Nurse Moore was right. Avery backed away with an apology, faintly hearing Betty say something about getting dressed for the dance, but she didn't care about dressing up. She didn't care about dancing or looking good for boys who were just as crazy as she was supposed to be. Instead, she sat back down on her bed to finish reading the worst Christmas card in history.
But I brought this all on myself, Faye continued. I denied your illness, so you denied it too. My greatest fear is that you will deny it forever, that you never be the sweet girl I always wanted you to be.
Sometimes Faye sounded so sincere. How could someone who spoke with so much hope for her daughter's sanity possibly be the one who destroyed it? How could someone so sweet be a killer?
But wasn't Avery sweet? Or did her diseased mind just tell her she was in order to continue condemning her mother?
I love you, Avery. I've always loved you, and I've always wanted the best for you. I hope you realize that, even if my 'best' wasn't what you wanted. I wish I could also tell you that Natalie sends her love, but...just try to forget about your sister's fear. Someday, she won't hate you so much. I'm certain of it.
Merry Christmas, my darling.
Love, Mom
When Flint walked in, Avery dropped the card to the floor.
“Are you alright?”
Avery didn't answer. Instead, she jumped off the bed, making sure to land on the card, and smashed it underfoot as if it were a terrifying spider.
“Come on,” Flint said, holding her arm open for Avery to curl against. “Let's dance.”
The only time Avery was allowed to leave the ward was to go to her appointments with Doctor Aslinn, but some of the girls had wider privileges, so they weren't so awed by the juvenile wing's common room. The decorations, however, awed every girl—as did the boys.
Avery thought one of the patients on the boys side looked familiar. Like Paul. At first, she thought it was all in her mind; after all, she had thought she'd seen Paul so many times since her incarceration. But Nurse Day seemed to notice the resemblance, too, and tried to distract Avery with a few rules before she could approach him. It was the usual. She was to be on her best behavior. She was being watched. It was probably best if she didn't get too close to the other children, especially to “that boy with the dark hair.”
Avery only half-listened. She was too busy drinking in her Christmas. What a beautiful gift it was. So warm. So normal. She could try to ignore the boy, but there was no point in ignoring the colors and lights strung throughout the room. The streamers were out of reach, but plenty of red and green tissue paper bells were taped to the walls, honeycombed and calling Avery forward. She ran her fingers over a bell, never expecting something so flimsy or fleeting to touch her heart so heavily. The Christmas lights lining the ceiling made the paper bells glow, but when Avery's fingers dipped into the red tissue cells, the color increased—and bled. She pulled back, but the color stayed with her, rolling crimson down her wrists. It was too familiar a sight.
“Avery, are you alright?” Flint asked her.
She looked down again to find her hands clean. The blood was just a memory gone wild.
“I'm fine, thanks,” Avery said, more to the nurses giving her a discerning eye than to Flint.
The Christmas tree in the corner was even more beautiful than Avery had imagined. With the bright green boughs decked in bows and softly glowing lights, the tree appeared to smolder. Avery wasn't the only one taken with the glow; several patients stared at the tree—perhaps, like Avery, awed by their gratitude in getting to see something so beautiful after months and months of white walls and vitamin hazes. It was obvious that some of the boys were still in hazes as their nurses tried to urge them to talk to the girls. But some of the boys weren't reserved at all. A red-headed kid with scratches on his arms quickly struck up a conversation with Rachel while a younger boy, still in his pajamas, started chasing Brianne around the room. But she stopped running when she realized the boy was chasing her rather than the both of them chasing her invisible pet Tyler. Frankie was leaned against the wall, scanning the boys for prospective dance partner's. Unfortunately, the choice wasn't up to him. Only one guy approached Frankie, and it was only to ask why he was in the girls ward.
Frankie didn't answer. Instead, he asked giddily, “Want to dance?”
The boy said “oh,” and swiftly walked away.
“I'll dance with you,” Avery said. Frankie smiled as she took his hand and led him onto the dance floor.
