by Holly Jacobs
“Gracie.” Connie’s voice was filled with big-sister disgust. She used the same tone when complaining about Conner’s room, which frequently was in danger of being condemned by the health department. “Mom, she was talking about Santa yesterday and Julie overheard her. Do you know how embarrassing that was for me?”
As a fourth grader, Connie had reached the upper tier of the elementary school, and Gracie, as a third grader, was embarrassing when she simply breathed.
“Now, Connie—” Lexie started.
Connie interrupted her by leaning across the table and shouting, “There is no such thing as Santa. Mom and Dad buy all the presents.”
Gracie didn’t look the least bit dismayed as she ate her cereal.
Lee walked into the kitchen, and Connie saw a new place to vent frustration. “Dad, tell Gracie there’s no Santa.”
“There’s no Santa,” he echoed.
Lexie kicked him softly. “Lee, we agreed—”
“We agreed that we’d let the kids discover the truth on their own, but it sounds as if Gracie’s discovered the truth. She’s just ignoring it. She’s eight, Lex. That’s old enough to accept the way things are. Life’s not always the way we want it.”
“Gracie, honey, I’m sorry . . .” Lexie said softly.
Rather than look dismayed, Gracie smiled and patted her hand. “It’s okay, Mom. I know there’s no real Santa. Remember that little girl in the book you read me? That newspaper guy told her that it’s okay if moms and dads bought the presents, ’cause they had Santa in their heart. Well, I got him in my heart, too. So, it’s okay if Connie don’t believe, ’cause I know my heart is big enough for Santa and me.”
“. . . And that was that. It didn’t matter what anyone said; Gracie believed in Santa until the day she died.” I tripped over the last word, but managed it. “Every Christmas, she’d leave him cookies. She wrote him annual letters. And when she was twelve, she adopted a family and bought them all gifts with her own money. We all helped, and on Christmas Eve, we packed up everything and put it on their porch. She left a letter with it all—a letter from Santa. We all went back to the car and she was the one who rang the doorbell, then ran.”
There was a happy memory that I hadn’t pulled out to examine in a long time. Gracie’s undisguised glee as she ran to the car.
“She said she was just letting the Santa in her heart out.”
“She sounds like she was an amazing girl,” Sam said.
“She was. All my kids are.”
“Your turn,” I said to Sam. “One thing.”
“My nickname was Romeo.” Sam smiled. “There was this guy in our unit. Tony Mulligan. His dad was Irish, his mom Italian. He was the only swarthy-skinned redhead I ever met . . .”
“Come on, Sam. You’re going to be my best man. Consider this part of your duties.”
Sam looked at his friend. Tony was one of those guys who never seemed to have it together. He was always late for everything but chow. He was the only guy Sam had ever met who could look rumpled in a newly pressed uniform, and whose hair, no matter how short, looked a mess because of the legion of cowlicks it sported. And the fact that his hair was red only called attention to its disarray. Wherever he went, Tony stood out. And unfortunately, he didn’t stand out well.
That is, he didn’t stand up well to the scrutiny until he’d met Sheila Yu. Her mother was Irish and her father was Chinese. She was working with an Irish relief agency in Afghanistan. They joked about their future babies, redheaded, tan, blue-eyed babies whose eyes would slant.
“Come with me,” Tony pressed.
Going with Tony to ask the CO for permission to marry was about the last thing Sam wanted to do, but Tony looked so desperate, which is why Sam found himself standing before the CO’s desk as Tony fumbled his way through his request.
“Listen, Mulligan, you’ve been in my office weekly, with one infraction or another, since you arrived on this base. What makes you think you’re ready to marry?”
“Sir, I . . .”
“Permission to speak freely, sir.” Sam heard the words come out of his mouth, but it was as if someone else had said them.
“Permission granted.”
“Sir, I know what you’re saying. Mulligan is one of the worst soldiers I’ve ever met. He’s the only man I know who can’t keep the beat. Not any kind of beat. When he marches, he’s always just a bit off. Not enough to get in trouble, but enough that everyone notices.”
