1Disclaimer- I don't own Moulin Rouge. Happy Christmas, try and read my other Christmas story, The Gift of the Magi.
Christmas always brought back memories that had been too long forgotten. Christian wished he could enjoy the season the way he once did, and wished he could join his children in the magic of the lights and carols. Eva noticed his unusual coldness, but had no explanation for it.
On Christmas Eve, the snow was falling in clouds that hid the dirty Paris streets from sight. Snow in France was uncommon and this evening seemed to Laura and Henry to be magic. They sat with their noses and sticky fingers pressed to the frosty glass, looking out at the frozen world.
Christian wandered alone among the drifts, the city was deserted by all but a few last minute shoppers. He had no real excuse for being there, having bought the children their desired toys and Eva the gold necklace she'd been eyeing. He needed to escape, from Eva's clucking over Christmas dinner and the stifling heat in the kitchen and from his own mind which tonight was playing tricks on him.
As the darkness grew, Christian finally began toward home, trying to ignore the howling voice of the wind. The expensive flat was warm and filled with golden light. Laura and Henry attached themselves to his legs as soon and he entered the room, Eva gave him a rather reprimanding look as she kissed his cheek and handed him the baby.
Christian sat in silence for a while in the living room, allowing little Gracie to play with his fingers. The older children had disappeared again, perhaps finally agreeing to go to bed.
"So, last minute shopping?" Christian jumped, not having seen Eva enter the room. "Or did you have some other important errand?"
"Eva…"
"What's going on Christian?"
"Don't be this way." Eva ignored him, grabbing Gracie and strutting out of the room, her messy black hair swinging behind her. Christian sighed at her retreating back and buried his face in his hands.
Not wanting to deal with an angry and tired Eva, Christian got ready for bed alone. As soon as he lay down, Christian knew sleep wasn't going to come easy. First the bed sheets were being cold, then it was Eva pacing in the next-door room, then the shutters were rattling in the wind. As he got up to close them, he knew his eyes must be deceiving him.
Slowly he opened the window and stuck his head out, unable to believe what he was seeing. "Mother?"
She turned around to face him. Her grey eyes were clear and chilling. Her thin nightgown blew out behind her. Christian jumped back from the window and she pulled herself inside.
"Christian! How good to see you, how are you? But no, not well at all I see."
"Mother… but you're…" Christian searched for words.
"Ravishing? Devine?"
"Dead"
"Ah well, so I am. But you can complain all you want, you know you're happy to see me."
"But why?"
"Why do you think? You're acting like a self-centered fool and driving your family up the wall, especially Eva."
"Driving them up the wall!" Christian said furiously, momentarily forgetting to be shocked by his dead mother's appearance.
"Just like your father," she shook her head and sat on the bed. "Do you know what it's like to live forty years with a man who doesn't love you? Death is a relief Christian."
"I do love Eva…" but Christian knew his words sounded hollow and his mother didn't believe him.
"Ah Christian, I'd love to stay here and chat with you, but that's not what I came for."
"And what are you here for?" said Christian hesitantly.
"How do I explain this? Well, I'm here to show you your past. Follow me." Christian was still too shocked to notice the full oddity of the situation, following his dead mother down stairs through the now silent house. The stairs were dark but there was a light on in the living room.
"Eva is still up. You can't go in there." Christian warned
"It's not Eva."
"What" the hallway he was walking through melted into a room he had forgotten. Everything seemed larger, beside him his mother was fully dressed, her face unlined. He was seven years old. His little sister Abby, who was five, was opening a present, Christian already knew it contained the paint box he wanted so badly. He turned away and went to find his present. The train set he had hated.
His father had spent hours with him, setting it up while Christian watched. At first it had seemed a kind, fatherly sort of gesture, but he had become obsessed. Christian remembered how furious his mother had been when Christian came back with that bruise on his arm.
She had packed up Christian and his sister and threatened to leave, he thought perhaps they had, for a few days. They came back soon though, Abby was ill. Abby was always sickly, even back then. She had a lump on her leg and scars on her lungs. The doctors said she'd not live as a baby but she had.