She didn't know any real dances, just the typical sways and spins, but Frankie had an entire repertoire in his back pocket. When “Frosty the Snowman” hopped out of the speakers, he twirled Avery into his routine. She mimicked his mashed potato and twist as best she could, causing the onlookers to clap and holler in encouragement. By the time the song ended, she was out of breath and her face hurt from smiling so much. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt such delightful pain. When Frankie twirled her out of his arms, she lost control and bumped into a dark-haired boy. The one with the familiar face.
“Sorry,” she whispered as she started away.
“Wait, I didn't catch your name,” he said.
Her first instinct was to pretend she was someone else: Flint, Rachel, Natalie, anyone but Little Avery Norton. But rather than choose, she walked away. The boy grabbed her arm, and three nurses promptly ran over with syringes primed.
“Avery, are you okay?” Nurse Moore asked, causing Avery's head to sink into her shoulders.
“Fine,” she replied. The nurses walked away, but they didn't go far.
“Avery? As in Avery Norton?” the boy asked. “Are you that girl who killed all those people?”
“Nope, wrong girl,” she muttered.
“Really? I heard she was in Taunton. Is she in your ward?”
“I'm going to get something to drink,” she said flatly. The boy smiled as he said “let me.” When he returned with two cups of cranberry juice, Avery thanked him and prayed that the name conversation was over. She suspected not, but when he said “So, you seem pretty normal,” Avery's heart fluttered.
The words sounded so beautiful, even if she only seemed normal by comparison. Anyone who wasn't currently knocking his or her head against the wall or talking to imaginary creatures probably seemed just as normal.
“Do you want to dance?” he asked.
Avery was suddenly aware that she was blushing. The boy looked so much like Paul. She would have no problem pretending he was Paul for just one dance.
Unfortunately, Nurse Meredith had other plans. “Time for presents!” she crowed, flapping her wings at the children and ushering them to the gift table.
Doctor Aslinn had changed into a Santa Claus outfit and he didn't look too pleased about it. Still, he forced a smile before placing a large white box in Avery's hands. She almost didn't want to open it. The mere occurrence of receiving a gift in Taunton was gift enough. The only one that could've exceeded it would've been her release, but she doubted she'd find that under the lid. In the end, her curiosity won. She started to pull the bow when she saw that “Francine” rather than “Avery” was written on the gift tag.
“Hey, Flint, I got yours by mistake!”
With her cup of juice clenched between her teeth, Avery carried the box over to Flint just as she was lifting her own lid.
“Oh, then I guess this is yours,” Flint said and pulled the gift from the box.
Avery shuddered violently, dropping her cup. Cranberry juice splashed down her shirt, over Flint, and onto the limp white rabbit in Flint's hands. Avery sank to the floor, covering her head with a sob.
“It's okay, Avery, it's just a toy,” Flint said as she danced the juice-spattered rabbit around. “Just a stuffed bunny.”
“A stuffed bunny as a Christmas present? For me?” Avery sniffled.
“Yeah, Santa is either an idiot or an asshole.”
“What's going on here? Avery, did you make this mess?” Meredith
asked.
“Did you give me a stuffed rabbit for Christmas?” Avery asked her angrily.
“Of course not. The presents were assigned at random,” she replied.
“You're lying. You did it to torture me,” she hissed.
“I did nothing of the sort. Now, calm down, Avery.”
“Don't tell me to calm down!” she screamed, ripping the sticky rabbit away from Flint and hurling it at Nurse Day.
The other nurses immediately withdrew their vitamins and started to close in, but when Avery turned to see the dark-haired boy staring at her in morbid fascination, she took off running. She kicked the gift table, causing the presents to tumble to the floor. She knocked over the punch bowl, covering the floor with crimson liquid as she tore honeycomb bells off of the walls. John the Orderly eventually grabbed hold of her. His thick arms crossed over Avery's front, pinning her to his chest as the nurses approached with their syringes.
“No, it's not my fault! It was the rabbit,” Avery mewled. “Please don't knock me out again. I want to see Christmas. Please!”
