by Marie Landry
“Why?” Her voice is so loud it startles me into taking a step back. She lets out a bitter laugh, her head swinging back and forth, and her feet picking up a short pacing route around her room. “You don’t even realize how good you have it, do you? Everything is so easy for you. It’s always been so easy for you. You have a great job, great friends, and now a great guy to top it all off. And here I am—” she stops in the middle of the room and holds out both arms “—here I am, always trying, always struggling, and never able to get my shit together.”
She turns away and starts pacing again. “In a couple more weeks, I’ll be unemployed—again—and I have no idea what I’m going to do. Nobody will hire me. I can’t afford a place of my own, so I’m stuck here. My family has all but abandoned me, and I have no friends. I have no one.”
“Are you kidding me?” My voice is so shrill it could shatter glass. It catches Celia’s attention, though, because she spins around to stare at me. “How can you say you have no one when you have me? You’ve always had me, but you’re too wrapped up in yourself to realize it. All these years, we could have been like sisters. Best friends. But you keep me at arm’s length, push me away, make snide remarks every damn chance you get. You act like you hate me, and yet that doesn’t stop you from expecting me to put my whole life on hold to help you. And what do I get in return? Hostility at every damn turn. I could deal with your complete lack of gratitude if I wasn’t constantly being piled with all your other shit.” I’m out of breath by the time I finish. I suck in air and let my arms drop to my sides, feeling suddenly exhausted.
I give Celia a minute to…I don’t know what. Defend herself? Explain? Apologize? Start yelling again? But she’s angled away from me and won’t meet my eyes. “Okay,” I say at last, shrugging even though she’s not looking at me. “I can’t do this anymore.”
I’m almost out the door when she says my name. It’s so quiet I wonder for a moment if I’ve imagined it. I glance over my shoulder and Celia has turned to face the door. She’s looking at the ground, but I can see tears rolling down her cheeks. Her shoulders are slumped, arms wrapped around herself as if she’s trying to physically hold herself together.
In all the years we’ve known each other, I’ve never seen Celia cry. She looks so vulnerable, so small, so young. Like the tiniest breeze could knock her over and she’d shatter into a million pieces. Without a word, I close the distance between us and wrap my arms around her. Celia jerks slightly, maybe from surprise or maybe from her natural instinct to pull away and not let anyone close. I hold on to her rigid frame until her arms fall limply to her sides and she collapses against me. She lets out a strangled sob, her body shaking as she cries.
My arms stay locked around her, holding her up. I only remember a few instances of my mother holding me like this. God knows my aunt never showed physical affection; I don’t even remember her hugging me when my parents died. Bridget and her mom were the ones who taught me it’s okay to cry, okay to hold and be held when you need it. That sometimes a quiet hug or clinging to someone like your life depends on it can make all the difference. So that’s what I do now for Celia.
After awhile, she lets out a shuddering sigh and eases away from me. Part of me expects her to lash out now. To punish me for seeing her so defenseless. I hold my breath until she motions to the bed and asks if I’ll sit with her.
She crawls onto her bed, leaning against the headboard and hugging a pillow tightly to her chest. I sit on the edge of the mattress, angling my body toward her.
“I’m s-sorry.” She trips over the word as if it’s foreign.
When she falls silent, I nod, not sure what to say. Her brows are drawn together and her mouth is turned down in a severe frown. Severe even for Celia. “This may not be the time to bring this up,” I say slowly, choosing my words carefully, “but I have to say it now before we say anything else. Do you really believe I have it easy? That I’ve always had it easy?”
