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How many snapshots I carry away, wrapped in cellophane of frost and spangled with stars: cookies for tea, dream-walks through mist, to lights, carols, hot roasted chestnuts—all this is Christmas-wrapped in my heart.
Sylvia Plath
It goes like this:
Anya is seven years old when her uncle first learns the truth.
The first thoughts on his messy mind are these: the expanse of bright colors, then thunder, and her name. She’s not chihuahua girl anymore, or the stray kid that got into the way of his small family. No. He calls her name, in a quiet whisper, then his mind goes silent.
That’s how it’s been since mama told him the truth. All of it.
The adults have learned to silent their minds around her. (Well, they try to, at least ). Like turning off the radio. Except that Anya can still pick up the on-and-off voices, the white noises of their thoughts, and so she has learned to pick up the colors—the small traces of their inner voices whenever mama’s mind wanders off about a mission, or papa thinking about how pretty mama is, or Bond’s sketchy futures.
None of it is new. Anya has grown up used to their minds. But they are careful now—mama and papa. If they are overthinking something, and Anya happens to be there, they will apologize. Sometimes they blush, as if caught in a deep secret, other times they simply run away.
Anya does not blame them. Nobody truly changes at all.
Well, mostly.
Uncle Yuri is the exception.
First, the drowning wave of his endless mind.
Uncle Yuri’s mind was always a headache. (Even worse than papa’s).
So when he first lays his eyes on her (reddish), the thoughts and questions are endless. Wondering and yelling inside his own (empty) brain. About her origins, her weirdness, if she’s truly an alien, how dangerous she’s to mama’s life. Etcétera, etcétera. It’s not until minutes later that Anya becomes dizzy. Then she cries, a little bit. Because she’s not an alien, she whimpers at him, she’s papa and mama’s daughter.
Mama yells at uncle after this. Then he’s taken aback—as if shocked. Not much from mama’s yelling, but from Anya’s own reaction.
After that, he remains silent. In every way.
But he does observe her (like a deer, she thinks).
Anya can feel his eyes on her, careful. Not much to read on his mind, now, as if he has become cautious. His glare softens, but it’s still there. His words are harsh, but there’s a softness in his voice—as if he’s a little kid, from her same age, trying to not make her cry again.
At first Anya believes that her uncle is just doing his best to not disappoint mama again. But that’s not it. Anya is a bit more grown up now (just a little bit) and she understands that her uncle is being like this with everyone. With papa, too (even with Bond).
He’s learning to be gentle in a clumsy way, she notices, even when he’s still helping her with homework even if neither mama nor Anya asked for his help first. Talking with papa alone, drinking bitter coffee. Taking Bond to walks when neither papa or mama can do it. Speaking with mama, a lot—hands held tightly, apologies climbing in the walls (Anya does not know what her uncle is apologizing to mama for, though).
Yes. He has changed.
But his mind remains a lighthouse in the dark. She cannot read him at all, even now.
And now the air is blue and biting cold.
Little flies of Christmas lights are floating over her. Starless night. Pretty moon (almost gone). Her little hand gloved under uncle Yuri’s. His scarf around her neck, after he insisted that she would catch a cold when she sneezed three times in a row.
When Anya looks up at him, his eyes (tired red) are still gazing ahead in the road. His mind is a wave, a seastorm. The dizzy mind jumps from the Christmas presents, to mama, to papa, then to Anya, mama again, the presents, and Anya again. Her name fills his mind—but Anya cannot catch the echo of what he is even thinking.
“Uncle,” Anya calls, tugging his hand with a pained expression. “Loud.”
Yuri looks at her and his mind is suddenly whiteness, a breeze. (Almost guilty). He blinks.
“Sorry.”
They fall silent. So do his thoughts. Anya stares at him: his shorter hair, the dark circles on his eyes, the scratches on his cheeks. Uncle is still working as a super cool secret police. Mama begged him to stop, just like she and papa did. But uncle refuses to—it is the first time he goes against mama’s wishes. Anya does not know why he does this either.
Then, his mind is snowy, saying—just for a little bit more, just a little bit.
A little bit more for what?
“How’s school?” He suddenly asks, pulling her away from her own mind, his eyes still on the road.