Nurse Mathis nearly had her needle in Avery's arm when a crackling sound in the corner, followed by a deep sigh, turned the heads of patients and staff alike. The majestic Taunton Christmas tree was now an evergreen inferno. The trimmings were quickly devoured by the flames, but the star still gleamed atop the tree, shining as brightly in the fire as the grin upon Flint's face. She looked happier than Avery had ever seen her. With a chuckle, Flint tossed the rest of her matches into the blaze and held open her arms for the tackle she knew would follow.
As some of the nurses worked to douse the fiery tree and settle the frantic patients, the others took care of Flint. The surge of drugs through her blood stream caused her to crumple to the floor, where she was scooped up by an orderly. She was woozy, but when she was carried past her roommate, she was still conscious. More importantly, so was Avery.
“Merry Christmas, Avery,” Flint creaked with a smile before her head drooped into a heavy dream.
Avery was also removed from the party, but she wasn't dosed with tranquilizers. She could still hear Christmas music playing as she was escorted out. She could still taste the juice and feel the delicate paper of the bells. She knew she'd never find out if the rabbit present was an attack or a coincidence, but once she was back in her room, she didn't care. She looked down at her mother's card, at the chubby angel on the tree branch, and smiled. She didn't have any visitors, and she didn't end up with any presents, but at least she'd finally experienced Christmas at Taunton Asylum. However, looking around her room, where holiday colors were just memories and music was just a faint string of sad notes, she realized there was no triumph that day. Lucidity or not, she was still a prisoner.
Violet was at the window, as usual, with the Christmas City celebration reflected in her eyes like tiny explosions of color. It might've been the closest she would ever get to those lights. Avery couldn't help but wonder how close she would ever be again. Would she never stand in a breeze that carried Christmas: that crisp, comforting scent of icy cedar and sugar leading her back home after a day of playing in the snow?
“Merry Christmas, Violet,” Avery whispered to the girl hunched over in the chair.
A string of drool oozed from Violet's lip, and Avery sighed as she faced the window again. She had to accept the fact that she might not get any closer to those lights, either. That kind of Christmas, a free Christmas, wasn't hers anymore. For Avery Norton, Christmas would be crazed. It would have tranquilizers, blazing trees, and mocking gifts from a disgruntled Santa. Like it or not, she also had to assume that whether in fantasy, nightmare, or coed dance, there would always be a boy with a familiar face.
RABBITS IN THE GARDEN is a novel about a young girl's seemingly unwarranted incarceration in Taunton State Lunatic Asylum in 1953. This story is set during a period of time originally omitted from the book. For more by Jessica McHugh, see https://www.jessicamchughbooks.com/
A Manlove & Kickerdick Xmess,
Ain't no messin' with these backdoor Santas
by Axel Howerton
“So what the hell do you want, you big fucking baby?”
“I told you, I don’t want nothin’
Jurgen Kierkedoek stomped off, his size fifteen Doc Martens leaving thunderstorms in their wake. The sky followed suit as the grey haze opened up and pissed down a cold December drizzle.
Menlowe gave a loud sigh and shook his head at the darkening sky before turning to follow the giant.
“Sweetie, all I was saying...”
Kierkedoek stopped and swung his wide, fur-lined shoulders back to face the smaller man.
“All you were saying is that there ain’t no Santa. Which you’ve been hassling me about for years. Fuck you, man. You know how mad that makes me. I know you aren’t allowed to believe in him, doesn’t mean I can’t.”
Menlowe stepped gracefully over a small puddle and gently placed his hands on Kierkedoek’s furry chest.
“You’re right, Yergie. I’m sorry. I’ll stop teasing you. Now will you calm down so we can get to this job?”
Kierkedoek snuffed an unpleasant-sounding amount of snot back into his sinuses and spat it out into the street, where it slapped loudly into the gutter slush.
“Fine. Fuck it, man. Let’s get it done. This fucking sucks.”
Menlowe shuddered at the expellation of loogie, but moved to feed his arm through Kierkedoek’s.
“I know you’re upset about working on Christmas Eve, but I promise I will make it up to you in the morning.” Menlowe purred.
“Did you get me the new Halo? And the anti-grav controller?” Kierkedoek bounced as he walked.
“I am not telling you.”
“A puppy? Is it a puppy? You fuckin’ did too.”