Celia brings the pillow to her face and holds it there for so long I worry she’s trying to smother herself. I’m about to reach out and grab it when she groans and drops the pillow to her lap. “Of course not,” she says. “That was such a stupid, insensitive thing to say.” She groans again. I remain silent; the only thing I’d be able to say would be in agreement. It was a stupid, insensitive thing to say. Between my parents’ deaths and living with family who would make Siberia seem tropical by comparison, my life has been far from easy.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m good at saying the wrong thing,” Celia says, staring at the pillow in her lap. “I’m also good at hitting people where it hurts. Hitting you where it hurts.” She glances up at me, then away quickly. “My parents were always telling me to be more like you. ‘Study hard like Ivy. Be a good girl like Ivy. Respect us the way Ivy respects the Chens. Be involved in school activities like Ivy.’ It made me hate you because to them you were perfect and I was just…me. Smart enough, but not driven. Shy and awkward. I wanted to be left alone most of the time, but they were always trying to force me into things, and always using you as the marker for success.”
I wince. “I didn’t know. That wasn’t fair of them.” Things are starting to make sense. Despite being far from perfect, I tried to act like I was because it kept my aunt off my back. I worked my ass off in school and got good grades so I could get scholarships and get away from my aunt and uncle as soon as possible. That work ethic stuck with me through college and into my career.
“I hate being this way,” Celia says in a voice so pitiful it makes my heart ache. “I don’t want to be angry all the time and make it hard for people to like me. It’s just become a way of life, and I can’t seem to stop. I think…I think I’ve always taken it out on you because you’re safe. You’re like family, and no matter how awful I am or how much I push, you’re still there. You may get impatient and I think there have been times when I was lucky to escape without bodily harm, but you’re still there.”
She lets out a shaky laugh, meeting my gaze for a second. “I hoped living with you might change things. Instead, it just made me even more jealous. You’re so successful and you have your shit together. It made my own faults more prominent and I felt worse and worse about myself, and then I took it out on you. I should be locked away somewhere and not allowed to interact with other people.”
“Hey.” I reach for her hand and she lets me hold it. “Can I tell you a secret?” When she nods, I take a deep breath. I haven’t said any of this out loud, and I never expected when I did it would be to Celia of all people. “I don’t have my shit together. I just have a lot of practice making it look like I do. I have a great job that pays well, but I’m bored and restless with it. I miss Bridget like crazy, which is ridiculous because I still see her all the time, and I’m happy for her and David, but I can’t help it.”
I suck in another deep breath because my next admission is the one that scares me most. “I’m falling for Hugh, despite telling myself not to.” My eyes dart toward the door, hoping Hugh hasn’t suddenly appeared to check on us right at the moment of my confession. “The point is: I’m a mess too, Celia. If you stopped pushing me away and treating me like the enemy, we could be a mess together.”
Celia’s eyes fill with tears again and my heart sinks. I’m not sure I can handle seeing her cry twice in one night. I already feel as if my world has been turned upside down. “I really am sorry, Ivy,” she says in a shaky voice. “I’m going to try to do better. To be better.” She fiddles with the corner of her pillow. “One of the girls at the Village told me she sees a therapist. I was wondering if that might be a good idea for me. To talk to a professional and find out where all this anger comes from. Maybe learn some coping mechanisms.”
“That’s a great idea,” I tell her. “You could make an appointment with your doctor and get a referral, or you might consider talking to Hugh.” Her eyes go wide and almost panicky, so I quickly add, “Not in a professional capacity. Holy awkward. I meant he might be able to
help you find someone who specializes in what you need.”
She nods slowly. “I’ll think about it.” She climbs off the bed and goes to her dresser. Only now do I realize she’s still wearing her jeans and not the bottoms that match her pajama top. With her back to me, she asks, “Is it okay if I keep living here until I figure things out?” Before I can answer, she whirls around, clutching her PJ bottoms in her hands. “No pressure, but I don’t know where else I’d go or what I’d do. I keep worrying you’ll reach the end of your rope and kick me out. And yet I keep pushing you, testing you.” Her face crumples, cheeks flushing crimson. “How sick is that? I really do need help.”
