Episode 10: Christmas Present

Credits/Contacts

Author: Liz Keller Whitehurst: [email protected]For inquiries about MESSENGER or rights queries, 
contact April Eberhardt: [email protected]Book editor: Annie Tucker: [email protected]Podcast design/social media: Brandon O’Neill: oneillcreativeco.comPhotography: Joy Whitehurst: Instagram: @turquoisekoiAudio production and voice artist: Rachel Pater: richmondstoryhouse.orgOriginal music and sound direction: Wells Hanley: [email protected]Recording and audio editing: Lance Koehler: minimumwagerecording.comSpecial thanks to Wilson, Joy, Audrey and April

 

Find Us Online 

Website: messengerthenovel.comFacebook: facebook.com/messengerthenovelInstagram: instagram.com/messengerthenovelTwitter: twitter.com/messenger_novel

 

Questions to Ponder

As already discussed, and further revealed in Alana’s choices in this episode, Alana is a loner. Do you see any changes in Alana since you first met her?Who or what are the Watchers? What deeper goal is Messenger working towards?Which of Messenger’s list of 14 Things resonates most with you? Why? What others would you add to this list?

 

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Episode 10 Complete Text  📖 
(Click here to access the PDF)

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CHRISTMAS PRESENT

 

It was a cold December day, cloudy and blustery. Alana leaned on the bar and sipped her coffee, enjoyed Ed’s company. He’d comped her and made a holly leaf with berries in the foam. “Your Christmas present,” he told her. Messenger hadn’t been in yet, so she’d decided to hang around a while.

            “So, he said. “Heading out soon?”

            “Yeah. I’ll go tomorrow to my . . . aunt’s.” She needed a second to remember which Christmas she’d told Ed about earlier. 

            “California, right?”

            Alana nodded. “Yep.”

            “Guess you’ll be there a while.” He looked up at her.

            “Nope. Just a few days.” Alana, why didn’t you tell him you were going to Virginia! You could have come back in sooner. She sighed and bit her cuticle. All this lying was plucking her nerves.

            “Not too long.”

            “No!”

            “A break from the project?”

            Alana sighed. “Yeah.”

            “About that. Just, be careful. Do what she tells you.”

            Alana studied Ed’s face, but he kept it neutral. “What are you saying?”

            “Just listen to Messenger.”

            “I’ve already decided to do that.”

            “Okay. Well,” Ed said and smiled his sheepish smile, with the crinkly corners. “Hope you have a good visit.”     

            Alana smiled back.“How about you, Ed?”

            “Oh, I got a few things to do. This older buddy invited me over on Christmas. Quiet. Just him and his wife.”

            “Nice.”

            “Yeah.”

            Later, Messenger finally came in. Alana sat with her while she warmed up and sipped her coffee. “Ed told me you’re going away for the holidays,” Messenger said.

            Alana looked down at the table and nodded. A charge of electricity surged up through her stomach. 

            “He didn’t say where.”

            Messenger knew. Was she trying to catch me? I should have known better than trying to lie to her. “California,” she blurted. “My aunt lives there with her daughter in a little town you’ve probably never heard of.”

            Messenger stared at her. Paused, then said. “How nice. Well, you have a nice trip.”

            “What are you doing for Christmas? Going anywhere? Spending it with family?” she fished.

            Messenger kept staring. “I got plans,” she said. 

            “Good for you! I’m glad to hear it.” When Messenger didn’t elaborate, Alana added, “Don’t worry. I won’t be gone long, just a few days. Then we can get back to work. We’ve got a lot of work to do. I guess your Christmas present is a little rest from me bugging you with all my questions,” she joked, tried to lighten the mood.

            Messenger squinted at her. “If you say so.” 

            Alana’s heart dropped. She looked away. She wanted to tell Messenger the truth. But she couldn’t.

