Last Christmas
Quinn
Christmas is a day of heartbreak.
It always has been, ever since I was a little girl in blonde pigtails and pretty dresses. When I was four I ran down the flight of stairs in my house, making sure that even the gods knew that it's Christmas morning. When I reached the bottom I saw a big tree with so many presents under it that my heart raced, and then next to it I saw my father, if I can even call him that now, passed out on the couch, a vodka bottle clasped in his hand. Then I saw my mother with a glass of tequila clasped between her perfectly manicured fingernails, and a slight bruise on her neck. I didn't understand it then, but I do now.
When I was seven I woke up on Christmas morning and cautiously put on the white dress that my grandma had bought me, quietly, because at this point even I had learned that it was bad to be loud in the morning and wake up daddy. Daddy would get mad, and Mommy would cry, and Frannie and me would have to hide in the bathroom and lock the door until Mommy came for us. And then we would be quiet and obedient. Christmas was a chore, a way to make Daddy happy, and even though Daddy slapped Mommy for not having pumpkin pie, we would be quiet.
When I was ten I woke up on Christmas morning to a house that was silent, which was never a good sign. I grabbed my glasses from the nightstand and ignored the way that my chubby thighs rubbed together when I walked, or the way that my arms would stick to the sides of my body when I lifted them, when I walked down I saw the Christmas tree torn and the presents gone. It's sad that the first thing I thought of wasn't that there was a robbery, but that my dad had gotten drunk again. I was right, but I said nothing.
Always quiet, just like I was when I was twelve and I was sitting at the table, a Christmas feast in front of me, but I was eating only a salad. My father said it was a good thing, and that I should be more like Frannie, my beautiful clear-skinned, size-two sister. He was right. They all were. And so as my little heart broke, I decided to change.
When I was fourteen, I ate nothing at all at Christmas. I was a freshman in high-school and on the Cheerios, I couldn't afford to put on any pounds. My father made a joke about how Lucy Caboosey had turned into such an anorexic slut, but I said nothing. Always silent on Christmas, I wouldn't want to make Daddy mad, would I?
Christmas has always been a day of heartbreak, and maybe that's why I accepted working on Christmas. The risk of getting your heart broken goes down when your expectations are low. What's more heartbreaking than a Christmas at a hospital?
I've spent the entire day in a daze, trying to please everyone. I read to the kids at the pediatric wing and served hot chocolate for the party in the mental ward. Just because my Christmases have always been filled with heartbreak doesn't mean that theirs have to be. I'm tired of watching everybody's lives pass by Christmas like it's something magical, when all it has ever held for me is silence and pain.
When I see Puck walk into the emergency room with his head split open, I think 'damn, I guess Christmas can get worse.' He seems oddly calm about everything, considering the amount of blood drenching his shirt. I panic a little, even though I know better than to think it's anything serious, considering the way that head wounds bleed like an open faucet.
"Puck!" I call after him, and he gives me a pained half-smile.
"Quinn! Look who it is, you sexy nurse. I'd give you a hug but seeing as I'm pretty covered in blood right now, I don't think you'd like that." He jokes around, but I can see that the blood is still flowing pretty steadily out of his head, so I lead him into a room immediately instead of making him wait like he would have had to.
"Thanks, Q, you're the best. I hate hospital waiting rooms." I look at the lines on his face, at the crystal scars that shine in the hospital lights, and watch as he barely flinches as I wash off the blood from his head and instruct him to take off his blood-stained shirt. I dab a wet towel around his cut and suppress a laugh at the amount of lines on his head.
"Judging by the amount of scars on your face, I'd say you've been here a lot" I said, as I washed off the last pieces of blood from his head.
"What can I say, Fabray? I like to live on the dangerous side. Of course, you'd know all about that, pink head." My eyes go away for a moment, to the days before I was blonde Quinn, and after I was cheerleading Quinn, to when I was hot-mess punk Quinn. It's a time of my life I tend to try not to think about. It's the time of my life where the Really Awful Stuff took place, and I just don't like to think about it. About her.
