It’s Christmastime.
Steven almost forgot that December isn’t over yet. It’s only a week until Christmas, and he’s back in Toronto. There’s slush on the roads from a snowfall a couple days earlier. The cab driver is wearing a heavy coat. People everywhere are bundled up, battling the wind and the chill that pushes through the city.
There are Christmas lights everywhere, and the tall buildings are made up to look festive. There are billboards with Santa Claus advertising products that supposedly he’s all about endorsing. Ads for Christmas movies and holiday cell phone plans and all kinds of gifts you owe it to loved ones to buy them this year. Yonge Street has neon snowflakes hanging off of street lamps. Everything he normally loves about Christmastime is right here waiting for him, as if the city knew he was coming back. This is the real deal, not that imitation he was surrounded by in the Far East.
The cab driver has the radio playing, and Steven recognizes the song immediately: “Merry Christmas, Darling” by the Carpenters.
He looks out the window at the passing lights. The people dressed in Canada Goose down jackets. The cold December weather in the cold city that he loves. Tim Hortons’ red storefront sign telling him the perfect place to go for a double-double. A billboard telling him to be sure to listen to Skip and Spence in the morning on The Wolf FM, the station that rocks. For a moment, he catches his reflection in the taxi window. He still looks awful.
Karen Carpenter is telling him about how much she misses him this Christmas Eve. This has always been one of Steven’s favorite Christmas songs.
“Can you turn the radio off, please?” he asks the driver.
The concierge at his building nods from behind his desk, but doesn’t say a thing. He never does. The same man has been working behind that desk for over two years, and Steven can’t for the life of him remember the guy’s name. He thinks he should ask him tomorrow. He remembered Lee at the hotel in Singapore. He should at least know the name of the doorman at his own condo.
Steven puts his key in his door and, for a second, wonders if Robin will be there. If she had a change of heart and, because of all the Christmas lights in the city and all the festivities, can’t be without him any longer. She missed him and is glad he’s home. She was worried about him and just wants him to come in and sit on the sofa and let her take care of him.
But then he realizes that she’s been here all along, in this city. The holiday isn’t special to her. She’s glad to be somewhere else. He opens the front door and looks around. The entire apartment is empty.
She took everything.
There’s nothing left for him to come home to. Not Robin and nothing that could possibly remind him of her. All of the furniture is gone. There are no paintings on the walls. The enormous sofa is gone, as is the uncomfortable chair she used to read in. The floor is bare and missing the area rug that covered the entire living room. Even the things that he had long before she came along are gone. She took all of it, even the things she didn’t like, the things that weren’t hers.
Steven puts his keys on the kitchen counter and steps into the big empty space. Sitting in the middle of the floor is the smaller of the two television sets they had. It’s the one she owned before she met him.
Steven walks across the room, wheeling his suitcase behind him. He hears the hard plastic wheels scraping across the bare hardwood floors. Somewhere halfway across the living room, he drops the handle and leaves his luggage right there in the middle of the apartment. He walks over to the large window and looks out at the city. He’s always loved this view. It’s the main reason he bought the place. Way off in the distance, he can see downtown Toronto, the CN Tower, and other tall buildings.
Home.
He suddenly realizes that the apartment feels very cold, and he goes to adjust the thermostat. It’s set at normal room temperature, but he guesses that the apartment’s being empty makes it feel chillier than it should. He walks into the bedroom, which is almost as empty as the rest of the condo. His bed is gone, and so are both of the nightstands. She left the chest of drawers with his clothes in it. He looks in the closet and finds that an extra set of blankets and sheets are still there—the black ones that she always hated. The ones he had on the bed when he met her. He takes the large comforter and carries it back into the living room. Once there, he drops it on the floor and looks in the kitchen at his wine chiller.
Empty.
Did you have to take all the booze? he thinks to himself. You didn’t even like it.
He is relieved to see there is still plenty of food left behind. Above the fridge, in the small cabinet where he mostly keeps empty boxes, he finds what he really wants. There, in the back, is the old bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. The scotch she would never touch. The stuff she hated.
He opens the bottle and resists the urge to take a pull standing right there. Instead, he tries to pretend he has an ounce of class left in him and finds a rocks glass she left behind. He pours himself a good four fingers and takes off his sports jacket, which has seen better days. Out of habit, he checks the pockets, even though he never keeps anything in them.
There, in the left breast pocket of his jacket, he feels a little lump. He digs his hand in and scoops out the contents onto his kitchen counter. It’s gritty and coarse, like a handful of dirt.
It’s Scotty’s remains.
Some must have spilled out of the bag he used to carry Scotty around Singapore. They most likely poured out a little bit when Steven pulled out the bag to assault Nez with the ashes. It’s not much, probably enough to fill a shot glass, but that’s definitely what it is and definitely all that’s left of Scotty.
Steven stares at the remains scattered across his kitchen counter and suddenly feels the stinging coming back into his eyes. His vision is getting blurry again, and he feels his breathing getting quicker. He takes a long gulp from his glass of scotch as he closes his eyes.
