink; taking my first steps, but no sign of the strange woman. I stopped on a page covered with photos of me. In a rather faded, black and white one, I lay curled up on my stomach on Brad's chest. I was four months old, by the date on it. His strong, tender hand rested on my little bare back. The cat jumped down from the shelf and came to snuggle up beside me. Scratching it behind the ears, I sighed and stared at the flames licking the walls of the fireplace.
"You don't really belong to Brad." The woman spoke his name as though it poisoned her. "He isn't your father. Your birth father is your father."
"But I never knew him." I let my gaze drift to a picture of Brad and me – I was on his shoulders, leaning down to kiss him. He was laughing and looking up into my face. I smiled and touched the picture gently. "This is the only dad I've ever known."
"It doesn't matter who raised you." The woman shook her head, snorting. "Jason was your dad, and nothing can ever change that."
I twisted the ring on my hand and frowned. "Brad is the only father I have."
I leaned on my elbow. The cat had stopped purring. The only sound was the quiet crackle of the wood in the fireplace as the flames slowly died down. Wrapped presents were scattered around the Christmas tree. The stockings hung from the mantle were bulging. Brad's, Mom's, and mine. My heart twisted. What if I didn't really belong to Brad?
The living room light flicked on. I blinked and whirled around. Brad was standing in the doorway. The picture of us sleeping together drifted to the floor.
"What're you doing up?" Brad sounded tired.
I glanced at the picture at my feet. "I couldn't sleep."
"You should be in bed. It's the middle of the night."
"Sorry." I put the album back on the coffee table. "I'll go upstairs."
"Why're you looking at that?"
"I just...." I swallowed. "Brad, who am I?"
"What do you mean, who are you? You're a girl who should be in bed. Go on." He jerked his head toward the hall.
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and bit my lip. "You and Mom got married when I was a few months old, right?"
Brad's eyes sparkled. "That's right. When you were ninety-nine days old. I made up my mind that morning that when you were ninety-nine months old, I'd get you a ring, like the one I slipped onto your mother's hand that day."
I looked at the ring glinting on my right middle finger. Two little sapphires sat like winking eyes set into the braided gold band on either side of the beautiful emerald. I could remember after Brad had given it to me, how long it had felt to wait until my hand had grown enough to wear it. Now I wore it every day, ever comforted by its presence, by the constant reminder of Brad's love for me. My breath quickened with the fear that maybe he didn't really count as my dad.
"Brad, am I really yours?" I lifted my head, tears welling in my eyes.
Brad's face softened and he came to take my trembling hand in his steady one. "What do you mean, sweetheart?"
"I mean, you aren't my blood father, but he didn't stay." I gripped his hand tightly. "I want to be a Wallace, Brad, but I'm afraid I'm not."
Brad smiled kindly and stroked my cheek. "I'm your adopted father. It counts every bit as much. You're my daughter."
"But I don't have your genes."
Brad shook his head. "It doesn't matter if my blood doesn't run through your veins. It's just your body. But I got to help mold the heart inside it. That's what being a father means."
"Really?" A smile pulled at my lips.
"Yes, really." Brad slid his hand down my arm back to mine and squeezed it. "You're a Wallace, even if you look a lot prettier than Brad Wallace."
I giggled. "But we do have the same nose. Even Mom thinks so."
"Do we?" Brad looked cross-eyed down at his nose. "I can't really see the resemblance."
"Well, you'd have to look in a mirror!"
Brad grinned. "Well, maybe I'll do that in the morning when I'm brushing my teeth." He yawned. "Speaking of mornings, you and I had better be getting back to bed to sleep for a few more hours."
I put my arms around Brad's neck. "Will you carry me upstairs?"
"Carry you upstairs?" Brad grunted. "I don't think I can hold you that long."
"You could try." I tilted my head to one side. "Please?"
"All right." Brad took a deep breath and slid an arm beneath my legs and one behind my back. With a great heave he stood up. "I think I'm starting to get to old for this."
He carried me up to my bedroom and let me fall gently onto my soft mattress. Pulling the blankets up, he tucked me in like he used to when I was younger. My Yorkie looked up at me from her place at the foot of the comforter, as though confused why I was getting in bed twice in one night. As I laid my head down on my pillow I could hear the ticking of the clock on my wall. It was almost four.
Brad brushed my hair off my forehead. "You don't have to worry about being my daughter. You are my daughter, and I love you very much. Okay, sweetie?"
I nodded and reached up to hug him. "Okay, Daddy. I love you, too."
Brad leaned down and kissed me. "Merry Christmas, Lori Wallace."
I closed my eyes in contentment. I was a Wallace – Brad's daughter.