 

MESSENGER AND THE WATCHERS

 

Messenger and Jackie stood shivering in the opening to the alley, speaking softly together. “A journalist? I don’t have to tell you, Messenger, that is not our way. We work in secret. In safety and anonymity. Our work is not for everyone to know about.” Jackie was so agitated, her black, cat-eye glasses fogged up. “For our own safety!”

            Messenger put her hands on her hips. “Why? Who says?”

            “Look, you know the rules. And you knew the rules when you signed up for this.”

            “It’s easy for you to lecture me.” She pulled in closer to Jackie’s face. “You didn’t have a family, did you?”

            “No. But you knew the rules. You must walk away from your life to serve. Leave everything you have.” She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter for us anymore. We’re old. What matters is this: I warned you a long time ago this girl is a terrible choice!”

            “You don’t know her.” 

            Jackie sighed and steam poured out of her mouth. “She’s a journalist! It’s her job to uncover secrets and bring what’s hidden out into the open. Public knowledge! How can she . . .”

            “Yes. She’s a journalist. She loves words as much as I do. She wants to write a book about the messages . . .”

            “And you said yes?! Are you stone cold crazy?” Jackie’s voice echoed through the alley. 

            “Shush!” Messenger warned her. “Our old ways aren’t working. They’re falling apart. That’s okay. It always happens like that. But we need something new in place to help to bring about the Clinamen. ‘Clinamen’ is what I’m calling it now. Can’t you feel it?”

            “Call it whatever you like. Nobody knows when it’s going to come! It could come today. Or—it could take 100 more years! Nobody knows. We just have to keep doing what we’re doing.”

            Messenger shook her head. “Come on, Jackie. You know it’s coming soon. You feel it, too.”

            “Let’s stick with the present moment, why don’t we? The Watchers know about the girl and what’s been going on with you two,” Jackie hissed through her teeth. “They know what you’re planning . . .”

            Messenger looked away, avoided Jackie’s huge eyes. “And they’re not happy. Okay, I get it. I know what I’m doing.”

            “I sincerely hope you do! Does the girl suspect anything yet?” 

            Messenger shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. She’s having openings but she’s not ready yet. We need more time.”

            “Okay, bottom line. The Watchers sent me to tell you to stop with this girl and regroup. Find somebody else. They sense danger.”

            Messenger chuckled. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

            “You’re in deep. I can tell by the look on your face. What is it? Tell me.”

            Messenger stared into Jackie’s eyes, her face calm and relaxed, like they were just discussing the weather. “Nothing.”

            “This plan you have is going to blow up in your face. Then where will you be? Why won’t you tell me?”

            “No, Jackie. Let’s just keep this on me, okay? I don’t want you to take the heat for what I choose to do. The rules I choose to break. I’m willing to take my chances.”

            Jackie’s voice softened. “Protecting you is my job, isn’t it? I’m your Watcher. But I only have so much strength.”

            “You’ve got everything you need and I thank you. I appreciate it.” Messenger held out her arms and Jackie embraced her. Then, Messenger gently took Jackie’s glasses off her face. Holding them as if precious, she dug out a soft corner of her cotton shirt from under the folds of her coats and cleaned the lenses. As she rubbed, the tension between them slowly subsided. She checked each lens several times before handing the glasses back to Jackie. 

            Jackie sighed, put them back on. “You know I’ll do what I can,” she said. “But I have to ask you. Are you ready to be found?”

 

MESSENGER’S COMPOSITION BOOK: 14 THINGS PEOPLE RARELY SAY (BUT SHOULD)

 

Do less.I have enough.I can’t afford it.I’m wrong.I made a mistake.I’m sorry.Let it go.It’s over.Don’t try so hard.I’m satisfied.Go first.I don’t need it.You won.It was my fault.

 

POST: SCOTT

 

I’m from Virginia. My life started out rough. Mom died when I was 11. My dad couldn’t take it. He wanted to keep on partying. So, I started going to this church with a girl from school. This older couple from the church, the Stickleys, actually took me in. Can you believe that? You hear about this kind of thing, but sometimes it really does happen.