“You’re not helping, Sam,” Tony muttered.
Sam ignored him and continued. “Frankly, he sucks as a soldier. But not with Sheila. If you saw them together, sir, you’d know. She . . .” He struggled, looking for the words to explain what he knew—what everyone who’d ever seen Tony and Sheila together knew.
“Sir, there’s a line from Jerry Maguire that’s been so overused that even a guy like me has heard it. She completes him. It’s like all those things we’ve all noticed about Tony are simply signs that he’s missing something. It’s as if his lack of rhythm when we march and all those other things are just physical manifestations of what’s missing. You might think it’s a drive to succeed or even caring about his personal appearance, but sir, what’s been missing is Sheila. You said Tony’s been in here every week, but in the last few months, has he really?”
The CO paused and considered. “No, not recently.”
“Not since Sheila.”
“So you’re saying I should give him permission to marry because it would be good for the unit?”
“In part. But sir, the real reason you should give him permission to marry is that no one should have to go through life missing a part of themselves. I’ve seen you with your wife, sir, and I know you know what I mean.”
“So, what did he say?” Jerry asked from the end of the bar.
“He said, ‘Romeo, you have a point.’ He gave Tony and Sheila permission and even helped Tony out with the paperwork. Marrying a non-American when you’re overseas on assignment means tons of paperwork. And he gave me my nickname. You see, Tony was also lacking an inner sensor. The story of my impassioned speech on his behalf became his favorite bar story. It was less than a week later when the entire base started calling me Romeo.”
“You’re a romantic.” That was something I hadn’t known about Sam.
“When I was in a coma, my mother read to me every day. Her favorite books were those Harlequin romances. I blame her.”
I couldn’t help but ask, “What about the love scenes? That had to be awkward.”
He raised his hand. It reminded me of my students. “She read them to me while I was in a coma. Thankfully, I don’t remember the stories.”
He paused and added, “I’d say I’d ask her if she skipped the love scenes, but I don’t think I want to know.”
We both laughed. So did Jerry at the end of the bar. And I thought I heard a few other chuckles from nearby tables.
I knew our stories jumped around our personal timelines, but . . . “But this was before you were in the hospital, wasn’t it?” I asked. “Your mother’s choice of reading material couldn’t have influenced your plea on Tony’s behalf.”
Sam sighed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that part.”
“Hey, Romeo, I need a refill,” Jerry called from the other end of the bar.
Sam groaned. “Mulligan’s not even here and he’s still torturing me.”
He filled Jerry’s glass, then came back to me. “So, about a date? How about dinner and a movie on Wednesday? We can go into Erie and . . .
I nodded, agreeing. I left Sam my number, in case his plans changed for whatever reason, and he gave me his as well. After all these months, we’d never exchanged numbers.
The small scrap of paper felt heavy in my coat’s pocket as I walked home.
It was November and chilly. Most of the leaves had fallen and the few diehards that still clung to the trees rustled in the evening breeze, along with the dried cornstalks in a farmer’s field. There was th
e scent of autumn in the breeze as well. The smell of rotting leaves and a potential frost. Of Amish fires, warming their farmhouses. Of animals in pens.
It was cold enough that I’d shoved a knit hat on my head and kept my hands in my coat’s pockets. There were gloves rolled up against my hands, but I didn’t put them on. Once you started wearing gloves, you might as well admit it was winter. I wasn’t ready to admit that yet.
Tonight, I was filled with a warmth that belied the cold. I thought about my date with “Romeo” and smiled. I wasn’t sure where this thing with Sam would lead, but I was okay with the uncertainty. He warmed me. After spending so long in the cold, that was enough.
My first official date with Sam had been uneventful, but nice. He’d remembered that I liked action flicks and taken me to see one with a number of explosions and near misses. As we left the theater, I’d teased him.