"Don't, Puck. You know that I'm not that girl anymore. I've changed, and maybe it's time that you do too." Puck doesn't know that I changed for her, because maybe I wanted to be a better mother to a little girl who isn't even mine anymore. She's thirteen now, and I still have no idea what she looks like, but every step I take I have taken for her. Ever since that Christmas night when she was born and I gave her away to another woman who could raise her much better than I could.
"Now, Fabray, you know I'm not the type to be tied down." Puck said, and he's right, he's not the type to be tied down, which is the reason that we gave Beth up in the first place.
"Puck, you're almost thirty, you're getting too old for this 'bag in the wind' shit. It's time to settle down, I honestly don't know why you haven't settled down yet."
"I just don't think I've found the right person that I'd want to settle down with." I flash into his mouth and look around.
"Still looking? I don't think you're going to find a 'settle-down' type of girl when you're flying off motorcycles every other weekend." It's getting kind of ridiculous, I think, but I don't stay that. Always quiet on Christmas, always hold your tongue on Christmas. Wouldn't want to make Daddy mad, would you Quinnie?
"Oh, I'm not looking, I know who my soul mate is. I'm just waiting for her to realize it."
"Oh, do you now? Here, follow the light with your eyes. Is it that brown-haired short girl that I always see following you around?" For some reason, the thought of Puck having a soulmate sends a pang of something through my chest. It's stupid, because it's been such a long time since we've even spoke, but there's always been something. There's just something about Puck that has always drawn me in.
"Nah, Harmony's great, but she's so high-maintenance. I'm more into blondes, anyway. It's this girl that I know—well used to know, in high school. She has these really beautiful hazel eyes..." I try not to let it be noticeable that I'm blushing, because I'm not blind, he might be talking about me. He might be saying the truth, but knowing Puck, he may also just be saying it to get in my pants. Like I said, there's always been something about Puck, but I'm not that love-sick seventeen year old girl anymore. At least, I promised myself that I wouldn't be.
"Oh, does she now? Here, I'm going to take your temperature, don't bite it." I put the thermometer in his mouth as I wait for the doctor to come in.
"Hey, Quinn?" He asked, and I turn around quickly, my heart beating fast. I'm so glad I don't have a heart monitor right now.
"Yeah?"
"You're Christian, right?" Am I Christian? I think I am, and I always have been, but I'm not so sure. Where has God been all of these Christmases, where I've had my heart broken again and again and again? Where is He? Still, I'm afraid to not have any faith, because when things get bad, I can always close my eyes and send up a prayer and hope for the best. Where am I without it?
"To an extent."
"What are you doing here on Christmas?" He asked, and I thought 'I'm here because Christmas is a day for heartbreak and I don't want to have my heart broken again', but I didn't say that.
"What are you doing here on Christmas?"
"I'm Jewish." Right, I forgot.
"Oh. Well, I don't actually like Christmas all that much, and they needed people to volunteer today. Most people don't like to work on Christmas, but that doesn't mean that people stop being sick or getting hurt." I lie easily, keeping a tight smile on my face as I take his blood pressure. He looks at me like I said something stupid.
"You forget that I know you, Quinn, and I know that's a load of crap. I'm not stupid." He kind of is.
"You're literally in the hospital for crashing your motorcycle with no helmet on, Puck."
"That's a different kind of stupid. Has your old man come around yet?"
"Now, I know you know that I haven't spoken to him since Beth."
"Oh, well Quinn, I know about you thing... about Christmases being for silence, I don't want this one to be about silence too." Puck spoke, but I stayed quiet.
"I think you're my soulmate—no I know you're my soulmate. And this isn't me just being paranoid here, either. I've checked, I've asked around. I asked Santana if you were seeing anyone, and she said no. You said it's time for me to settle down, right? Well, I think maybe you're the girl—"
I cut him off with a kiss, and I could hear the carolers in one of the other rooms, and I can smell the Christmas trees and the hot chocolate and everything that I've ever hated about Christmas, and for once I decided to battle the silence. I decided to speak.