            So, everything was great. They fed me and bought me clothes and did everything for me. They never made me feel like I wasn’t their real son. They took me to church Wednesdays and Sundays every single week. We prayed over every bite of food we ever put in our mouths, even at Burger King. 

            A few years passed like this and I started to grow up and my voice started to change and crack and I knew things were going on down there—you know—my junk. I slowly realized I wasn’t so much interested in the girls in our youth group as I was in the boys. Yeah. It took a while for this to sink in. I fought it. One night, I was getting ready for bed. I looked out the window and saw these two guys walking down the street. They didn’t know anybody was looking. I saw the one guy take the other’s hand. The way it made me feel to watch them look at each other, then drop hands when somebody else came down the street told me everything I needed to know. That Oh, Shit! moment is one I’ll never forget.

            So even as young as I was, I knew there would be no talking about this. No gently breaking it to Mom and Dad. They would take it real hard—to say the least. Their God, their church, their friends, didn’t have room for the likes of me. So, I kept it a secret for a long time. 

            I knew it would be bad when I finally got around to telling them, they’d be heartbroken, but nothing prepared me for what did happen. I was about to go off to college. I’d won a football scholarship to the University. I finally couldn’t take it anymore—was feeling really rotten about myself and my secret—like a major part of me wasn’t even home. They’d been so good to me. I owed them the truth. 

            So, I told them. I sat them down one night after supper and basically said, “Mom, Dad, I’m gay.”

            First, my mom fell out of her chair, sobbing on the kitchen floor, cried, “No, no, no!” Rocked back and forth. My dad just sat there without moving a muscle. My only hope was him. He was always such an easy-going guy, like nothing could knock him off-base. He stared at me and his face grew darker by the minute. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he spoke. “Go pack your things.” He didn’t add, “son,” like he always had before. “We don’t abide filth in this house. We’re done.”

            It was my turn to stare. Frozen. Until he yelled, “Now! Go!” I jumped a mile. That was the first time I’d ever heard him raise his voice.

            I went to a friend’s house. We told his mom my parents and I had been fighting. She wasn’t home much herself—she stayed over with her boyfriend a lot, so it was perfect. My buddy and I basically lived on our own there for that summer. I had enough money saved to take a bus to school that fall. I just went with my clothes. Jason gave me a blanket from his mom’s closet.

            It didn’t totally hit me until one night late. I was up studying. Something crossed my mind—nothing important, but I thought, I’ll give Mom and Dad a call and tell them about it. I’d even picked up my phone, before everything tumbled down on my head. The whole thing was real. I went into the bathroom and ran the shower, so nobody in the suite could hear. I sat on the toilet seat and bawled.

            That feeling of aloneness, when I was there at that school, not knowing anybody else very well—it filled everything up, every cell of my body. I felt like I wasn’t me anymore and I was worried people could tell by looking at me. I’d told a few friends at high school, two girls and one guy, about being gay. They were pretty cool with it. But after Mom and Dad’s reaction, I went inside myself big time. I wasn’t sure if I was more worried about people finding out I was gay or finding out my parents had kicked me out. I was not only gay, I was homeless.

            So, there I was. I couldn’t stay at school for long with no money. When it ran out, I left and came here. Figured I’d get a job, find a place to live. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I ended up on the street here in the city. One day, soon after I arrived, this old lady turned the corner and handed me a piece of paper. She looked scary, all except her eyes. Those eyes! I could have fallen into them. There was a kindness I hadn’t seen in a long time. She wrote on that paper, SUICIDE IS NOT AN OPTION.

            How did she know?

 

MERRY CHRISTMAS, ALANA

 

On Christmas Eve, Gus decided to close early, so Alana left Tale of the Whale at about eight o’clock. She maneuvered through the huge crowds and headed straight to the train. She couldn’t wait to get to her apartment, strip out of her work clothes and relax. She’d told Messenger and Ed goodbye earlier in the day, but she still couldn’t shake the haunting feeling about the lies she’d told. The feeling harshed her usual sense of power and freedom to do exactly what she wanted on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. To escape the whims and obligations of others. Not to be the charity case everybody felt sorry for.

