lydia montgomery. (brusquely) wrote in caged, @ 2013-12-24 23:22:00 |
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Lydia had known that Christmas would be unusual this year -- the world had changed too much for it not to be, their world was completely different. Usually, she quite enjoyed Christmas -- she loved the carols and the festive atmosphere, the sweets and treats and she’d always had a soft spot for traditional Christmas stories. For the past few years, she’d got to curl up beside her mum and dad, with her sister and brother and listen to The Night before Christmas, even though she was perhaps a little bit too old for it. Caleb’s age had justified it, though, almost making it something expected. She wasn’t quite sure what this year would bring. Home was different: Christmas was different. Her mum and dad had put their happy faces on, or tried to. The tree was up and there were Christmas candles and lights every year, banners decorating the ceiling. Since coming home, Lydia could have sworn her mum had baked at least once a day, cakes and muffins and biscuits and pies. It would have been nice if it didn’t have the sharp edge of frenzy to it, the tang of desperation tainting everything she did. Mary Montgomery’s smile was a little too bright and Lydia didn’t know how to fix that. She knew she couldn’t really and that the idea was ludicrous, but she wanted to wrap herself around her mother and hug her until the sadness had leeched out of both of them and disappeared forever. Easier said than done, of course. It felt a bit like walking on eggshells, everyone trying to veer away from mentioning the fact anyone was missing and applying themselves to blithely chattering away about whatever else came to mind. It seemed to be working, for the most part, though the way the air crackled it was obvious something was wrong. Not that that really mattered: the Montgomery family was making a concentrated effort not to say anything about it. The problem, of course, was that the words were on the tip of everyone’s tongue, the ghost of Caleb flickering through their thoughts and making apparent festive joy something sharper and more dangerous, a last ditch attempt at avoidance instead of celebration. Having been sent to find the stockings, Lydia was rummaging around in a box labelled “random crap” which usually resided in whoever’s room was less cluttered at the time. This time it had migrated to hers and she had plopped herself down on the floor, taking her time to go through the box. It usually unearthed treasures, honestly, bits and pieces from the past that she’d forgotten about: one time she’d found a really ridiculous fan letter that her sister had written to the rapper Lil Crup and had spent the next week quoting bits at her. Flipping through a stack of old letters, Lydia hummed to herself brightly as she set them aside. She pushed some balls of yarn out of the way and instantly caught sight of the bright red and white of the stockings. Grinning, she grabbed them, pulling them out of the box. The smile fell away from her face, though, as she saw the name embroidered on the first stocking -- Caleb. Lydia’s fingers curled tightly around the stocking and she swallowed, eyes burning. She absolutely could not cry. That was ridiculous. She’d done her crying already: it felt like there had been months of it and she’d once not been sure she could cry anymore. It was Christmas Eve, damn it, it wasn’t the time to be crying. It was just a stocking, it wasn’t anything. Telling herself that didn’t seem to make much of a difference, though. She could feel her throat tighten and she could feel tears brimming up. Coughing loudly, in a bizarre attempt to catch a grip of herself, Lydia balled the stocking up and went to tuck it into the corner of the box, hidden from sight. If she couldn’t see it, she’d never seen it and then she wouldn’t be crying over a stocking with a name on it, feeling ridiculous and lonely and sad and also tired of feeling like that. She started to move things on top of the stocking, piling balls of yarn and old phonebooks and diaries on top of it, hiding it so completely that not even a flash of red or white showed through. Breathing heavily, Lydia stared at the box for a second and then shook her head, grabbing her stocking and Liv’s -- Olivia, the stocking read -- from the floor and pushing herself up onto her feet. She ran a hand over the top of her head, down to the end of her plait and tugged on it, trying to steady herself, ground herself. She turned slowly, but it still took her a moment to register her mum in the doorway, leaning against it and gnawing on her nails. Lydia blinked a few times and stiffened. She felt like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t have been and her fingers twitched, excuses springing onto her tongue though she closed her lips around them. She had to swallow the words. Her mum stared at her for a second and then dropped her hand from her mouth. “Lydia,” Mary said -- or, rather, croaked, her voice hoarse and rough. “Lydia, it’s okay.” Lydia frowned and tilted her head to the side. “What is?” she asked. “To be sad,” Mary said. She took a step forward, opening her arms and Lydia barely resisted the urge to step backwards and wrap her arms around herself. “Don’t -- don’t hug me.” Mary stopped in front of her and smiled, though the expression was wan and lacked any of the happiness that was supposed to be attached to a smile. She sighed and lifted a hand, cupping Lydia’s cheek and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I love you, Lydia. It’ll be fine. Someday. I promise.” A tear slid down Lydia’s cheek and she didn’t manage to catch the sob before it left her. Reaching up, Lydia curled her fingers around her mum’s wrist and said, “Promise?” Mary nodded. “Promise. I wouldn’t lie to you.” Lydia sighed and closed her eyes and let herself cry, stepping towards her mother and hugging her. |