“No, I didn’t get you a fucking dog. You know we can’t have pets. I have sensitive sinuses. Just realize that my gifts better be pretty damned amazing, Big Boy.”
The street was filled on both sides with an ocean of last-minute shoppers, rushing and shoving, jockeying for position in the crowd. Nobody seemed to notice the mismatched pair as they strolled arm in arm. Arthur Menlowe, wrapped up in his pristine, and very new, Helly Hanson parka, and Kierkedoek, towering beside him in what could only be described as a 70’s style bear carcass of a fur overcoat, made a distinct impression.
“Is it that Japanese import of Foxy playing Budokan with The Buzzcocks?” Kierkedoek asked, spinning nimbly to walk face to face with Menlowe.
“OOH! Is it the limited edition green-and-gold swirl vinyl of Foxy’s new Atomic Sphinkters album?”
Menlowe rolled his eyes and threw his arms up in exasperation.
“I will never understand your obsession with that drunken idiot!”
“Don’t.”
“First off,” Menlowe continued, stabbing a finger up into Kierkedoek’s growling face, “His name is Danny. You know that. We know him. He’s an asshole.”
“Stop.”
“Secondly, he ruined our Halloween party. He screwed your cousin in our laundry room and he stole Mrs. Tiddlywinks!”
“He didn’t steal your fucking rat.”
“She was a hedgehog!”
Kierkedoek glared down at his partner before plowing through the crowd like an angry bull, strafing the streets of Pamplona. Menlowe huffed and followed at the acceptable distance for a lover’s tiff. The big man came to an abrupt stop in front of a questionable-looking old rummy in a frayed and stained red suit, lazily flopping a hand bell from side-to-side as he mumbled incoherently.
“Good afternoon,” Menlowe sang as he stepped up behind, “Liquid lunch today, Santa?”
As Menlowe waved his hands in front of his face in the generally-accepted symbol of stank drunk, Kierkedoek shoved one giant fist inside of his coat pocket and thrust a fistful of crumpled bills towards the swinging ball of donations.
“Don’t you dare!”
“Merry Christmas, man.” Kierkedoek grinned at t
he red-suited bum, ignoring Menlowe’s protests.
The rummy gazed up and sputtered out a thank you and a “Happy Holidays, Bub.”
Menlowe refused to speak again until they were on the number seven bus, headed away from the six other street corner Santas who had received large dispensations from the meaty hands of a man who, three nights a week, goes by the name “Kickerdick”.
“You and your fucking Santas. This is why we have to work on Christmas Eve.”
“You’re just jealous that you ain’t got one. Whole lotta candles and shit, no happy elves with awesome presents.”
“No, we get thousands of years of tradition and eight nights of presents.”
“Eight nights of wooden spinning tops and fuckin’ chocolate coins.”
“Ben sharmuta” Menlowe countered, shoving a very specific choice of fingers in his partners face.
Another game of ethereal ten-pin was booming through the clouds by the time Menlowe and Kierkedoek found themselves parked in a black limo on South Figueroa. The massive brick monument of The Jonathan Club towered above them, marking its place as the center of rich, white Angelenos for the past hundred years. The slush was still running sticky in the streets and what few people remained on the sidewalks were hustling by in their parkas, desperate to escape the coldest winter in memory. Of course, in L.A., that meant what would have been considered a mild spring in most other parts of the country.
“Christ, these people!” Menlowe laughed, watching an old man in a fur-lined parka waddling intently toward his Hummer, “They’d curl up and die if they ever spent a Hanukkah in Pittsburgh.”
“Pittsburgh. I miss the snow in Pittsburgh.”
“You would, you big dope.” Menlowe chuckled, slapping the big man’s knee.
“Hey, you’re the one with the big new parka. You looked like you were going skiing in Aspen or some shit.”
“One has to stay stylish in this town, honey. You don’t see me making fun of your pimp coat.”
“Pimp coat? What? I like my coat. It’s warm.”
“Never mind, sweetie. Here they come.” Menlowe stepped from the car, slipping a black chauffeurs cap onto his head and taking the long way around the front of the car. He opened the rear door and stood to one side, free hand at the small of his back and head dipped in deference to the customer.