            Christmas had never been a big deal when her mom was alive. She often worked at least some of the holiday shifts because the pay was so good. “We can celebrate whenever we want,” she’d assured Alana. But this year, Alana felt different. She might have considered going home with Mary or to the Snyders’ in Virginia, even. The reason she didn’t was simple. She didn’t have money to go anywhere. But she felt a longing in her heart not to be alone this time. Mom would tell her, Alana, that’s silly. Buck up! It’s just two days out of the whole year. Big deal!

            Alana climbed the front stairs to her apartment in Astoria, a four-story brick building on a residential block. She unlocked the two outer door locks and walked into the vestibule, cringed at the usual broccoli and mystery meat smell that poured out of Apartment One. She climbed one flight to her apartment, unlocked her three locks and opened the door.

            Alana’s heart always sank the moment she walked in. The space included a tiny sitting area to the left, occupied mostly by Jessica, her apartment mate’s, dingy love seat. They were not friends, had matched on a housing website. A kitchenette with old, apartment-sized appliances was to the right. The door faced into their bathroom, hardly big enough to turn around in. She couldn’t get the floor or the grout around the bathtub clean, no matter how much bleach she used, so it always looked dirty and gross. Her mother would be disgusted. Beyond the kitchenette/sitting area room were the two bedrooms, Alana’s to the right. She walked in and threw her back pack down on her mattress and box springs on her bedroom floor. 

            Alana had gone for a minimalist look for her room, or so she told herself. The comforter on her bed was gray. She had a few candles, dishes and a green vase she’d never put a flower in, from her favorite store, Anthropologie. Her desk was always piled high and disorganized, papers overflowed onto the floor. There was never enough room. She always bumped into things, bruised her hip or her shin. 

            The apartment felt empty, in a good way. Jessica had left to go home to Michigan for the holidays. Where did I tell Jessica I was going for Christmas? Alana couldn’t remember. She’d remind herself to be vague when Jessica got back in a few days. 

            Later, Alana sat on the dirty love seat and streamed White Christmas, the movie with Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney in it, Danny Kaye, too, that she and her cousins had watched every Christmas growing up. She and her mom had always gone to Aunt Jane’s house, that is, until Uncle Jack died and Aunt Jane moved to California to live near her daughter, Kristen. Kristen, her brother, Tad, and Alana would go downstairs to their playroom to watch TV while the grown-ups lingered at the table. Alana stood up to dance, like she and her cousins used to do, along with Danny Kaye in “Doing Choreography” and of course for the finale, “White Christmas,” when Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney get together.

            After the movie was over, she ordered Chinese. She’d already decided to get Indian for Christmas Day. She spread her food on the small square coffee table in front of the love seat and opened a bottle of a red cab-blend that Mary had been nice enough to give her. She poured herself a drink, then held up the glass. “To you, Mom!” she said.

            Alana got her Capri Blue candle from out of her bedroom, lit it with a wooden match, and set it on the crate beside the sofa, just like it was any other day. She settled back down on the love seat, wiggled into its cheap cushion. It was still too early to go to bed. She clicked on her social media account then surfed some more. She watched herself, pretended she didn’t know what she was about to do. Like she’d never done it before. She hadn’t for ages, truly, but after all, it was Christmas Eve.

            She scrolled through and studied the latest posted photo of Marvin Peterson, Senior, with his three sons, one with a wife, his daughter and, of course, that blonde wife of his, all gathered around their Thanksgiving dinner table. Alana studied the photo. She thought the new wife looked nice. She was prettier than Alana’s mom. They were all dressed up and smiling. A nice-looking family. Thankful for our blessings, he’d written. Alana had read they lived in Charlotte, North Carolina (she knew he’d left Virginia right after the divorce) and he worked for a bank down there. She couldn’t tell from his page exactly what he did, only that he obviously worked with money. Cool. She could sure use some of that right now. He played golf. 