What a sad sack this guy is, Scotty’s ashes tsk-tsk from the kitchen counter. You’d think you were the one who was dead, not me.
“Shut up,” Steven says as he walks over to the cupboard and fetches a small bowl. With one careful sweep of his hand, he scoops the rest of Scotty’s remains into the bowl and places it on the corner of the counter.
I’m serious here, Scotty says. What the hell are you moping about? This is everything you wanted. You’re home and you’re free.
“Free?” Steven asks.
Absolutely. Free of everything. No more Robin. No more Dania. You’re home in time for Christmas, and the rest of your life is ahead of you. It’s just what you wanted.
Steven catches a glimpse of his reflection in the window. “I didn’t want this,” he says.
Bah, humbug. Bruises heal.
“She took everything.”
She left your pride. You can get new stuff.
“Start all over, eh?”
What choice do you have? You don’t want her back.
“Which one are you referring to?”
Does it matter?
Steven chuckles to himself and finishes off the scotch in his glass. He was in such a hurry to get home, he never stopped to realize there was so little he cared about coming back to see. For all the prestige his job offers, he’s barely thought about it in days. Robin might as well be a total stranger at this point. And the most enjoyable thing he’s seen this holiday season is the doorman at a hotel in Singapore.
“This is all your fault, you know.”
And I’m sure you’ll never let me forget it. Said some pretty harsh stuff about me back East, you know?
“If you weren’t dead, I’d kill you.”
You seduced my girlfriend instead. That’s the best revenge.
Steven walks around the counter and back into the living room a few feet away. There, with his luggage behind him, he sits down on the cold, hardwood floor and wraps up in his comforter. He doesn’t even know what time it is.
The doctor told him to take a couple of the painkillers eve
ry six hours or so. It’s been about an hour since he took two of them, so he pulls the bottle out of his pocket and tosses down another four. He washes them down with the scotch and looks outside at the lights just off in the distance. After a few minutes and a few large gulps of the scotch, he feels a warm tingle start to spread all over his body. He lies down on the floor and wraps himself into a cocoon inside the old comforter.
Silent night, holy night.
All is calm, all is bright.
“Wish you were here, bro,” he slurs to the bowl in the kitchen. Scotty always called him “bro.” He always hated it.
Merry Christmas, darling, Scotty says from the kitchen, sounding a lot like Karen Carpenter.
The sound of his cell phone ringing startles him awake. He hasn’t heard it ring in what feels like months. He can’t even remember the last phone call he got. He reaches for it just before the call goes to voice mail and answers without bothering to see who is calling.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Oh.” A familiar voice on the other end sounds startled. Robin clears her throat and speaks quietly. “You’re there.”
“Yeah,” he says as he rolls over and untangles himself from the comforter. His head and eyes hurt, but not just from the bruises. Too much scotch and too many painkillers, and the blinds being left open have the sun slapping him right in the face. He has no idea what time it is, but the sun is higher than his apartment, which tells him it’s easily midafternoon.
“I thought I would get your voice mail,” Robin says. “But you’re back, I guess, huh?”
“Got in last night,” he says, and brushes his hair out of his eyes. He looks around for his glasses, which he apparently managed to toss across the room before he passed out. “What’s up?”
“So, everything is okay? You got in alright and got home?”
“Such as it is,” he says.
“Yeah,” she says. “Well, I told you I was leaving.”
“Leaving me with nothing, yeah. I gotcha.”
“Hey, I took what was mine. It’s only fair.”
“Whatever you say,” he says. He could argue with her, but, as usual, feels no need. It’s not like she’s going to move the furniture back if he puts up a stink. “Why are you calling?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Robin says. Steven wants to throw his phone out the window. “How are you?”
“I’m home,” Steven says. “So, what’s up?”
“I was just checking on you,” she says.
“And?”
“And what?”
Steven sighs. “Look, you moved everything out and you got your own place,” he says. “You barely spoke to me when I was in Asia, so I can’t imagine that you suddenly care about how I’m doing.”
“That’s not—”
“So, what can I do for you? What do you want?”
That’s it, big guy, Scotty says. Give it to her good.
“Fine,” Robin says. “I just wanted to see if you were there because I’ve got to come by.”
He looks around the empty apartment. “Here?”
“Yes, there,” she says. “I still have some things to get, and I figured it’d be awkward if I did it while you were there. I knew you were supposed to be coming back and all, so I called to check first.”
Steven hears his voice echoing off the empty walls. “What on earth could you possibly have left here?”
She scoffs. He can see her rolling her eyes when she speaks. “Lots of things,” she says. “My TV, for one.”
Steven looks at the old television, unplugged, sitting on the floor. He looks at the empty wine chiller just off to the side of the kitchen. He looks at his empty living room, which looks much like it did the day he moved in, long before he even met her. It looks like it did before he even bought the place.
“Now I will say it,” he says.
“Say what?” Robin asks.
