![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Glastonbury, 25 December 1988
It's not quite three in the morning, and Meg Ford is staring at the ceiling in her sister's study/storage/catch all/guest room.
She could blame the insomnia on the fact that her sense of time is thrown off by a seven-hour flight and a five-hour time change and a church service that got them back to Kim's house past midnight, and that would be legitimate, really. But the simple fact of the matter is that for most of her life, she hasn't slept well at Christmas. There's too much to stay awake and think about.
When Meg had been not-quite-four, she woke Kim up at four in the morning to tell her that Santa Claus had been there. (Meg had evidence to present. She had checked, and the stockings that had been flat and empty when she'd gone to bed were definitely fat and full now.) And a fourteen-year old Kim, rather than telling her little sister to go back to bed, had obligingly gone downstairs to see, too, and then made them both cocoa so they could sit by the tree and guess what was in the boxes.
By the time Meg was the one who was fourteen, it was one of those deeply ingrained, if wholly unofficial, traditions that spring up around holidays.
And in the last three years, it's become one of the many holiday traditions that has undeniably, though again unofficially, fallen by the wayside for the Fords. When Kim met them at the airport, it was the first time the four of them had been in the same room in nearly four years. That's a lot to ask traditions to withstand.
Meg's actually glad they're not trying to do this at her parents' house, with all those old habits and patterns and expectations lying in wait to trip them up. The Ghost of Christmas Past was cruel, in a lot of ways. It's much more a year to focus on the whole Come in! And know me better thing.
It would not be accurate to say it's been a perfectly easy, like-nothing-ever-happened visit. There have been awkward moments, certainly. But they've been a strangely easy sort of awkward, the sort that's diffused with wry smiles and phrases like I'm sorry, after you.
All in all, it's been a quiet couple days. They've been for walks in twos and threes and all together, and played card games, and filled Kim's nook of a kitchen with baked goods. Kim took them into town, to show their father the clinic where she works, and to shop, and to play tourist. They've had dinners at Kim's house, and lunches in the restaurant nearest the inn their parents are staying in because Kim's home is not really designed for three houseguests.
They're all having to relearn how to do this, to be a family, and sometimes it's very hard and sometimes it's as easy as breathing.
It's a mix, this Christmas, of new and old, of the tried and true and the new and the risky, compromises and oh but we have to's, the traditions that have survived and the innovations that will replace them.
And when the clock on the desk reads 3:04, Meg decides she's spent more than enough time staring at the ceiling. She pulls a sweater on over her pajamas, and steps into her loafers, and goes down the hall to the living area to see which of those lists joint sororal Christmas insomnia belongs on.
She could blame the insomnia on the fact that her sense of time is thrown off by a seven-hour flight and a five-hour time change and a church service that got them back to Kim's house past midnight, and that would be legitimate, really. But the simple fact of the matter is that for most of her life, she hasn't slept well at Christmas. There's too much to stay awake and think about.
When Meg had been not-quite-four, she woke Kim up at four in the morning to tell her that Santa Claus had been there. (Meg had evidence to present. She had checked, and the stockings that had been flat and empty when she'd gone to bed were definitely fat and full now.) And a fourteen-year old Kim, rather than telling her little sister to go back to bed, had obligingly gone downstairs to see, too, and then made them both cocoa so they could sit by the tree and guess what was in the boxes.
By the time Meg was the one who was fourteen, it was one of those deeply ingrained, if wholly unofficial, traditions that spring up around holidays.
And in the last three years, it's become one of the many holiday traditions that has undeniably, though again unofficially, fallen by the wayside for the Fords. When Kim met them at the airport, it was the first time the four of them had been in the same room in nearly four years. That's a lot to ask traditions to withstand.
Meg's actually glad they're not trying to do this at her parents' house, with all those old habits and patterns and expectations lying in wait to trip them up. The Ghost of Christmas Past was cruel, in a lot of ways. It's much more a year to focus on the whole Come in! And know me better thing.
It would not be accurate to say it's been a perfectly easy, like-nothing-ever-happened visit. There have been awkward moments, certainly. But they've been a strangely easy sort of awkward, the sort that's diffused with wry smiles and phrases like I'm sorry, after you.
All in all, it's been a quiet couple days. They've been for walks in twos and threes and all together, and played card games, and filled Kim's nook of a kitchen with baked goods. Kim took them into town, to show their father the clinic where she works, and to shop, and to play tourist. They've had dinners at Kim's house, and lunches in the restaurant nearest the inn their parents are staying in because Kim's home is not really designed for three houseguests.
They're all having to relearn how to do this, to be a family, and sometimes it's very hard and sometimes it's as easy as breathing.
It's a mix, this Christmas, of new and old, of the tried and true and the new and the risky, compromises and oh but we have to's, the traditions that have survived and the innovations that will replace them.
And when the clock on the desk reads 3:04, Meg decides she's spent more than enough time staring at the ceiling. She pulls a sweater on over her pajamas, and steps into her loafers, and goes down the hall to the living area to see which of those lists joint sororal Christmas insomnia belongs on.
no subject
"Or the later morning."
Meg sips her cocoa.
"I got you Marmite."
no subject
"Marmite?! You shouldn't have!"
no subject
"You know, aside from pretty much all the time?"
no subject
"Okay, you have a point."
Maybe. Possibly.
no subject
For now.
no subject
no subject
"May be a while, anyway. I like rules.
"They make life easier."
no subject
Dryly, but without judgment.
"And there's something to be said for that, I suppose. When it works."
no subject
Meg's pretty much always been a rule-follower.
"The same thing that can be said for anything, when it works?"
no subject
She stretches a little, and nods to Meg's cup.
"How's the cocoa?"
no subject
If getting a little cool.
"The chocolate sprinkles are nice."
no subject
"We'll have to remember that for next year."
no subject
"I've already been told I'm not allowed to leave Canada next Christmas."
no subject
no subject
no subject
A beat, and Kim glances toward the tree, then back at Meg.
"He sent you something, you know."
no subject
"How?
"And . . . he already gave me . . ." her right hand taps lightly against her watch (which is now set to correct local time).
no subject
"I guess he wanted to make sure at least something of him could be here with you, even if he couldn't."
She sits up, and points at an envelope leaning against one of the tree's lower branches.
"That's it. As to what's inside, well, I have no idea."
no subject
"Oh, I do," she says.
And it's not so much idea as certainty.
"It's not really a Christmas present."
no subject
A beat.
"Well, I guess that explains the date..."
no subject
"So that'll be thirty red paper hearts. To go with the two hundred and seventy-four I already have at home.
"I'm dating a hopeless romantic."
no subject
"You are, but it's sweet."
no subject
"So, how did he get them to you?"
no subject
no subject
She doesn't bother to ask how Alain got Kim's phone number. He's Alain. If he'd had to, he'd have called every Ford in England. (More likely, he looked in Meg's address book.)
"I'm not sure how I feel about my boyfriend and my sister having the capacity to conspire."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)