Merrily Yours (The Bardot Siblings)

Chapter 8

“You have such a pretty face. You should be on a Christmas card.” — Buddy the Elf, Elf

“It’s too fucking cold here.”

“Dad!” I chide. “Little ears!” I motion toward my four-year-old, Chloe, who is trying to press her nose against the truck window. We’ve had a long day. I scraped enough money together to buy her a few presents, and after playing with the used Barbies I found at the thrift store for most of the afternoon, I decided it was time to get out of the house.

We went to our favorite Chinese restaurant for a late lunch, then I convinced Dad to stop at a park, but we didn’t last long before it got too cold, even with all of our layers. We piled in the car and started to drive around to look at Christmas lights. That was about an hour ago, and when I look back toward Chloe, my eyebrows furrow—I can tell she’s getting sleepy, and it’s probably time to head back home.

My dad grumbles at me, so I look back toward him. Christmas lights are flashing behind him as we drive through a well decorated Boston neighborhood. “She probably didn’t even hear me,” he mumbles.

“I did!” Chloe chirps from the backseat. “Mom says we shouldn’t say fuck, even you, Pop.”

I hold my hand out toward her as if to say, See! She hears everything!

Dad just laughs at her, a full belly chuckle. He and Chloe are the best of friends, especially with how much I have to work. The bar is closed for Christmas which is the only reason I’m able to drive around with them, and I hate to admit he was right, but it is particularly cold here.

We’ve been up north for almost ten years now, but Dad never misses an opportunity to talk about how much he misses Texas. We try to go visit a few times a year—what little family we have left is still there—but I don’t miss it as much as he does, which is why we are living here in Boston. The summer heat alone is enough to make me avoid any state south of Virginia.

“You working tomorrow?” Dad asks, turning down another tree-lined street where all the houses have lights twinkling in the growing darkness.

“Yeah, night shift. I put it on the calendar,” I remind him.

“I never look at that damn thing,” he replies.

I sigh because I know he doesn’t. “It would be helpful if you did look at it, Dad.”

“You know I don’t have anywhere else to be. You don’t have to worry about Chloe either, you know that, too,” he reminds me.

“Thanks, Dad,” I mutter. I am grateful for him and his help with Chloe, I really am, but I also feel so incredibly lonely sometimes.

We stay quiet for the rest of the drive, the sound of Christmas music playing through the stereo and Chloe’s constant chattering to herself. That girl loves to talk, and she does not care if anyone is listening. I try to listen, chiming in to answer a question every now and then, but as the questions grow further and further apart, I know Chloe is fighting sleep.

Dad knows it too because he starts to make his way back toward our apartment in Jamaica Plains.

When we get there, I scoop Chloe out of her carseat and carry her up the stairs to our apartment. Her head rests on my shoulder, her blonde hair fanning around her face. She’s already in her pajamas, so I walk straight to the room we share and start to tuck her in.

“I love you, baby,” I whisper as I kiss her forehead.

Her little hands are so sweet, still dimpled like when she was a baby. They come up to the sides of my face and pull me down so she can give me a kiss on my forehead too. “I love you, Mama,” she says.

“You are my favorite Chloe,” I say, something I tell her every night.

“You are my favorite Mommy,” she replies before rolling over and cuddling with her stuffed bunny.

I smooth her hair back and kiss her again, before I stand up to leave. Her little voice stops me right when I reach the doorframe. “Next Christmas will be better, Mama.”

I don’t know why she says it. I mean it’s not like today was great, but she’s four so I don’t know how she knows that. I stand there, stunned and immensely… sad. “Yeah, baby,” is all I can say before I leave, shutting the door behind me.

Next Christmas will be better … I hope she’s right.