Christian didn't touch the present. He glared at its ominous red paper and silver bow.
"Here you go chap," Oliver James was beardless and his hair was dark and thick. Christian noticed with a shudder how much he resembled him. Christian didn't take the present.
"Christian, don't you want to open your present?" his mother asked. Christian took it reluctantly. He feared his mother more than his father, for she was both warm and cold and he never knew which was coming. At least his father was easy figure out.
Christian peeled the paper away, his father was watching expectantly. Christian forced a smile. It was, of course, the train.
"Oliver?" his mother said getting up. "I thought…"
"For heavens sake, stop trying to make a girl out of him." His mother was on her feet now. Christian cowered beside the tree. His mother was not like the rest of his family, save perhaps Abby who never got to grow up.
Johanna was an Irish beauty, all chestnut hair and spitfire. Christian's parents had been in love, once upon a time. As a child, Christian's mother had told him tales of how they fell in love by the sea. When she spoke, he could smell the brine. She told the story less and less as time passed.
Christian watched his parents retreat into the hall where he could hear them yelling. It was nothing new. Johanna was an independent sort of woman, not fond of taking orders from men. Oliver wanted a family, boys who acted like boys, a wife who didn't talk back. Christian was left alone with the colored paper and Abby, who was sucking her thumb and playing with Christian's train. Abby looked up suddenly, her blue eyes childish but her voice firm.
"Come," she got up and walked to the door, her limp was only slight back then.
"We mustn't, we'll get in trouble," Christian said, aware of how young he sounded. Abby shook her head.
"They're gone." Sure enough, the hall was deserted. As Abby walked, she seemed to grow taller. She was now fully dress in her best dress. Her pale, unusual hair was curly and in blue ribbons. Christian too was taller, more than five feet. There were delicious smells wafting from the kitchen, cinnamon and ginger.
He remembered this day, he was twelve and never could remember being more excited. Abby too couldn't stop quivering. Their mother could be heard laughing in the kitchen and their father was out, no doubt buying them fabulous toys.
Their mother burst through the French doors singing familiar carols. She spotted the children on the stairs and reached into her pockets. She pulled out two small pieces of gingerbread with a wink.
"When you're done with that, come get your coats on, I'm going to show you how to make Angels in the Snow." Abby flew down the stairs, fast for someone whom walking pained. Christian was close behind her. They pulled on patent leather boats, wool sweaters under their coats, scarves, mittens, hats.
Christian hadn't the heart to tell his mother he already knew how to make Angels in the Snow and that he was already too old for it. That would surely hurt her feelings. Abby was ready before him, running shakily out among the drifts.
He thought he had never seen his mother or sister so happy, as they threw snow balls and made Angels. Christian knew what today meant, but he couldn't stop smiling. He knew that if he told them to go in now there would be cocoa and gingerbread and his father would pretend to be proud and his mother would pretend to love him and Abby would grow up.
As these thoughts came to him, so did the wind. He was blinded by it and the laughter ringing in his ears was stifled by the silence of the snow. It lasted only a few minutes but when it was over, he was buried. He fought his way out of it, snow stinging his eyes. He felt someone pulling him out. It was his mother.
"Where's Abby?" he said frantically, knowing the answer, hating himself for not letting them go in her earlier.
"I don't know, come look for her." They ran, across the field, shouting her name to the falling snow. Dusk was falling and the entire household had joined in the hut, Johanna had to be brought inside crying uncontrollably, fighting to go back out. Christian looked among the woods, under trees and behind drifts.
Father Christmas forgot them that night. Christian still remembered lying in bed, crying into his pillow. The pillow smelt of soap and spices. They didn't find her body until morning, all blue and frozen, buried under the snow.
"Any other child could have climbed out of the drift," they said. "Abby's leg killed her after all."
At dawn he fell asleep, exhausted from crying. He woke up a year later. Christian wondered if he'd be stuck as a child forever, as he dressed in his black suit. It was Christmas day, but no one felt like celebrating. Christian's mother was standing in the door way in her black dress, a streak of white in her dark hair.
