Chapter 26: Chapter 26

"This is hopeless," I complain, falling back into the couch cushions with a sigh and frowning at my phone. The email on the screen—the twentieth of its kind I've seen this week—thanks me for my application but regrets to inform me that the position is already filled. "Don't stores hire extra help for the holidays? I thought that was a thing."

"Sure they do," says Hazel. He sits beside me, playing one of the Forza racing games on his Xbox. He keeps one cushion space between us—a measure of distance he's carefully maintained. "But they do it earlier, like in October or November, I think. Not with less than two weeks until Christmas."

Groaning, I drop my phone and press my palms against my eyes. "Ugh. I'm doomed."

"Hey! No, you're not!" Hazel takes one hand off his controller, sending his virtual car into a spectacular crash, and leans as if to touch my shoulder or arm. Catching himself, he pretends to stretch instead, flushing faintly as he resets the level on his game. "I mean, what about the Work-Study job? You've got that, right?"

Leaning my head back, I sigh. "Any wages I earn will go towards my tuition. I still need to worry about things like food and a place to live."

In fact, I'm not eligible for the regular Work-Study program, because it's federally funded. According to the U.S. federal government, paying for college is the parents' responsibility—at least until the age of twenty-four—and my dad makes too much money for me to qualify. For students like me, whose parents could pay, but for whatever reason simply won't, it's 'tough luck, kid.'

I'm far from the only person in this position, but I'm certainly among the most fortunate. Thankfully, Crestwood U has its own, privately funded work-study program, designed to help students who don't qualify for federal aid but are still unable to pay. Students like myself, who encounter financial hardship midway through a course of study, are given special priority.

"What's wrong with staying here?" Hazel asks, unaware of my internal thoughts. "You know my dad wants you to."

"I know," I mumble. "It's just... I can't stay here forever." I pick up my phone again and start scrolling through listings, but the pickings are slim. "This is what I mean," I say, gesturing at the screen. "All these positions require experience. But how am I supposed to get experience in the first place if no one will give me a chance?"

The sound of someone clearing his throat makes me look up. Professor MacDowell stands in the open archway leading to the kitchen, from which he's returning with a glass of milk and a plate of Christmas cookies that Hazel baked (and burned) the day before.

"Charlie," he says, seeing he has my attention. "I'm usually not the sort to give advice where it's not wanted, but I'll give you some if you'll have it."

I sit up a little straighter. "Of course, Professor." Having proven myself physically incapable of calling him by his first name, he'd given up trying to make me do so.

He smiles. "Here it is, then: relax."

The tender shoots of my hope wither beneath the frost of renewed disappointment, and I know he sees it on my face. I'd thought he'd saying something useful, like 'talk to so-and-so in such-and-such department.'

"Professor, I—"

He holds up his glass of milk and raises his brows at me, indicating he's not done. "I admire you for taking the initiative, Charlie, but we're not going to kick you out if you don't find a job by tomorrow—or next week, or next month. As long as you're comfortable here, I'd much rather see you settle in and steady yourself before you rush out into the wide world. Now, your father has taught you that the world is a harsh, cruel, and unforgiving place, and it would be a lie to say that this is wrong. But it doesn't have to be. There are times like this one when, if you can accept kindness and offer kindness to yourself, you will be much happier for it. So, that is my advice. Give yourself a break—a real one. When was the last time you had nothing to worry about?"

I open my mouth, blink, and shut it again. 'Nothing to worry about' and 'reality' don't seem like compatible concepts.

Seeming to guess my thoughts, MacDowell smiles. "There will always be something to worry about—believe me. And I'm not saying you should stop trying; doing nothing and not worrying are two different things. All I'm saying is don't forget to live in the meantime. Don't worry, be happy, as the song says."

He raises his milk glass towards me in a toast and begins to whistle the tune with that title, doing a weird shuffling dance as he returns to his office with his midmorning snack and shuts the door. I stare after him, nonplussed.

A painful tightness fills my chest as several strong emotions manifest at once—a deep gratitude mingled with something that feels almost like grief. After a few constricted breaths, I pinpoint the cause.

Professor MacDowell is being silly—kind, and silly. Two things my own father has never been, and will never be. He's acting like a dad, and acting that way towards me.

It hurts: understanding what I've missed, what I'll never have, and what I'm being offered.

"Hey, you okay?" Hazel leans over and frowns at me. "If I didn't know better I'd say he'd been smoking dope again, but it's too early. He only does that after noon."

I blink. "Your dad smokes dope?"

Hazel shrugs like it's no big deal and goes back to his game. "Sure. Not often, though. End of term, summer vacation, spring break—that kind of thing."