“Go to hell,” he says, and hangs up the phone.
It’s dark outside now, although it’s only early afternoon. It gets dark so much faster in Toronto than in Singapore. It feels like it has been months since he has been home, like it will take him weeks to adjust to the time and even to the cold in the air. Snow is falling outside, and he thought that the sight of it would make him happy.
He’s still just lying on the floor.
The bottle of scotch is almost empty. There are take-out food cartons on the floor. He had some poutine delivered just so he could try and feel at home. Steven barely ever eats poutine, but Scott insisted. Steven scarfed it down with more scotch and pills. Then he slept. Then he ate some more and slept some more. The pills make it easy to sleep.
On the floor, next to his laptop, he has marked pages in an IKEA catalogue. The TV is still unplugged, but he keeps checking his e-mail and doing nothing online. He pretends he’s looking for furniture. Ordering a new place to live without leaving the place where he lives.
He goes online and checks the time and weather in Singapore. It’s boiling hot there, despite the fact that it’s the middle of the night. He checks his e-mail, wondering if he’ll hear anything . . . from anyone.
The phone rings and startles him again. It takes him a moment to find it because his hands are a bit numb from the pills and scotch. He knows he’s going to have to get more booze and pills soon if he wants to keep lying here like this. He’ll have to stop altogether in another day or two when he goes back to work.
“Hello?” he asks when he sees that the phone number isn’t Robin’s. He doesn’t recognize it at all, but sees by the area code that it’s someone in Toronto.
“Mr. Kelly?” asks a woman’s voice on the other end.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry, is this Scott or Steven Kelly?”
There is no Scott Kelly, he thinks. He’s going to have to get used to saying that, much to the chagrin of the bowl sitting on the kitchen counter.
“This is Steven,” he says instead.
“Oh, hi, Mr. Kelly. This is Grace McDonald. From Scotia-bank.”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry if I caught you at a bad time, sir.”
“That’s okay. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I have been trying to reach you for a few days now,” she says. “Have you gotten my messages? I wasn’t sure.”
He keeps checking his e-mail, but hasn’t once checked his phone. He wonders how many messages are waiting on his voice mail. Some from Robin, he’s sure, and maybe someone from work checking up on him, even though he’s not due back until next week. Maybe even a friend here or there offering condolences.
Did Dania call?
“No, I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve been out of the country. I just got back and haven’t checked my messages yet.”
“Oh. Well, I just needed to confirm your wire transfer. The one you requested several weeks ago.”
Steven sits up on the floor and looks around the apartment. He keeps wondering if he’s going to blink and suddenly all of his belongings will magically return. They never do.
“Wire transfer?” he asks.
“Yes, sir,” Grace says. “You requested money from your trust account into your checking. That was you, correct?”
“Yes,” Steven says. “I did.”
“Well, I just wanted to speak with you before we went through with it.”
“Is there a problem?” Steven asks.
“No problem. Just covering my bases, if you know what I mean. It is a good-sized amount.”
“Yes,” he says. “I guess so.”
“So, should I go ahead with it?”
He looks around at the empty apartment and realizes that it’s going to cost a good bit of money to refurnish it. At the very least, he needs to buy a bed and some living room furniture. Something—anything—to fill up the space.
“Yes, please. Go ahead with it,” he tells her.
“Alright. And you still want this to be accessed by Scott? His name is on the receiving end.”
“No, Scott won’t be needing it. You can just have it put into my account.”
“Just yours?”
There is no Scott Kelly, he thinks.
“Yes, please. Scott isn’t . . . that is . . . he won’t be needing it. It’s for me.”
There is a pause on the line and the sound of a woman’s hands typing on a keyboard.
“Alright, then, you’re the one authorized on the account. I’ll just go ahead and make the transfer.”
“Thank you very much,” he says, and starts to hang up the phone. At that moment, he looks down at his laptop. There’s nothing new there, other than some random nothing messages and a few offers to get cheap drugs online or increase the size of his penis.
But one e-mail catches his eye:
Steven,
Hope you made it home okay. Let me know. Good on you.
—D.Wash
PS: No regrets.
“Are you still there?” Grace asks from the other end of the line. Steven looks at his cell phone as if she’s actually standing in front of him. He feels almost embarrassed. As if Grace caught him doing something sneaky.
“Yes,” he says, “I’m here. Sorry, I was just . . . I was just in the middle of something. Go ahead with the transfer, please.”
“Yes, sir. Have a happy holiday, sir.”
“The happiest,” he lies and hangs up the phone.
Is that my money? Scotty says from his bowl on the counter. Are we going to live happily ever after now?
Steven looks at the bowl and feels a dull pain creep across his chest. He knows it has nothing to do with his injuries, so he doesn’t reach for the painkillers this time.
There is no Scott Kelly, he thinks, and looks out the window. The snow is falling again. It’s going to be a white Christmas. He suddenly remembers that poster hanging on the wall in the morgue, the one with the symbol that meant peace.
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