by Neha Yazmin
Chapter 2. Kin
Of course it was Maggie that opened the door when he arrived on Christmas Eve.
“Jamie!” His little sister’s voice shot up as she said his name. Then she seemed to remind herself to calm down, that Jamie didn’t share her enthusiasm for family gatherings. “Well, don’t just stand there, come in.”
He stood rigid on his father’s doorstep, contemplating an escape. He didn’t want to spend a single hour here, let alone over twenty.
This was no longer his home.
That’s why Maggie always answered the door when Jamie knocked––she was the one person he couldn’t ignore, tune out. It had something to do with her stubbornness, her too youthful-looking face with the wavy, shoulder-length blonde hair, and big blue eyes.
Like a child rather than the twenty-year-old she was.
“Merry Christmas, Jamie,” she said in her hyper tone as he finally crossed the threshold. “No presents this year, either.” She feigned disapproval as she eyed his empty-looking backpack and nothing else around his person.
A vile voice whipped out from the living room the next second. “Maggie, is that your brother?”
“Yes, mum.” Maggie grabbed Jamie’s arm and dragged him to the centre of the lounge.
Muscles clenched tight and eyes on his feet, Jamie knew everyone in the room was looking at him––his parents Peter York and Tanya Davenport, his step-father Tom Davenport. He didn’t want to consider the scene before him, one he’d been a part of every year, though only in the flesh, so he blocked it out.
Whenever he came here, Jamie tried extra hard to shut the world out.
His mother’s voice registered with him before the sight of her:
“Ah, Jamie, darling!”
Because his mental eyes had closed, he had no idea where she appeared from, like a bat out of hell. If only it was as easy to cotton-wool his mental ears.
“Finally,” she proclaimed as she stumbled towards him, a near-empty wine glass in her hand. “Very last minute… as usual. Minutes before Mary serves dinner. Your timing is, as always darling, impeccable.”
She’s drunk. At least she wasn’t high. Still, she had no right to say Mary’s name like that––sneer it––intoxicated or not.
She flung herself towards him. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart!”
Jamie took two quick steps to the side. Maggie caught the woman by her shoulders before she fell on her face. She’s high, after all. She did say she needed to be both drunk and high when returning to her ex-husband’s house for Christmas on Maggie’s unbending insistence.
If only he could consume alcohol and drugs before coming here. Or a sedative. But who knows how that would affect his song-writing?
“Hey Jamie,” Tom’s chipper voice said as he helped his wife to the sofa. “Sorry about Tanya. How you doing?”
“The same as he always is,” Jamie’s father answered on his behalf. Jamie had no idea what his father or step-father were doing before they addressed him––sitting on the sofa, reading the paper? “Barely making his rent,” his father continued sternly, “earning minimum wage, and going nowhere. No life, no prospects. And most importantly, alone.”
“No, Peter,” Jamie’s mother intervened, “Jamie still has Sarah.”
“What?”
She nodded. “I saw Sarah a little while ago. She knows exactly how Jamie is. Though she hardly gave the impression that she cared. But then, she never did, did she?”
Jamie glared down at his mother. She gave him a wicked grin.
“Maggie?” his father turned to his only daughter to shed light on his only son’s life.
“Mum’s right,” Maggie sighed. “Jamie’s still in love with her. He hopes they’ll get back together––”
“Oh, you are too generous, Maggie,” their mother interrupted, speech slurred.
Her face, eyes and hair, though very similar to Maggie’s, represented malice and selfishness, rather than the innocence and altruism in his sister’s features.
“Back together implies they were actually together at any point. Sarah was simply using him. She picks him up and drops him whenever she feels like it.”
Body shaking with fury at his mother’s blatant, poisonous lies, Jamie spun around and headed for the door. He had to get away before he gave in to the urge to throw something at her.
“She never loved you Jamie, and she never will,” his mother yelled.
A peaceful voice caught his attention before he could open the front door. “Leaving already?”
Behind him was the one person in this house that he could bear to exchange more than a couple of sentences with.
“Mary,” he breathed, turning to face her.
“So lovely to see you, Jamie.” She smiled but didn’t come forward.
He took a few steps towards her––her intention, no doubt.
“It’s still so strange to see you with this black hair,” she murmured, looking him over. “I can’t get used to it.”
He didn’t tell her that her straight brown hair, tanned skin and olive-green eyes were just as he remembered from his childhood. And just as beautiful. Maggie continually commented on how Mary hadn’t aged a day since entering their lives fifteen years ago, barely in her twenties, yet more loving and mature than their callous mother.
“But in my defence, I only see you once a year and––”
Mary stopped when the voices in the living room grew louder. Her eyes flickered worriedly towards the noise and then returned to Jamie with a forced smile.
“Everyone’s in the festive spirit.” She shrugged. “Peter and Maggie are so happy you still come. They love––”
“Yes, that’s why I’m out here.” Instantly, he apologised for his curt response with a forced smile of his own. “Why do I do this to myself, Mary?” he half-whispered.
“Because you love them too,” she declared. “You may no longer share their hair colour, but it doesn’t mean you don’t share blood.”
Shaking his head, he turned for the door.
“Jamie, Maggie will be devastated if you leave,” she warned as she walked to his side. “It’s not easy for her, you know. She’s finally the apple of her father’s eyes but she thinks it’s because you’ve left. And maybe it’s her compassion that’s led her to forgive your mother, but it doesn’t mean she’s forgotten. She needs her brother.”
“I can’t be…”
“You can at least stay until Christmas lunch tomorrow.” It was Maggie, exiting the lounge. “That can be your Christmas present to me.”
“You say that every year,” he muttered.
“And every year, you stay.”