I stand and motion Celia toward me. She takes a few wooden steps forward until we’re facing each other. And then I say something I never thought I’d say in a million years: “Stay as long as you need to. We’ll get through this together.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Whenever I need to make appointments, I try to book them enough in advance so I can squeeze in as many as possible in one day. Not only does this give me an excuse to take a day off work, it also means I get a bunch of unpleasantness—namely the dentist and gynecologist—over with in the span of a few hours.
I made my appointments for December thirteenth long before I started working at Santa’s Village. While I was sure I would be finished before my shift started, I decided to book the entire day off. With Christmas less than two weeks away, the Village has been a madhouse. There seem to be nearly twice the usual number of people visiting daily. The place has been packed with kids hyped up on sugar, their harried parents, people shopping, and some people simply looking to soak up the Christmas spirit.
Meredith told me on Monday it would only get busier leading up to closing day on the twenty-second, so I figured for my sanity and the safety of the Village’s patrons it was a good idea to take a mental health day.
With my necessary appointments out of the way, I make a last minute booking to get my hair done, then stop in at the bookstore to visit Piper. I’ve been carrying my notebook with me everywhere the last few days, jotting down ideas as they come to me, so I take the opportunity to show her what I’ve come up with so far.
Her eyes light up as she pores over my notes. “These are amazing! Some of these are so simple, I don’t know why I didn’t think of them before.”
I can’t hide my pleased smile. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
She laughs. “I don’t think I’ll be able to afford big bucks myself, but I’m definitely going to pay you. I’m still figuring some things out before I officially add you to the payroll.”
I leave the bookstore with a spring in my step and a smile on my face. I’m looking forward to a night on my own. Just me, Fiddlesticks, my Netflix queue, and the bag of salt and vinegar chips I bought at the convenience store next to the hair salon. Since it’s too early for dinner, I dismiss the idea of takeout and decide to order in later.
I’m surprised when I arrive home and find Celia at the apartment. For the first time in…well, ever…I’m not dismayed to see her, even if it means giving up my night of solitude. Things haven’t been perfect since our blow-up on Saturday, but I knew it would be a process. We’ve been talking more and spending more time together. Even though we’re still a bit careful with each other, it feels like progress. I believe Celia truly wants to make changes in her life, and it makes it easier for me to help her when everything I say is no longer greeted with eye rolls or snark.
Seeing her now, squatting in front of the small fake Christmas tree we picked up on Sunday, decked out in her full Grooge costume almost makes me laugh. “Are you reenacting a scene from How the Grinch Stole Christmas?” I ask. “There’s no chimney for you to disappear up.”
She whips around, her eyes going wide in her green-painted face. “Hey!” she says breathlessly, jumping to her feet. “I didn’t expect you home yet.”
“I didn’t expect you to be home at all,” I say, taking off my coat and boots. “Everything okay?”
“Oh, yeah, um…” She bends to pick up a wrapped package from under the tree, holding it half behind her back. “Peri asked me to go out again with her and some other people after work. She invited me to crash at her place, so I was just getting some things during my dinner break. She’s waiting downstairs.”
“That sounds like fun.” I eye her as I make my way to the kitchen. She’s acting weird. Twitchy.
“I’d invite you along, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy having the place to yourself for a night,” she says.
“You’re not trying to be gone because you think I want that, right?” I ask. “Because we talked about this, and I—”
“No, no, that’s not it,” she says, cutting me off. “It’s someone-or-other’s birthday today and Peri said they’ll probably be out late so I might as well sleep at her place instead of waking you up in the middle of the night. Honest.” She inches across the room. As she gets closer, I realize what she’s half hiding behind her back: a wrapped present. “I was going to leave this under the tree, and then I realized the cat might rip it to shreds. When you came in, I decided I don’t want to wait anyway, so…” She thrusts the package at me.
“Are you sure? Christmas is almost two weeks away. You can hide it in your room and I promise not to peek.”