My old image of my professor continues to crumble; it also grows and expands. I see MacDowell as a fuller, more well-rounded person than I ever have before. He's more than his career—more than the eminent paleontologist I've long admired. I know he and Hazel still have a lot to work through, and Hazel isn't nominating him for Dad of the Year any time soon, but in the space of the last two weeks he's taught me something my own dad had done his best to be sure I would never suspect: that I have some intrinsic value as a person, and that I'm worth loving and supporting, just for being who I am.

I look over at Hazel, who's scowling intently at his game, racing his car fast and reckless, bound for a crash.

"He used to sing that song all the time when I was little," he says. "It was one of my mom's favorites. I don't think I've heard it since..." He shrugs. "Hard to be happy, when the person you love is gone."

I can't help smiling. "I think you're more like him than you admit."

"What do you mean?"

Hazel always sets out his spare controller when he starts a game, a silent invitation, but he never asks me to join. I pick it up from coffee table and turn it on. "Can I play, too?"

He glances at me in surprise, misses a sharp turn, and wrecks his car again. He's not mad, though. Instead, he looks like I just made his day.

🐚

The day before Christmas, I make another attempt to contact my mom. Professor MacDowell reminds me, gently, that it's not my job—that she should be the one to make the effort—but I can't seem to help myself. I'm hoping the holiday will make her think of happier times, back when I was a little kid, but maybe I'm the only one feeling nostalgic.

It wasn't all bad. I have some good memories: counting off days on the advent calendar, leaving cookies out for Santa, opening presents on Christmas morning.

At least, until my dad decided that Christmas presents, like birthday gifts, were good for the economy but bad for moral character. He said they taught people to expect rewards simply for existing, and that rewards without effort were meaningless.

It might have been different if he was the same with everyone, but he wasn't. He gave my mom gifts—on Christmas, her birthday, Valentine's Day, and their anniversary. Expensive ones, too. In retrospect, I realize they weren't really 'gifts,' and that they represented transactions of a kind: my mom had either earned, or would pay for them, in one way or another.

That was what really prompted me to reach out to her. I just couldn't shake the feeling that my mom was as much a victim of my dad's personality as I am, if not more so.

Unfortunately, all her social media accounts had been made private, as had my dad's—like they were hiding from a scary stalker, or something. I sent her a friend request, but I doubted I'd get a reply. Instead, I sent an email to her old address on the off chance she still checks it. It wasn't long, or very expressive, but I hoped she'd take it as the invitation I meant it to be.

Hi Mom,

Merry Christmas. I've been staying with a friend, and I'm doing okay. I hope you're well.

Love, Charlie

🐚

Over breakfast on Christmas morning, Professor MacDowell gives Hazel and I each a card in an envelope. Hazel's contains a gift code for the Xbox store, so he can buy a game he's been wanting. Mine contains two things: a slip of paper that says, "Merry Christmas, Charlie! Don't worry!" and a note with oddly legal wording. I read it three times. Then I have to excuse myself to the bathroom, because I start to cry, and read it again through a blur of tears.

I, Robert M. MacDowell, hereby formally forgive the debt of $300, which I loaned to Mr. Charles Hill on December 2nd of this year, for the opening of his checking and savings accounts.

His signature and the date—Christmas day—are beneath. The minimum deposit was really only $25 for each account, but he'd given me more so I could avoid a monthly fee.

When I emerge, he rises from the table and comes towards me with a look of concern. "Are you all right, Charlie? I know debt forgiveness isn't much of a Christmas gift, but I didn't think you'd accept it otherwise. I hope—"

I walk up to him and hug him. He hugs me back without saying anything, and gives me the time I need to regain my dignity.

"It means more than you know," I say, releasing him and wiping my eyes.

"I think I do," he replies, smiling. "Money can buy a lot of things, some of which make us happy. But once our basic needs are met—food, water, shelter—then there are many times when money is not as important as happiness. This is one of those times, Charlie. I don't want to presume or overstep, but I suspect your father may have neglected to teach you that."

I nod wordlessly, unable to speak.

He pats my arm, and returns to the breakfast table, where I rejoin him and Hazel for a meal of pancakes, scrambled eggs, and sausages. Christmas music plays in the background, and once we finish and clean up, Hazel drags me to the living room to play his new game.

Later, Lana and Trey stop by, bearing a gift basket, and we have dinner together—a store bought spread, but still delicious—and watch Die Hard (a MacDowell Christmas tradition).

As explosions erupt on screen and Hazel passes me the chocolate drizzled popcorn, something clicks, and a new lightness fills my heart.

The future might be uncertain, and my parents may not be here; but I'm with family, nonetheless.

It's the best Christmas I've had in a long time.