            Alana pulled her hair up around the crown of her head and twisted it into the hair tie from her wrist. She poured another glass of wine, took a swig. 

            Her mom rarely talked about her dad but, every once in a while, she’d slip and drop a tantalizing detail. “Get your nose out of that book and go out and play,” her mom had fussed at her, then added before she’d stopped herself, “Just like your father. Always had his nose in some goddamn book.” Mom never understood that, if she had a book, Alana had company. She never felt alone. And she had a safe new place to be. 

            Alana sipped her wine. “Do you still like to read?” she asked her dad’s photo. I wonder if we’ve read the same books? Did you read books to your sons and your daughter when they were growing up? At night, to help them fall asleep?

            Maybe it was the wine or the MSG, but tonight Alana pictured Marvin Peterson walking past the bookstore in his part of town. Charlotte was a pretty big city, she knew, even though she’d never been there. Charlotte would have at least one bookstore. Or maybe Marvin would be surfing the web. Would he prefer a Kindle or print, as most older people did? Didn’t matter. He’d just happen to see her book. He’d realize who Alana Peterson was. It was his last name after all. 

            And he would come looking for her. Maybe he would re-think some decisions he’d made. He and her mom had been in their senior year of college when they got the awful surprise her mom was pregnant. Alana knew Marvin was turning 50 this year. At 50, you take stock. You read about that all the time. People evaluate their life. Sometimes, they connect with people they’ve wronged to ask forgiveness. She imagined, when he first put it all together in front of that bookstore window, he’d be shocked. Then feel ashamed, for what he’d done. But then pride would bloom like a flower. And also wonder. I wonder where she is, he’d think. Where is my little girl now? 

            She would never admit this to anyone, but she’d decided to forgive him. Now that Mom was gone, there was nothing to hold her back. All he’d have to do would be to write: Dear Alana, It’s Dad. I’m sorry. Just those few words were all it would take.             

            Alana felt suddenly exhausted. Must have been the wine. And stuffed from the cheap Chinese food. She shouldn’t have eaten that last half of egg roll, but it had tasted so good going down. She looked around the apartment and sighed. You won’t be able to afford this much longer, she told herself. She clicked off her dad’s page, closed her computer. She’d launch the Messenger project soon, she hoped. The very second Messenger told her she could. That’s how it was going to happen—how she was going to make a name for herself.

            Merry Christmas, Alana. You can go to bed now, she told herself. Tomorrow was Christmas Day and then it would all be over for another year. Only Messenger had suspected. Otherwise, it seemed she’d pulled it off again. Great, she thought, half-heartedly. Alana settled down in her bed for the night and allowed the one present she’d given herself every year since her mother had died to fill her. Her gift was hope (don’t ask me how, she mused) that next year, next Christmas, everything would be different.

 

ALANA’S NOTEBOOK

Transcript of interview with Scott

 

Notes: Scott’s message was probably the most dramatic of all the people who’ve posted so far. When he agreed to an interview, it was like a late Christmas present.

Alana: Thanks so much for your time.

Scott: Even though it all happened a few years back, it still sends chills through my body to remember her handing me that message, out of the blue like that. I mean, I’m not sure (he paused and his eyes filled with tears) if I’d be here today if it hadn’t been for her. It was an amazing gift.

Alana: How has it changed your life?

Scott: Well, as I just said, I’m still here. Still in the city, obviously. Still trying to make it day to day.

(long silence)

Alana: I have to ask, have you had any contact with your foster parents? I mean since attitudes have changed . . .

Scott: No.

Alana: Not even now that gay marriage is legal?

Scott: No. Nothing’s changed. Listen, can I ask you a favor? You say you’re in touch with the woman? She calls herself Messenger, right?

Alana: Uh huh.

Scott: Will you tell her I’m okay? Will you tell her thanks for me? And tell her I haven’t thought about, you know, ending things, ever again. Not since I got my message.

 

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