“I was afraid you were going to take me to some sappy chick flick, Romeo.”
He tried to scowl, but couldn’t quite pull it off, and we’d both ended up laughing.
That was the theme of the dinner, too. No talk of painful pasts, just a lot of laughter. I knew that years from now, I’d probably forget what we ate, or even what movie we’d seen. What I’d remember was the laughter and how good it had felt.
I’d carried the feeling with me the rest of the week. I worked on a new square on my tapestry—a Shakespearean mask. It was an obscure reference to Romeo. Probably no one else would understand it but me, but this tapestry was for me. It was a total narcissistic homage to my life. And this square made me smile as I worked on it.
At lunchtime the following Monday, as I reheated a bowl of soup, I realized I hadn’t felt the slightest pinch of pain since that date with Sam.
I thought of Lee with nothing but a warm sense of nostalgia.
I was pretty sure I’d reached the tipping point.
I wasn’t sure if that’s what a psychiatrist would call it, but I knew it existed. Maybe not it—not just one point—but they, many points. There are moments in the grief process when you make progress. A tipping point. Maybe some grief was so great it took more than one tipping point.
After my father died, my tipping point came that day with my mother at his headstone, then the beach. I still missed him, but the overwhelming grief was gone.
I remembered the moment I’d reached it after Gracie, and I knew I had my one-thing for Sam tonight.
I went to the bar that night, ready to share.
He passed me my Guinness and said, “One thing?”
“One morning, after Gracie died, right before the twins left for college, Connie and Conner were arguing . . .”
“What’s going on now?” Lexie stared at her eighteen-year-old twins. They looked so adult, but moments before had sounded very much like they had in grade school when they argued. And whatever was going on now was a kicker of an argument.
Neither answered. “Well, you can tell me, or we can wait and all tell your father about it.”
“Dad’s been down lately, Mom. We don’t want to bother him with this. It was noth—”
“It wasn’t nothing. Connie was eavesdropping again.” Oceans of frustration flooded Conner’s voice.
“Connie?” Lexie asked.
“I wasn’t. I just couldn’t help overhearing lame-o here with his girlfriend. Oh-Lainy-mm-mm-mm.” The mm sounds were obviously supposed to represent Conner blowing kisses over the phone.
Lexie tried to look stern, but a smile kept creeping around the edges of her frown. She didn’t say anything, sure that if she did, she wouldn’t be able to hold back her laughter.
But Connie saw it. “Look, even Mom’s laughing.”
“I’m not; I’m frowning,” Lexie maintained. But in so doing, she’d talked, and her laughter wouldn’t be contained. A short, hiccup-length burst broke free.
“Mom.” Conner’s voice contained volumes of disgust.
“Sorry,” Lexie said, and another burst of laughter squeaked out.
This time, Connie didn’t comment, she just laughed as well.
And finally Conner joined in. “Man, the only thing that would have made this worse was if Gracie had been here. She’d have started singing that song.”
“Oh, yes, she would have. So, in honor of Gracie,” Connie said, “Conner and Lainy sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Conner with a baby carriage.”
All three of them continued laughing as Connie teased Conner and vice versa. The fight had blown over and all that was left was good-natured teasing.
Lexie watched the twins as they ate their breakfast. Soon they’d be gone. Her two Cons, going to different schools and starting independent lives. She wouldn’t have to break up any more morning fights. The house would be quiet. Just her and Lee.
Once, they’d talked about those years with anticipation. They’d looked forward to time alone, exploring what it was to be a couple. Now?
“Today is definitely going in my Grace Book,” Connie stated more to herself than to Lexie when Conner ran upstairs to get his book bag.
“Grace Book?” she asked.
Connie looked a little embarrassed, but nodded. “Yeah. I started a notebook where I wrote down all kinds of stories about Gracie. I put some pictures in, too. It made me feel better, and I figured someday I might have kids and they won’t get to meet Gracie, but I can let them read the book and they’ll know something about her. It will make her real to them.”
