2019-12-25 - Forgotten

It's five a.m. on Christmas morning and Anne slips out of a bed that isn't hers. She puts on a sweater that doesn't belong to her either, wraps a blanket around her shoulders, and tip-toes down a silent hall. The miniature Christmas tree and the little presents beneath it puts a brief smile to her lips, but she keeps on going into the kitchen, to retrieve her phone from a counter littered with the remains of gingerbread men.

The crisp chill of a snow covered land soaks into her bones as she steps out onto the balcony. She hugs the blanket around her, glad she stepped into her shoes before she came fully out. From up here, she could see the bay if it weren't so cloudy; right now, she just sees the swirl of snow, lazy flakes that drift from the gray above. Her teeth start to chatter as she pulls up her contacts list, scrolling right down to the one she's looking for: Mom. The deep sigh she exhales turns to a puff of steam as she pushes the button, and holds the receiver to her ear.

The phone doesn't ring. There's a few seconds of absolute silence, before a robotic voice comes through: 'We're sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconn --' Anne ends the call, furrows her brow, and gives the screen a funny look. She tries again.

"We're sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again."

She bites her bottom lip and gives her head a frustrated shake. Into the contacts she goes again, pulling up her number for her brother, Tommy. But she gets the same robotic voice, the same robotic message, and the way her hand is shaking has nothing to do with the cold. There's snowflakes on her shoulders, her nose and cheeks are red, but Anne - stubborn, determined - pulls up the contact for her other brother, George.

"We're sorry, you have reached a num --" Anne smacks a fist into the railing. A shower of powder falls from six stories up, down to the apartment grounds below. She's got one last number, the land line at her mother's place. Who even had a land line anymore? But this one rings.

Once. Twice. "Hello?" It's not her mother's voice. It's not Tommy's or George's either.

"Uhm. Hi. Is Mary there? This is her daughter, Anne," Anne's lips were turning blue.

There's a quiet pause before the older woman on the other end answers: "Oh, no honey. I'm sorry, Mary moved out months ago. Though, her daughter? Mary doesn't have a daughter, it was just her boys.."

Anne drops the phone, it clatters into the snow by her feet. On the other end, she can hear the woman: "Hello? Hello dear?" before there's an audible click. Somehow, she keeps the tears welling up in her eyes from falling, least they turn to ice on her cheeks. When she bends down to collect her phone, it chimes in her hand, a notification from Amazon to tell her that the packages she sent to her brothers, to her mother, were being returned to sender.

She doesn't look at the text messages to her Mom. To George, to Tommy. But she knows that it's always just been her, never a response. Years of 'Merry Christmas', 'Happy New Year!' 'Happy Birthday :balloon_emoji:, did you get the present?' and nothing. Why had she kept trying? Why had she bothered, when they had clearly forgotten her?

She stays on the balcony until she thinks she'll turn to snow. She leaves her shoes by the door, her phone on the counter surrounded by crumbs. She passes by the tiny Christmas tree, sheds the sweater that doesn't belong to her, and finds warmth in the bed to heat up her icy limbs. She'll stay here today, maybe even tonight.

And this year, she'll spend Christmas with someone who hasn't forgotten her.

.. at least, not yet.