by Joy Fielding
“She’s spending Christmas with her folks up north. But she’ll be back in time for New Year’s. Speaking of which, I guess we should start making plans for New Year’s Eve.”
“I’m working New Year’s Eve,” I told her.
“You’re not!”
“I’m afraid so.”
“But it’s the start of a whole new year. I can’t believe you’re working. It’s not fair!”
I laughed. “Open your present.”
Alison quietly unwrapped her gift and held out a pair of pink, heart-shaped earrings. I couldn’t help but wonder if Denise had paid for them or simply helped herself to more of her aunt’s inventory. Alison said nothing. She closed the small cardboard box and lowered it to the floor.
“Don’t you like them?”
“They’re very nice.”
“Poor Alison’s all upset because you won’t be celebrating New Year’s Eve with us.”
“I’m just disappointed.”
“Don’t be. It’s just another night,” I said, although I didn’t really believe it. Hadn’t I been equally disappointed when Josh had announced he’d be out of town. “I just realized I forgot to put Lance’s present under the tree.” I scrambled to my feet, ran into the kitchen, retrieved the bag with the ballpoint pen I’d originally intended for Josh—what the hell? I’d buy him something better, something more personal—then headed back to the living room.
“What’s the matter with you?” I heard Alison hiss as I approached.
“Lighten up,” Lance said.
“What are you trying to pull?”
“I’m just having fun with her.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Relax.”
“I’m warning you . . .”
“Is that an ultimatum? Because we both know how much I love ultimatums.”
“Here it is,” I said, announcing my presence before I walked back into the room.
Lance reached across the top of the sofa to take the small bag dangling from my fingers. “Just what I wanted,” he said without a trace of irony as he extricated the thick, black pen from its layers of tissue. “Thank you, Terry. I’m touched.” He stood up, walked around the sofa, and extended his hand.
I took it, expecting a small handshake of gratitude, but instead he pulled me toward him, bringing his face so close to mine I tasted his breath in my mouth. I turned my cheek, but it was almost as if he’d anticipated my reaction, and he turned with me, catching me fully on the lips. “What are you doing?” I asked, attempting a smile but breaking away, the taste of him lingering.
He looked surprised, as if he had no idea what I was talking about. Had he thought I wouldn’t notice? “It’s a great pen,” he said.
“Okay, you guys,” Alison called. “There’s still lots to go here. My turn.”
“It’s always your turn.” Lance resumed his place on the sofa.
Alison pulled a baseball cap with a logo from the Houston Astros out of a bag without examining the card. “Look. It’s from K.C. Isn’t that sweet?” She put the hat on her head. “He dropped by this afternoon,” she explained before I had time to ask. “He told me he came over the other night to give it to me, but I wasn’t home,” she continued unprompted. “That’s why he was here.”
I nodded, although I couldn’t recall any gift in K.C.’s hands. “What do you know about him?” I asked, straining to sound casual.
“Not much. Why?”
“Just curious.”
“He thinks you don’t like him.”
“He’s right.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t trust him, I guess.”
“Seemed like a nice enough guy to me,” Lance interjected.
“I think he’s nice too,” Alison agreed.
“Name three things you like about him,” I challenged.
Alison smiled. “Let’s see. I like his accent.”
K.C.’s gentle Texas twang slammed against my ears.
“I like his eyes.”
I hated K.C.’s eyes, I thought, seeing them laughing at me through the darkness of the other night.
“I like that he bought me a present.”
“What three things do you like about me?” Lance asked suddenly, turning to me.
“I’m not sure I like anything about you at all.”
He laughed, although it was the truth, and I think he knew that. “Sure you do,” he insisted anyway. “Think.”
“I can’t.”
“No more presents till you come up with something.”
“Okay,” I said, giving up. “I like that you threw dog poop at Bettye McCoy.”
He laughed. “Are you saying you like my spunk?”
“I think she’s saying you’re full of you know what,” Alison corrected.
“What else do you like?” Lance asked, ignoring his sister.
“I like your taste in nightgowns,” I admitted, watching my mother shake her head in the reflection from the front window.
“You like the way I taste,” Lance translated, blue eyes dancing.
I shook my head, declined comment. “I like your belt,” I said finally.
“You like my belt?”
“It’s a very nice belt.”
Lance Palmay glanced down at the black leather belt that was secured around his slender waist by a large silver buckle. “You like my belt,” he repeated wondrously. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a very strange woman, Terry Painter?”
We opened the remainder of the gifts in relative silence. A T-shirt from me to Alison, a photograph album from Alison to me. Some movie tickets, a box of shortbread cookies, a travel alarm clock, a pair of fluffy pink slippers. “Last one,” I said, reaching under the tree and extricating a small package with a large white bow.
“What is it?” Alison looked almost afraid to open it.
“I hope you like it.” I watched as she gently lifted off the bow and discarded the paper, removing the lid from the top of the box. “I thought it was time for you to have a necklace of your own,” I said as she held up the thin gold necklace that spelled out her name.