"Do you want to go to the cemetery?" Christian agreed. As they rode to the cemetery in silence. This year there was no snow, just grey clouds and mud. The cemetery was empty. His mother waited by the gates.
"You have to go in alone." Christian nodded solemnly. He wandered among the graves. He saw his grandparents' graves, their headstones covered in moss. He saw other relatives he couldn't remember but knew from their names that they were his. Then newest grave was small and had an engraving on an angel on it.
Abigail May James.
May 12, 1876 – December 24, 1886.
Beloved Daughter, Sister, Angel
The grass had only just begun to grow on top of it. Christian closed his eyes and let the tears burst through his lashes.
"Don't cry," Christian's eyes flew open. He was grown up and Abby was standing beside the gravel, her white party dress was smeared with mud and her blue ribbons were slipping out of her messy auburn hair. "I miss you, but Mama's here too now and look, I can run without limping. No more hospitals, no more sore bones or coughing all night or foul tasting medicines or" her smile faded. "I'm sorry. This isn't about me. Come on." She took his hand. Hers was solid but cold and made of porcelain. "I've always wanted to see Paris."
"This is London," Christian spoke for the first time.
"This, big brother, is a Dream." Abby grave was older now, covered in dead flowers and thick untended grass. His mother's grave was beside hers.
Johanna Sile James
June 1856- August 25, 1917
Beloved Wife and Mother
"Father and Michael visit frequently. Michael makes father proud but he doesn't make him smile. They miss you. We miss seeing you too."
"I've been away. I live in France. I can't travel to this cemetery as much as I'd like."
"You don't go to church either. Or visit Satine's grave. I could reach you there if you did." As they talked, they were moving toward the busy city streets, which did indeed belong to Paris. He froze slightly at the mention of Satine. No one had spoken her name for years. There was a question he was dying to ask but feared the answer.
"Oh yes, she's here," Abby said softly. "She'd thought you'd forgotten her. She's been waiting for you to call. Come."
They made their way through the deserted city as the sun was about to rise. He knew in the houses they past children were waking and opening presents. Even the beggars some how had bread. Abby's blonde hair was sparkling with dew as they approached the Moulin Rouge.
The lights were out, all but one. They entered the deserted hall where dust had replaced glittering dancers. He looked to Abby but saw she was gone. He remembered what she said. He had to call.
"Satine?" his voice was thin and echoed across the floor. "Satine."
"Christian?" He spun around.
It wasn't Satine, but Eva. "I thought I might find you here."
"What?"
"You left. I'm sorry. I followed you, I knew you were angry but I was worried."
"I left?"
"Yes, we had a fight. Don't you remember?" Christian shook his head.
"I've been somewhere else this evening."
"No, you haven't. I've been with you the whole time."
"My mind has," he said softly. Eva shook her head.
"Let's go home Christian. I left Betty watching the kids." Christian nodded resignedly and went to follow her out when another voice called to him.
"Seasons' may change, winter to spring, I still love you." It was coming from outside. Christian ran to the door, leaving Eva alone in the dust laden room. He followed her voice down the street, shouting her name. The sun was rising. He stopped running. She was there in the alley. He had mistaken her for a beggar the first time. She was dressed in rags and crouching among the garbage.
"Satine," he whispered. She smiled. "Is this just a trick of the light?"
"Of course,"
"And will you be gone by morning," he asked, fearing the answer. She shrugged.
"Probably."
"I love you." She answered.
"Go home Christian. I am nothing anymore, just fog and pain. Forget me. We'll meet again, someday." She turned her back on him and dissolved as a ray of sunlight hit her.
"Christian!" Eva was calling his name down the deserted street. Christian ran to her, catching her in his arms and kissing her.
"I'm sorry Eva, let's go home." Eva smiled and then frowned.
"You're crying," she said softly, reaching a maternal hand up to wipe his tears.
"I almost forgot what today was, I almost forgot how much I love you. But I remember now." Eva shook her head at him.
"I love you Christian," she said. "Merry Christmas"