One side of her mouth ticks up. Knowing Celia for as long as I have, this is one of the ways I know she’s trying; she’s never been a smiley person. She’s been doing it more lately, and even though they seem a bit rusty, as if she’s not accustomed to using those muscles, they’re a beautiful sight. “It’s okay. I have another gift to give you at Christmas. This is something you can be using now.”
My mouth almost pops open. She has whatever this is, plus something else for me? I hadn’t even thought about what to get her. I didn’t think we would exchange gifts since we never have before, and since things have been so contentious between us the last few months. Well, I mean they’ve always been contentious, but it’s been worse since she moved in with me.
Celia nudges my arm. I’ve completely spaced out, my eyes blindly staring at the sparkly red paper on the rectangular box in my hands. “Open it,” she says. “And hurry because Peri is waiting for me and I have to get back to Grooge duty.”
I set the box on the kitchen counter and lift the lid. Inside, folded neatly and nestled in a bed of white tissue paper is a burgundy wool sweater. It looks handmade, but unless Celia has secretly taken up knitting, she must have bought it. Something of this quality must have cost a fortune.
“It’s gorgeous.” My voice sounds croaky. I clear my throat and swallow hard; if it was anyone else, I wouldn’t be embarrassed to show emotion. With Celia, I’m afraid if I let so much as a tear slip, she’ll run for the door.
“The other day I passed a boutique downtown with a Scottish flag in the window and a thistle on the sign. I went in and this lady had all kinds of handmade things, plus stuff imported from Scotland.” She reaches for the sweater and fingers the hem. “I thought it would have some meaning, with Hugh being from Scotland. Plus it’s a step toward making up for all the sweaters I borrowed without asking and stretched out the sleeves. I promise not to borrow this one.”
I let out a watery laugh. I can’t stop the tears that spill down my cheeks. Celia stares at the sweater, avoiding my gaze. “I love it. This is one of the most thoughtful gifts anyone has ever given me.” I take the sweater from the box and hold it against my chest. “Thank you, Celia.”
Beneath her green makeup, her cheeks turn pink. “You’re welcome,” she mutters. “Glad you like it.”
I set the sweater down and take a step toward her. “Can I hug you?”
She scrunches her nose. “I-I guess. Just make it quick because I have to go. And be careful of my makeup, I don’t have time to redo it.”
I laugh, holding out my arms. “There’s the Celia I know and love.”
Her eyes widen slightly, then soften as a small smile flits over her fac
e. She steps into my arms, giving me a quick, light hug. When she pulls away, she immediately heads for the door, scooping up a backpack I didn’t notice before. “Have a good night,” she says. “I’ll see you at some point tomorrow.”
“Yeah, see you. Have a good time. And thanks again for the sweater.”
She gives me a little wave and disappears out the door. I stay where I am for a few moments, admiring the sweater. It really is a thoughtful gift. In all the talking we’ve done over the last few days, neither of us has brought up what I said about falling for Hugh. I think she’s afraid to ask, and I haven’t brought it up again because I feel like if I talk to anyone about it, it should be Bridget. Most people would likely think it should be Hugh I’m saying it to, but I still don’t know if he’s staying or going. I don’t want to complicate things by throwing my feelings out there, especially since I haven’t really allowed myself to think too much about it.
Not wanting to lose my good-day buzz, I decide to take immediate advantage of my alone time. I head for the living room, where I turn on the stereo and start dancing. Fiddlesticks darts into the room, spots me bouncing around, and runs back out again. I bop over to the stereo to turn it up when “Mr. Brightside” by The Killers comes on. I become a dancing machine—arms flailing, legs kicking, hips rocking—all as I belt out the lyrics.
I do a little shimmy and hop around to face the other way. The words of the song are replaced by a blood-curdling scream when I realize someone is standing in the doorway. Hugh holds up his hands and I clutch at my chest, doubling over and laughing breathlessly. Despite wanting to run to my room and hide, I peek up at him. He’s still standing in the doorway, watching me with a mixture of amusement and affection. It’s the affection that makes my heart race even faster.