Tears formed in Alison’s eyes, fell freely down her face. Silently, she reached up and removed the heart necklace, replacing it with the new one. “It’s beautiful. I’ll never take it off.”
I laughed, but tears were in my own eyes as well.
Alison suddenly got up and reached to the very back of the tree, pulling out a long, thin, rectangular present wrapped in dark green paper. “It’s for you,” she said, laying it across my lap.
Even before I unwrapped it, I knew what it was. “This is too much,” I whispered, staring at the painting of a woman in a large-brimmed hat relaxing on a beach of pink sand. “This is way too much.”
“You like it, don’t you?”
“Of course I like it. I love it. But it’s way too expensive.”
“I got my employee discount. This was before I got canned, of course.”
We both laughed, although we were crying too.
“Even so . . .”
“Even so, nothing. It belongs here. Right here.” Alison pointed to the blank space on the wall behind the sofa. “Lance’ll help you hang it. He’s good at hanging stuff.”
“Are you suggesting I’m well hung?” Lance asked as he pushed himself to his feet.
“Lance!”
But I barely heard them. “Nobody’s ever done anything like this for me before,” I whispered. Whatever reservations I harbored, whatever questions remained unanswered, whatever doubts still lingered, they vanished in that instant.
“Me neither,” Alison said, stroking the gold at her neck, then extending her arms toward me
“Careful, you two,” Lance said. “I might get jealous.”
Alison ignored him, wrapping me in an almost suffocating embrace. I felt the wetness of her tears on my cheeks, the pounding of her heart against my own. At that moment it was impossible to tell where I left off and she began.
&n
bsp; “Merry Christmas, Terry,” she cried softly.
“Merry Christmas, Alison.”
SIXTEEN
Merry Christmas,” I called as I pushed open the door to Myra Wylie’s hospital room.
It was just past eight o’clock in the morning, and Myra Wylie was lying in her bed, her head turned toward the window. She made no move to turn around, even as I closed the door behind me and cautiously approached, holding my breath. I’d been through this routine already twice this morning, and both times had found Myra Wylie sleeping soundly. I hadn’t disturbed her. How often did the poor woman get a good night’s sleep anymore?
I remembered that my mother’s last months had been marked by extreme restlessness. She’d tossed and turned in her bed all night, hardly closing her eyes at all. If Christmas had managed to bring a measure of peace to Myra Wylie’s tortured existence, then who was I to disturb her?
Except that there was something different about her posture this morning, something worrisome about the way her shoulders slumped against their covers, something unsettling in the angle of her head. “Myra?” I reached for the skeletal hand beneath the sheet, praying for a pulse.
“It’s all right,” she said, her voice clear but dull, as if it had been stripped of its natural shine by a harsh abrasive. “I’m not dead yet.”
Lance thinks people should be stamped with a “best before” date, I heard Alison say.
Immediately I rushed around to the other side of the bed, positioned myself directly in front of her, and realized instantly that she’d been crying. “Myra, what’s the matter? Has something happened? Are you in pain? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Something’s obviously upset you.”
She shrugged, the tiny gesture upsetting her delicate equilibrium, throwing her frail body into a series of exaggerated spasms. I grabbed a glass of water from the night table, extended the straw to her lips, watched as she coaxed the tepid liquid into her mouth.
“Do you want me to call a doctor?”
Myra shook her head, said nothing.
“What is it? You can tell me.”
“I’m just a silly old woman,” Myra said, really looking at me for the first time since I’d walked into the room. She tried to smile, but the attempt disappeared into a prolonged set of twitches that made her jaw quiver like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
“No, you’re not.” I smoothed several fine wisps of hair—more like threads really—away from her forehead. “I think you’re just feeling a little sorry for yourself, that’s all.”
“I’m a silly old woman.”
“I brought you a present.” I watched her eyes fill instantly with a child’s delight. We’re never too old for presents, I thought, pulling a small package out of the pocket of my uniform.
She struggled with the wrapping for several seconds, then gave up and handed the present back to me. “You open it,” she instructed eagerly, and I discarded the paper to reveal a pair of bright, red-and-green Christmas socks.
“So your feet will stay nice and warm.”
She brought her hand to her heart, as pleased as if I’d brought her diamonds. “Will you put them on for me?”
“It will be my pleasure.” I lifted up the bottom of the sheets, felt her toes ice-cold against the palms of my hands. “How’s that?” I asked, slipping on first one sock, then the other.
“Wonderful. Just wonderful.”
“Merry Christmas, Myra.”
A shadow, like a large palm frond, passed across her face. “I don’t have anything for you.”
“I wasn’t expecting anything.”
The shadow disappeared as quickly as it had come, her eyes noticeably brightening. “I might have some money in my purse.” She nodded toward the end table. “You could take as much as you want, buy yourself something nice from me.”
I bet you get pretty close to some of these lonely old biddies, I heard Lance say. I bet it wouldn’t be too difficult to get them to include you in their wills, have them sign over the bulk of their estates to you.
