A Song for Julia

“Come on,” I said. I walked over to the piano and sat down on one side of the bench.
    She tilted her head and looked at me.
    “Just watch,” I said. “Sean will come running. I mean … you remember what we used to do on Christmas Eve.”
    She nodded and blinked back tears, while she stood and came over to sit next to me on the piano bench.
    As she sat down, I put my hands on the keyboard and played the opening chords of “Carol of the Bells”. I could play this in my sleep. When I was four, she’d done a special four-hand arrangement, based off of George Winston’s version. The opening was haunting, and she joined in immediately, the waves of sound resonating through the house.
    With each note, each measure, each stanza, I felt myself swept up, lost in memories. Memories of this house when I was younger. Happy memories. The four of us, sitting in the living room drinking hot chocolate and playing board games long into the night on Christmas Eve. My mother laughing and blushing as Dad whispered something in her ear, while Sean and I pretended not to notice. Sean sneaking in my room and climbing in the bed with me, as we speculated what morning would be like. Then the call, usually around seven A.M. on Christmas morning, when my dad would shout up the stairs, “All right, you kids, get down here!” Already awake, we’d run down the stairs and be greeted with hugs and laughter, and then we’d open presents. Each year, Dad made a huge breakfast of bacon and eggs and pancakes right after presents, and then Sean and I would play until afternoon when family and friends drifted in.
    I felt a tear running down my face. This music was so damn haunting. I was in middle school when it started to fall apart. I remembered Christmas my sixth grade year. It was a slim one for us, because my parents had spent just about all of their savings on hospital and doctor visits for Sean. And I was awful. I blamed him and threw a tantrum more suited for a five-year-old than a sixth grader. Dad told me to shut up, and Mom burst into tears.
    As our hands moved together on the keyboard, my thoughts rolled over all those memories. I’d never realized how hard it must have been on her.
    To watch her younger son, unable to cope with people, and her older son, unwilling to.
    When Christmas of my eighth grade year rolled around, it was about a month after I’d pulled my Fuck the police stunt at the play. Dad was picking up a lot of overtime to pay the medical bills, and Mom was so stressed that she had too much to drink that night, and that was the first Christmas Eve I can remember without us playing piano together. It was silent and lonely. Desperately lonely. I missed my mom so much that year.
    I swayed in my seat as I played, and then I heard Sean say, in a sad tone, “Don’t cry, Mommy. Dad will come home.”
    When he said the words, she sobbed out loud.
    I looked up at him, and realized I was crying too, and so was Sean. I faltered in the playing, and then I said, my voice cracking, “Mom, I’m so sorry I was such an asshole to you. I never meant to drive you away.”
    She stopped playing, very suddenly, and threw her arms around me.
    “Don’t ever say that,” she said, her voice urgent. “You didn’t drive me away, I did it to myself. And for whatever you did do, I forgive you. I’ll always forgive you.”
    She grabbed Sean and pulled him over to us, and we put our arms around each other and cried for the years we lost.

    My big brother (Julia)
    At noon on Christmas Eve my phone rang, and I almost didn’t answer it. The phone number displayed was a long string of numbers, more than made any sense. International call. I picked it up, much to my mother’s annoyance. Just a few minutes prior, she had gathered me, Carrie and Alexandra at the table in the family room to play cards.
    “Hello?”
    “Hey, I’m trying to reach Julia Thompson.” The voice sounded familiar but far away. Bad connection.
    “This is she.”
    “Julia? It’s Barry Lewis.”
    I gasped, my eyes going wide, hand flying up to my chest. “Oh, my God, really?” I shifted the phone away from my mouth. “I’m sorry, I have to take this call. I’ll be back.” I walked out of the family room, down the hall and sat down on the stairs. I could feel my heart beating.
    “Barry … I can’t believe it’s you! What … where are you?”
    “Before you say anything else … there’s about a thousand guys in line behind me to use the phones, too.