Anya blinks.
“Good, bad,” she says, her hand a small fish around his warm palm. “Teacher is worried that Anya can’t save the X. The aqua-tions has it hostage.”
Uncle Yuri raises an eyebrow.
“Uh, you mean equations?”
“Oui.”
“You don’t have to save it, dummy, it’s basic math. You just have to calculate it.”
“Like a knowledge chihuahua?”
Anya can almost swear that her uncle snorts.
“Yeah, like that,” he answers. Then, after a pause, he adds: “After I’m done with work, I will come over to help you with it.” He hesitates. “We can, err, save it together.”
That is all he says.
(She feels warm, in the palm of her little hand, around his).
Suddenly, the snow is very deep, and Anya finds herself sinking. But she’s in uncle Yuri’s arms—before she’s in the pale dark. He scoops her up, lifting her in his arms. It’s the first time someone other than papa and mama holds her up.
Her uncle huffs, as if irritated. Anya says sorry, but he says nothing. The light of his mind pulses, like a heartbeat. Bright colors meddling in.
He doesn’t place her on the ground again.
Anya only spent four Christmases with her family. The previous ones are all blurry, and pale, and scary. She does not remember much, but she only started to enjoy the snow when papa took her to buy her first present the first year he adopted her.
Uncle Yuri only spent one with them, once, when papa was still pretending to be a feelings doctor. He didn’t gift her anything then, and his mind was still dark sea, all alone, and pushing her away at shore.
This is the first time she goes on a walk with him. Papa had suggested it (after they talked, for hours, coffee in hand first, going out, coming back with dust and torn clothes later). Uncle Yuri accepted without a beat, as if it was his idea first.
Now they are window shopping.
“What does your dad like?”
Uncle Yuri still does not look at her.
“He likes to cook,” Anya answers (staring at the Bondman’s action figure with a little Santa Claus hat). Then, she adds (because she can see the glimmering blue of her uncle’s overthinking mind): “He’a also into baa-keng lately.”
“Baking?”
“Oui.”
They get papa oven mitts (her uncle’s idea, Anya picks the color, pink). Mama gets three lipsticks in a little gold case. Her uncle picks something else then—black velvet hair ribbons. A name echoes in his mind when he holds them. Chloe, Chloe, Chloe. She can only tilt her head, curious, then asks if she’s his girlfriend. It’s the first time in the whole evening that uncle Yuri explodes in strawberries—stuttering and refusing the truth (that she can still see in his thoughts, and he knows this, which makes him angrier).
His mind turns pink. Anya likes it—and she giggles.
She’s happy.
The night. A park. Drinking hot cocoa on a bench. Silence.
Uncle Yuri’s colors are meddling. Green and yellow. Red. They are buzzing in his mind, like little fireflies—doing his best to keep all his dizzy thoughts away from her.
Her uncle asks, very sudden, “What was your mother like?”
(He is not looking at her).
Anya blinks. In the past she would’ve cried from that question alone. Now she’s more grown-up, she thinks.
“Dunno,” she says, frowning, hot cocoa on the corner of her mouth. “Anya doesn’t remember.”
(She means it. Colors are trying to meddle in her mind, to remember, but all is white).
Uncle Yuri glances at her, white-pink puffs escaping his lips as he breathes the cold-biting air. “Hm,” he thinks for a moment. “I don’t remember mine either.”
She knows. His mind is pulsing, like a far-away echo. He’s trying to remember. He cannot. All she finds in the thread of his thoughts is an apology—for being unable to speak to her about her grandmother.
Anya tastes the word. Grand-ma. A big mama, old mama. Absent mama. She never had one, she frowns to herself, papa can barely remember his own mom either. (He had apologized, too, and Anya thought that adults really do say sorry a lot).
She says, replying to his thoughts, out loud: “It’s ok, uncle. Mama told me all about her.”
Her uncle is silent. In deep thought. (All Christmas lights in his mind). He speaks again, as if to himself, only.
“I do remember that, when my mother laughed, there were dimples in the corner of her mouth. Just like you.”
Anya smiles brightly, turning to him completely.
“Mama said the same!”
And she laughs. Uncle Yuri only smiles. The cocoa turns cold between his palms.
