The Boy and The Man

A trick of the light, I say.

Just a trick of the light.

But my whole body tingles on edge.

That feeling of falling or about to fall.

A feeling I haven’t felt in years.

I go inside.

I lock the door.

I double and triple check that I have locked the door.

And slowly, as I take a bath, as I change into my nightgown, as I go over the happenings of the day, that feeling disappears.

And I am once again myself.

Some people said that he was faking.

That the person everyone had known for years was the real him.

Not this joyful charlatan.

But they didn’t see what I saw.

They never held his face the way I did.

They never witnessed that sparkle in his eye when he looked up at the stars.

Or the pain in his face when he witnessed others suffering.

But I know what they mean.

I know why they say what they say.

Because I knew him before too.

I knew him when there was nothing behind his eyes.

When he looked at you and all you felt was a cold breeze blow through your heart.

The sound of chains scraping across the floor jolts me from my sleep.

I don’t believe what I am seeing.

It cannot be.

Marley.

Marley alive.

Not quite.

Marley’s ghost.

Redemption, he says.

Redemption.

Beyond the fear and the disbelief and the wonderment, there is a part of me that scoffs at the word, ‘redemption,’ being spoken by the ghost of Marley.

Marley who squeezed every single penny.

Marley who let his own mother die cold and alone and practically starving.

Marley who didn’t do anyone a favor without jotting it down so he could be sure, at some point, to collect repayment.

But here he was.

Or here his ghost was.

Telling me that I had one more chance.

One more chance to be good again.

My father was the only person who defended him.

Even his own nephew, Fred, let others say what they wanted.

But not my father.

My father always said that he was indebted, that without Scrooge there would be no food at all. No roof over our heads. That Scrooge was a man to be respected and appreciated.

I always wondered if Scrooge had my father so beaten that my father was convinced that Scrooge was around every corner, watching from every shadow. That the moment my father caved and spoke ill, there Scrooge would be, ready to kick my father to the curb.

But my father insisted that Scrooge was a decent man at heart. That he had a heart to begin with.

None of us agreed but loved my father too much to say so.

I am woken again by the sound of gentle singing.

A lullaby.

It takes me a moment to realize that it’s a song my sister used to sing when we were little.

I open my eyes and an angel stands by my bed.

For a moment, I wonder if I am dead.

But she tells me she is the spirit of Christmas past.

And I remember what Marley had said.

I want to say no.

To stay in bed.

I am not interested in being redeemed.

I am not interested in putting my faith in fantasies.

But the spirit, as beautiful as she is, smiles in a way that scares me. That tells me she is not something to be denied.

And so, we go.

My body feels like its being propelled, but where I can’t see yet.

And then we’re here.

Here.

The first place I called home.

And there I am.

Just a boy sitting alone with his books.

I stare at my young face and for some unknowable reason, I want so badly to cry.

He used to stare at me.

Scrooge.

Even before there was a change in him.

I would catch him staring at me as I walked with my father.

When I smiled at him, he’d look away.

At first I thought it was because I was a cripple.

Everyone stared. Why should Scrooge be any different?

But then, after the change, I wondered if it was because there was a part of him that was always good.

A part of him that wanted to reach out and help me, but he didn’t know how.

There was one time, when I was waiting outside for my father, that Scrooge asked me what I wanted to do with my life.

I stared at him for a while.

Even then I knew that I was going to die.

Eventually, I lied and said that I wasn’t sure.

But judging by the way he blushed, I think he knew why I took so long to answer.

Christmas Past shows me a person I had forgotten.

Someone who had dreams of having a family. Children.

Someone whose only desire was having someone to hold.

She shows me what changed and why and how and even when I say, ENOUGH, she keeps it going. She shows me image after image after image of memories I had gratefully forgotten but are now shoved into my face, down my throat and even when I close my eyes, she waves her magic wand and forces them open, open, open wide.

My mother used to tell me stories about changelings.

Evil creatures that looked like babies but weren’t. They were pretenders whose goal was to take over humanity.

I asked her how you could tell the difference between a changeling and a baby and she said that you can just tell.

It’s in the little things, she said.

The way they hold their head or the sound of their voice.

Well, that was the thing about Scrooge.

One day, one Christmas day, he was different.

He had changed.

He wasn’t Scrooge.

And it was the way he held his head.

It was the sound of his voice.

It was the way he looked at you.

It wasn’t the Scrooge I knew.

It was a completely different man.

And for a long time I wondered if the fairies had come and taken the real Scrooge away.

And that maybe my mother was wrong.

Because if the man who smiled at me, who bought me new clothes, whose money got me the best doctors, was a changeling, then wasn’t that a good thing?

Maybe all changelings weren’t evil at all.

Christmas Present is giant and green and, at first, I think there’s been a mistake.

Why would the spirit realm send a fool to guide me to redemption?

The spirit smiles too much and laughs too much.

When I am taken to my nephew, Fred’s house, I am reminded that Fred looks like my sister.

I am also shown what Fred really thinks of me: an irritable old man, who will die alone.

As much as it hurts, I know that Fred isn’t wrong.

I am an irritable old man who will most likely die alone.

Christmas Present takes me to my employee, Bob Cratchit's house.

There, I see his son, Tim.

Tim.

Tim has always been an anomaly to me.

Maybe it’s because he’s so small.

Maybe, after looking at him this time and really looking at him, it’s because he reminds me of myself.

He is quiet.

Thoughtful.

Even though he is the youngest in his family, I can tell he is the most pensive.

And maybe, maybe, it is because he is closest to death.

And thinking this, knowing this, all I want is to reach out my arms to him, and hold him.

Needless to say, it is a strange feeling.

The Scrooge I knew when I was a cripple, is the not the Scrooge I met that one Christmas day when he bought us the prize turkey, when he doubled my father’s salary, when he promised me with tears in his eyes that I would live.

I would live.

Christmas Future…What is there to say?

The spirit showed me what the world would be like after I die.

What the world would say about me after I die.

What my grave would look like-

What my overgrown, abandoned, cold, but very large grave would look like,

After I die.

And even though I knew before that I was alone, that I was unliked, unloved; seeing it, seeing what it would be like, how long and how heavy my chains actually were-

It was enough.

It was enough for me to finally want redemption.

So, maybe Scrooge was a changeling.

Maybe he was a charlatan.

Maybe the Scrooge I met that Christmas day was simply smoke and mirrors.

But to me, it doesn’t matter.

He gave most of his money to those who needed it.

He gave my father and my family more than we could have ever imagined.

His nephew and his nephew’s wife cried like babies at his funeral- like they had lost a father.

It doesn’t matter if the Scrooge I met that day wasn’t real.

Because now, many, many, many, years later, I am still alive.

I am still alive.

And Scrooge is the reason why.