The Mental Observations of Mortimer Anhingas
December 7th
When the song said, “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas”, I don’t think the writer meant one like at my house.
The large building almost looks cruel with the layers of ice coating the roof and gutters, jagged icicles from the eaves shaped like fangs. For being one of the most beautiful and expensive houses in the gated community, nothing about it feels beautiful. Everything about it is just… cold.
Beauty is only in the eye of the beholder. For all the emotional warmth it holds, it might as well be a rotting shack in the woods.
I sigh and shake off the driver’s offer to carry my bags. Not like you take much back and forth on a plane from England. I almost wish I could have brought Clancee, but traveling with a goose on a plane gets quite complicated. I offered to pay Mrs. Parking to house him with her geese. More than perhaps one should pay for goose-sitting, practically speaking, but this Christmas is certainly going to be harder than most. It’s the least I can do, especially after failing to help Ollie.
In my musings, I realize I’ve come to the front door much faster than I anticipated. I hesitate at the front, a part of me almost wondering if I should knock first. It is my house, but it’s not… mine anymore.
Then it opens. A piece of me almost hopes for a warm welcome full of cheerful greetings, but like most of my past Christmas expectations, I’m disappointed. It’s just the butler, Seymour, who greets me with a cool nod. “Mortimer.”
I step inside, trying to smile at him. “Merry Christmas, Seymour.”
He just nods. Why my father has a habit of hiring people as unfeeling as he is, I don’t know. I don’t think either man has smiled a day in his life.
I look around. “Am… Am I the only one home?”
“Mr. Anhingas is in his study. Mrs. Anhingas is away at a Christmas party, and I believe Phineas is upstairs,” he replies crisply.
What did I expect?
“All right.” I make my way upstairs, not waiting for his offer to carry bags or other such nonsense.
My first day back in over three months and my mother isn’t even here to greet me.
Some days, I wonder why she ever wanted children. Dad being in his study was not surprising. I’ve given up hope for that man a long time ago.
Maybe my little brother will at least be happy to see me?
I drag my luggage down the hall, blatantly aware of the nicks and scuffs I was leaving in the wood floors. Another time, another place, a piece of me might have cared. Not now. A grinchyness in me had taken over, and a piece of me almost wanted to tear down all the cheerful, fake-feeling Christmas decorations in the halls.
Why have Christmas when you neglect your own firstborn son…
I know I’m supposed to stay in the guest room, but I still stop in front of the door to the room I used to, once upon a time, share with Phineas. Setting my luggage down, I rap a knuckle against the door, then, so he doesn’t assume me for someone else, say, “It’s the Throne Warden. Is the crown prince home?”
There’s silence for a bit, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake in referencing the childhood nickname game based on a book that had been one of our few bonding points. There’s lots of shuffling, and then the door opens, a young teenaged boy with messy black hair and steely blue eyes peering at me.
“Morty?” Disbelief twists itself into Phineas’s voice.
I snort. “You know any other albino guys with a bad eye, Phin?”
He opens the door the rest of the way, and suddenly I’m hugged by my brother for the first time in eight years. I almost don’t even know how to reciprocate before I hug him back.
He’s shaking.
“Phin?” I look down at him, brows furrowing. “What’s wrong?”
He pulls back, his gaze dim. “Nothing. Nothing.”
Embarrassment tints his cheeks pink and I decide to leave it be. “It’s a better welcome I’ve gotten from anyone else.”
“Mom didn’t think you’d want a whole welcoming committee.” He glances at my bags and his nose wrinkles. “You’re not xtaying in my room, are you?”
“It was our room once, you know.” I huff. “No, I’m not staying in here. I just wanted to say hello before I settled in.”
It’s sad that he’s regarding me strangely right now for doing that.
Or maybe not, because he brushes the hair from his face and grabs one of my bags. “I’ll help you carry your stuff.”
… Um. Have aliens abducted my little brother?
“Sure.” Instinctively, I brace for some kind of catch, or favor. As much as I love my little brother, he’s still very much our father’s son– no good deed goes without terms.
Sure enough, as we filter into the guest room and I start shoving bags into different corners, Phineas sits down on the edge of the bed, glancing around nervously before he whispers,
“I think it’s gotten worse, Morty.”
I pause putting away my stuff to turn toward him.
“How so?”
“I can’t turn it off.” He rubs his hands. “It’s… I use it everywhere. It makes my head and throat hurt but it’s so much easier to talk to people with it. Even if it’s not what I mean. Even if it’s all a lie.” He scratch sthe back of his neck. “Can you believe that Dad and I haven’t fought in a month?”
My stomach knots. “But… you still want to be cured, don’t you?”
He hesitates.
“Maybe they’ll never find out about it.”
“It’s dangerous!” I hiss. “And you know they will find out about it. There’s more and more tests for Altered virus every day. You can’t hide it forever. And once Dad finds out, he’ll go ballistic.”
“But maybe he won’t,” Phineas argues. “I mean, headaches aren’t a big deal. And if it makes Dad like me more–”
“The only thing our father likes is his business and the control of having things his way,” I snap. “If you haven’t fought, it’s only because you’re finally conforming to his games. The man never loved us, Phin, and he never will.”
Phineas flinches, and for one second I regret every word that just came out of my mouth. What am I thinking? He’s a kid. He doesn’t need to hear all of this from me.
But then he hardens, and his own voice turns to ice.
“Maybe he’ll never love you.” He tilts his chin up. “But he’ll love me.”
The pain from the comment is physical, like he just took a bat and slammed it into my ribs. I stay standing, but my breath tightens, almost to a wheeze.
Phineas shoves his hands into his pockets and stalks toward the door. “I don’t want your stupid cure. I want to stay Altered. And I don’t want to talk about this ever again.”
He punctuates that last sentence with a slam of the door.
Numb, I sink onto the edge of the bed, bury my face in my hands.
He’s gonna die.
All the stories are the same. Life, cut short by the Altered virus.
He’s gonna die…
And he won’t let me do anything about it.
Phin…
I’m not sure who I’m more angry at. My brother for being such a stubborn prig, or my father for causing half this mess in the first place.
Phineas doesn’t know. He hasn’t seen the stats. He hasn’t seen the cases.
If the cure works… maybe he’ll hate me, but at least I won’t lose my brother.
I pull the bag that I had shoved gently under the bed. Rifling through it a few times, I pull out my folder, complete with all the research I need to finish the cure.
I have three weeks home.
Plenty of time to change his mind.
Plenty of time to still find a way.
I smile, but my heart feels empty.
I wonder if Iris is home yet…
I pull out my phone and my glasses, squinting down at the screen. I find Iris’s number and hit the dial button.
Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up…
It rings six times, then goes to voicemail. She must be out of range.
What did I expect? She lives in the Alaskan tundra.
I probably won’t hear from her beyond letter until we go back to boarding school.
Loneliness bores into my chest, and I flop onto my back, propping an arm over my aching head.
Merry Christmas to you, your family hates you…
And the only person who doesn’t is thousands of miles away.
For the first time, I understand the popular Christmas song’s sentiment.
All I want for Christmas is you, Iris