They’re supposed to return home, but they haven't yet. The night is paler now, darker, her old friend to fullmoon guiding in a silver-halo the road to the few stores that are still open. There are little lights everywhere, and small decorated trees. They’re green and red just like her new dress, and like the toy store where her uncle takes her.
A whole pack of crayons, Bondman's Christmas figure, a box of candies from mama’s childhood.
Those are all presents her uncle gets for her.
Colors of all kinds are wrapped around them. Green, lilac, blue. Shiny. The presents are so big they don’t find in her small arms—she’s engulfed. Her heart is bursting in ticklish butterflies.
After jumping around the store, tripping and falling, and being scolded by her uncle—Anya is dizzy again (in her heart) and has the widest sugar-smile on her face.
She wants to thank him (it’s good manners). But instead, she says:
“Papa said no when I wanted this Bondman.”
Uncle Yuri scoffs, a dumb smile of superiority on his face. “Yeah, well. I am better than him.”
That she doubts. But Anya is sure, now (without a doubt), that her uncle has become one of her favorite people. With papa and mama, and Bond, and Becky and penguins and Sy-on boy. (Oh, and Bondman too). She says this out loud, and her uncle doesn’t say anything, but his mind turns pink and child-like. He’s happy.
Uncle Yuri pays the owner, an old and kind woman. She has been giggling at her antics. When they’re about to exit the store, she says:
“She’s a sweetheart,” she smiles. “Is she your daughter, sir?”
They look at her—open-mouthed. It’s the first time someone has related them together (they are aware that they don’t look at each other at all). Anya looks at her uncle. Usually (always) he would deny it, or vaguely confirm in a grumble.
But now he’s smiling (widely, childish).
“She’s my niece.”
Butterflies explode in their hearts. All colors, of all kinds, everywhere.
Anya cannot remember Christmas before this current life of hers.
Walking together. The pale moonlight, snow, presents wrapped in all colors on their hands. Candies in their mouths. Stardust. A lighthouse posed on their hearts, guiding them in the dark as they return home together.
Her uncle’s mind is overflowing. He’s thinking very deeply, but it does not bother her.
She can sense his voice (his thoughts) already coming:
“Listen,” he says, looking ahead at the road. “Whenever you’re in trouble, you can call me too, besides your mom and dad.”
Anya is silent. Walking. The words come alone.
“‘Kay.”
“And if your head starts to ache, or you’re scared of what people are thinking around you, make sure to tell me.”
“‘Kay.”
“And tell your mother too, and your father, and whoever knows about this thing of yours. Got it?” He continues, but Anya doesn’t respond this time. As if he’s the one with the power of reading her mind now, he adds: “You can rely on everyone now. They’re your family.”
“...Okay.”
“I relied on mine too,” he murmurs, as if lost to himself (he’s a child now, hugging her hand, walking together with her). “And you’re part of that family of mine, so you can rest assured.”
“I will.”
New silence. Walking. Pale moon on their small hands.
“And I will wait for you to tell me everything, one day. Whenever you’re ready,” he concludes. “In a few years, or when you’re older. I will be there.”
Anya is the one to squeeze his hand now.
“Alright.” She’s quiet now. All said is done. When the moon is up in the sky, maternal, and they find the light that illuminates the Forger’s small apartment, she says: “Anya loves you a whole lots, uncle.”
He doesn’t answer.
He loves her too.
Anya knewthat papa and mama would be smooching when they returned. But they don’t quite make it. Her uncle returns almost to his old self, throwing the small mistletoe away from papa’s hand before his mouth is touching mama’s.
There's a tantrum. Mama calming her brother, papa looking irritated and embarrassed (all red), Bond jumping around her. Later, Franky (her other uncle) arrives late with bottles in his hands. It’s noisy and colorful and surreal.
Anya laughs. When dinner is ready, she sits next to uncle Yuri without a doubt.
She thinks to herself that she might have things to apologize about when she’s older. But it’s alright, because no one is angry at her, and colors are splashing everywhere. She takes comfort in that, for the time being, they will all be able to relax tonight and make up for what they all had lost through lies and secrets and loneliness.
Slowly, the darkness of the night outside fades out—moonshine wrapping around her small world.