“May I look at the book?”
“Sure, Mom. You can add stories to it, too, if you want.”
“That evening, after dinner, Connie brought me down her Grace Book, and I started reading her memories of her sister. I entered a memory of my own that night and as I wrote about Gracie’s antics, I laughed. And I realized I’d passed the tipping point. My memories might not beat out the pain, but I could sometimes smile at a thought of Gracie. I don’t think a mother can ever totally recover from losing a child, but that night I started to heal. I think I finished my healing process here, with you.”
Sam seemed flustered by that and simply asked, “Did you continue to write in Connie’s Grace Book?”
“Yes. She left it out after that. Even Conner wrote in it. Connie took it with her when she went to college, but sometimes, I think of a Grace story and email it to her and she adds it.”
I hadn’t seen the Grace Book in a long time and I suddenly felt an urge to read it again.
I’d call Connie and ask her to bring it next time she came to visit. Maybe for Thanksgiving.
“One thing,” I said to Sam.
“The bar in Pittsburgh finished what Grid had started. I finally came back to life. But my life wasn’t in Pittsburgh. I told my mother I was leaving Pittsburgh and moving here . . .”
“Sam, sweetie, you look great,” his mother said in her customary greeting.
Sam figured he could walk in with a full-blown case of the flu and her greeting would be the same, because after seeing him comatose and then in recovery, anything else was gravy.
“So do you, Mom.” He kissed her cheek and followed her into the living room. She’d called and asked him to come over, which worked out well for him, because he’d planned on calling her anyway. He’d put off telling her his plans because he knew she wasn’t going to be happy, and he figured he’d given his mother enough unhappiness for one lifetime.
“Mom, I wanted to—” he started, but she interrupted.
“Sam, it’s been a long time since your father died. Since then it’s been just the two of us. But, as you know, I’ve been dating for a while now and Richard and I are planning to get married.” She said the words in a rush, as if afraid of his reaction.
Sam had watched his mother with Richard, and the news wasn’t exactly a surprise. “’Bout time he made an honest woman of you,” he teased, then hugged her. “Congratulations, Mom.”
She let out a long exhale, as if she’d been holding her breath.
&
nbsp; She’d been nervous, Sam realized. “Really, Mom, I’m so happy for you.”
This time she sighed, but it didn’t sound like nerves. It sounded more like contentment. She smiled then. “He’s coming over in a bit. He wants to ask your permission, which I know must seem old-fashioned, but he likes you, Sam.”
“And I like him. Seriously, I’m happy for you, Mom. He’s a lucky man.” He figured there would never be a better time, so he added, “And I hope you’ll be happy for me. I bought a bar.”
“You bought a bar?”
“Well, I discovered that I’m a pretty good bartender. People seem to like talking to me. But I’m not really satisfied working for someone else forever, so I bought a bar.”
“I thought maybe you’d go back—” she started.
He cut her off. “There’s no going back for me, Mom. Buying the bar is about moving on to the future.”
She didn’t react for a minute as she digested that, then finally she nodded. “Well, moving into the future is great.” She was poised to hug him.
He quickly added, “It’s not in Pittsburgh, though.”
His mother’s arms fell back to her side. “Where is it?”
“South of Erie. Less than two hours from your place. Close enough to visit whenever you want. I promise to get a place with a guest room for you and Richard.”
At her fiancé’s name, her face brightened. “I guess we’re both moving on.”
“But never moving away from each other. I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, Sam.”
“Mom and Richard will be here for Thanksgiving,” he said. “I’d like you to meet them.”
I nodded. “I’d like to meet them, too. I mean, it’s only fair. You’ve met my mom.”
“Speaking of your mom,” Jerry said from the far side of the bar. “You ever bringing her back in?”
I nodded. “I’m betting we can talk her into it.”
“Why don’t you invite her to Thanksgiving?” Sam offered. “Your kids, too, if you think they’d come.”