December flash #2 - "Uncle Dan"

Christmas Day

I stand in my mother’s living room, still in my coat, still holding a bag of gifts. I don’t know where to put myself, I don’t know what to say.

“They’re so cute at this age,” Mom says. She’s dressed my Uncle Dan in a reindeer onesie, put a Santa hat on his head, and is taking pictures with her phone as he lies on a blanket. “I tell you what,” she adds, grinning down at Uncle Dan, “I never saw the point Instagram until I had a sweet, super-handsome baby like this.” She lowers her head and kisses Uncle Dan’s nose, provoking a burbling response from the wriggling infant. “You’re cute as a button, yes you are!”

Uncle Dan agrees, apparently. I don’t speak baby, but he seems happy enough, gurgling and drooling. He waves his hands, reaching for the sparkling baubles Mom has placed around him for the photos, and Mom shakes her head at him, tickling him with her hair. “Not for babies,” she coos. “You just wanna stick everything in your silly mouth!”

This is true enough. From the moment I came home to find Mom and Uncle Dan together, all he’s wanted to do is suck on things. His hands, his pacifier, Christmas decorations.

And I should be freaking out. My mother has turned my uncle into a baby. She has changed herself as well, from forty-something to early twenties. She has done the impossible, and when I ask her how, she gives me a crazy answer about a Christmas wish.

And when I ask her why?

“Geez, honey, you know how your uncle Dan is!” Mom shakes her head at her regressed brother playfully. “He might as well have stayed a baby all this time, the mess he’s made of things. This way, he can take zero responsibility to for his actions and it’s cute, instead of driving his friends and family up the wall.”

She looks at me. “So, you gonna stay and visit?”

I blink, and then I nod, putting the bag of gifts over by the Christmas tree and hanging my coat on one of the chairs by the dining table. Mom has already got a highchair at the table for Uncle Dan, and I think to myself that the multi-tool pocketknife I bought for him is hardly appropriate now, and will I be able to return it?

I crouch down beside them, offer Uncle Dan a finger which he takes with a surprisingly strong grip. It’s impossible, but it’s entirely real. I look at his face and I can see there’s no hint of his old life behind his innocent eyes. He seems happy enough, he really does, and when I think about his crappy apartment, I think about the pizza boxes stacking up and the beer bottles clinking around his couch, I wonder if this is just what happens when your family has had enough. When your family can, apparently, use some Christmas magic.

“How did you do it, though?” I ask Mom. I think of a witch’s cauldron, I imagine a blood sacrifice, and I cringe. “This is really hardcore.”

Mom gets to her feet; lighter and nimbler than I remember her. We’re the same age now, which makes no sense, but it’s no stranger than my uncle’s current state.

Mom walks over to the dining table, sits down and picks up a pen. “I wrote a letter to Santa, of course,” she says, and she beams at me.

I laugh. “Seriously. How did you do it?”

“I’m completely serious,” Mom replies. She holds up a legal writing pad. “I wrote to Santa.” She taps the pen against her chin. “But I didn’t ask for things, like jewelry or a car.” She frowns, as if that would be the crazy option. “I asked him to help my family.” She smiles. “Uncle Dan was top of the list, of course. But I asked for a little help for me as well, I admit. And I didn’t say, ‘please make me younger’ just like I didn’t ask for Dan to be a baby. I just…I asked for Dan to get some help and I asked to get some more energy.” She strokes her hair - longer, shinier than it was the last time I saw her – with her fingers. “And this is what I got.”

Dan provides a squeal – of agreement? – and pulls his knees up, curling his body to make himself seem even smaller, and if I’m honest, even cuter.

And then I remember something so important, I’m amazed I hadn’t thought of it before. “Mom, where’s Dad?”

Mom responds with a giggle. “You noticed! I was wondering…” She taps her writing pad. “Honey, I wrote to Santa, told him about how your father treated me.” She holds up her hands, indicates Dad’s absence. “Santa took care of that, too.”

My eyes widen. “What are you…is he…?”

Mom laughs. “Your dad’s not dead, he’s just…” She shrugs, as if it’s nothing. “He’s just not here.”

I look at Dan. He’s not the only Christmas miracle then. And truth is, I knew Mom would be happier – she’d be healthier – without my father around.

And then I peer over at the dining table. “What are you writing now?” I try to imagine Mom writing a list of things she’ll need for the baby. Or she’s getting an early start on some new year resolutions.

The expression Mom has suggests that it’s neither of those things.

“I got you a gift,” she says, pointing towards the tree with her pen. “But then I thought, why am I buying my son something when I can make a real difference.”

She turns back to the writing pad and takes a moment to write something down. She nods, looking satisfied. “There.”

“You…” I feel a prickle of unease in my scalp. “You wrote to Santa about me?”

Mom smiles. “I didn’t want you to feel left out.”

My mouth is dry. I look at my uncle, reduced to infancy, reduced to pooping in diapers and drinking from bottles. “Mom. What did you write?”

Mom tears the piece of paper from the pad and folds it. “That’s between me and the big guy,” she says calmly, and then she gives me a wink. “Oh, don’t look so worried, honey. I really do give the best gifts these days.”

THE END

A man returns home to find his regressed mother writing a letter to Santa. She's just excited to celebrate her baby bro's first Christmas - Rick