Other Broken Things by C. Desir

Which Kathy says is pretty much the same as putting my faith in a higher power.
    Christmas Eve service at church is a pageant with a bunch of overtired kids, who all signed up to be angels or animals, so there’s only one magus and no shepherds. Mary and Joseph are usually played by the couple who had a baby most recently, so most of the service is hard to hear because of a screaming Baby Jesus. It’s pretty hilarious and completely disorganized. Which is one of the things I always liked about our church. Before I stopped going because I was too hungover to knuckle through it.
    Our church is really mission based, so they’re always mixing everyone up, pushing diversity and integration and all of us being children of God. There’s one big service: kids, old people, homeless guys, my parents. Together in one place. Tonight I catch sight of a couple of guys from AA who nod and smile at me. Dad glares at them when they give me a thumbs-up.
    â€œChill,” I mumble. “They’re from my meetings.”
    â€œWonderful,” he says. “Maybe you should invite them to the house afterward. That would cap off the evening pretty well.”
    â€œDon’t be sarcastic in church, Tom,” Mom says, which makes me snort.
    At the end of the service, one of the girls from the high school youth choir sings “O Holy Night.” I’ve seen her at school before, but she runs with a way cleaner crowd than me. Not that I’m running with any crowd right now. Her name is April, I think. Her voice sounds like an angel’s and even Dad shuts up with the snarky comments after she sings.
    On the way home I get a text from Joe.
    Make it through the day?
    I smile.
    Yeah. You?
    I should’ve asked him his plans. It occurs to me now that he might be alone and the thought of that makes me ache a little.
    Kathy and I burned lasagna and went out for Chinese.
    My stomach tightens and I pretend I don’t feel jealous, but it’s no use. And I’m at the point now where I can’t lie to Joe about it.
    I wish I could’ve been with you guys. Dinner was filet mignon served with a side of angry father and placating mother.
    My phone pings back right away.
    Sounds delicious. SFC is open all day tomorrow. 24 hours because there are lots of people who are orphans at Christmas and it’s one of the hardest times to stay sober.
    I look at Mom and Dad in the front seat. Not talking to each other. Neither smiling. Dad looking at stocks on his phone while he’s driving as if the market is still open. Mom holding on to her seat belt as if she’s anticipating imminent death.
    You going?
    Not sure. Are you booked all day?
    Hardly. Belgian waffles in the morning, then presents, usually done by 11 a.m.
    O’Hare Oasis is open too, if you want to have some biscuits before stopping by SFC.
    Noon?
    It’s a plan.
    I can’t stop the grin from spreading on my face. I should feel bad that I’m bailing on Mom, but I honestly don’t. Two Christmases ago I went to the gym after opening presents and sparred with Josh because I didn’t want to deal with Mom’s A Christmas Story marathon. Then I came home to a lecture from Dad and a mandate to stop boxing. Which I ultimately complied with. Last Christmas I was loaded by eleven a.m. from spiked eggnog and a few snorts of Ritalin. All things considered, my attendance this year shouldn’t be required, really.
    â€œI’m going to SFC tomorrow after we do presents,” I say, leaning forward a bit so I rest my hand on Mom’s shoulder.
    â€œWhat? No. Natalie. We’re spending the day together as a family.”
    I shake my head. “We did that today. We’ve had plenty of quality time. And SFC is open all day because a lot of people have a tough time on holidays.”
    I’m totally playing the pity card, but I don’t want to make a big deal of this.
    Mom turns back to me. “Well, is it open for