He was right, I realized in that instant. It wouldn’t be difficult at all.
And once I had their money, then what? Was I expected to sign over my own estate to Alison? Was that the plan?
Was I the lonely old biddy to whom he’d been referring? Was I the real target here?
Why not? I had a home, a cottage, a retirement savings plan.
Sounds like a plan to me, I heard Lance say.
Everything is going exactly as planned, I recalled Alison telling her brother over the phone after Thanksgiving.
What was the matter with me? I wondered impatiently. Where were these thoughts coming from? Hadn’t I made a conscious decision to banish such silliness from my mind?
“Terry,” Myra was saying. “Terry, dear, what’s the matter?”
Instantly, I snapped back into the here and now. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”
“I asked if you could get my purse from the drawer.”
“Myra, Josh took your purse home with him months ago. Don’t you remember?”
She shook her head, dislodged several fresh tears.
“You miss Josh, don’t you? That’s why you’re so depressed.”
Myra buried her cheek into the side of her pillow.
“I miss him too,” I said, trying to sound upbeat and cheerful. “But he’ll be back real soon.”
She nodded.
I checked my watch. “It’s only five o’clock in the morning in California. I’m sure he’s planning to phone you as soon as he wakes up.”
“He called last night.”
“He did? That’s great. How is he?”
“Fine. He’s fine.” Myra’s voice was curiously flat, as if someone had rolled over it with a tire.
“Myra, are you sure you’re okay? Does something hurt you?”
“Nothing hurts. You’re here. My feet are warm. What more could I want?”
“How about a piece of marzipan?” I pulled a miniature marzipan banana out of my pocket.
“Oh—I love marzipan. How did you know?”
“One marzipan lover can always spot another.” I unwrapped the marzipan candy, placed it between her lips, felt her nibble at it like a squirrel.
“It’s delicious.” Her hand reached toward my face. I leaned forward, felt her fingers trembling against my cheek. “Thank you, dear.”
“Anytime.”
“Terry . . .”
“Yes?”
She lifted her mouth to my ear. “You’ve been so kind. The daughter I never had.”
You’ve been so kind, I repeated silently back at her. The mother I never had.
“I want you to know how grateful I am for everything you’ve done for me.”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too,” I whispered, burying my tears in the soft threads of her silver hair.
There was a knock on the door, and I turned, half-expecting to find Josh standing there. If this were the movies, I thought, then Josh Wylie would have flown in as a surprise gift for his mother on Christmas morning. He would have seen me standing beside her bed, recognized me as the great love of his life, and instantly dropped to his knees, begging me to be his wife. But as this wasn’t the movies, when I turned toward the knock I saw, not a love-struck suitor, but an indifferent, gum-chewing orderly. “Yes?”
“Phone call for you at the nurses’ station.”
“For me? Are you sure?”
“Beverley said to tell you it was important.”
Who would be calling me at work on Christmas morning? It had to be Alison. Had something happened? Was anything wrong?
“You go, dear,” Myra said. “I’ll see you later.”
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I’m always all right when you’re around.”
“Then I’ll be back before you know it.”
I left the room and headed for the nur
ses’ station. “Line two,” Beverley said as soon as she saw me. “He said it couldn’t wait.”
“He?” Josh? I wondered. Calling from San Francisco to wish me a merry Christmas, to say he missed me, to tell me he was coming home early? Or maybe Lance, I second-guessed, calling to tell me there’d been an accident, that Alison had been critically injured. “Hello?”
“Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you,” I repeated, disappointed it wasn’t Josh, relieved it wasn’t Lance.
“Erica sends her love, says she’s sorry she couldn’t be with you for the holidays.”
“Who are you?” I shouted, unmindful of the people walking by. “Enough is enough! I don’t know what your game is but—”
“Terry!” Beverley cautioned from somewhere beside me, lifting a silencing finger to her mouth.
I dropped the receiver angrily into its cradle. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”
“Who was that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I’ve been getting these nuisance calls.”
Beverley nodded. “You don’t have to tell me about those,” she said, chubby fingers carelessly tapping the desk as she leafed through a small stack of patients’ files. She was thrice-divorced and at least twice her fighting weight. Her hair was too short, too permed, and too many shades of blond. Clearly, this was a woman only comfortable with extremes, possibly the reason for the three divorces, I thought, but then, who was I to judge? I’d always felt vaguely sorry for her. Now I wondered if she felt the same about me. “After my last divorce,” Beverley was saying, “my ex-husband called me fifty times a day. Fifty! I changed my number four times, didn’t do any good. I finally had to sic the police on him.”
“I guess I might have to do that.”
“Kind of hard when you don’t know who it is. You have no idea . . .?”
A smiling trio appeared before my eyes—Lance and K.C. flanking the man with the red bandanna. “No,” I said.
“Too bad. He sounded so sexy, the way he said your name. Real slow. Kind of like he was purring. I thought it might be, you know, someone special.” She shrugged, returning her attention to the stack of papers in front of her. “Probably just some stupid kid getting his jollies.”