“What’s with the attitude?”
Caleb glanced around the living room. “Who are you talking to?”
“Don’t worry about it. We can do this later.” I picked up my briefcase and walked toward my bedroom. “Let me know when you’re up to it.” I closed the door and spent the rest of the evening in my room working on the semester’s final exam. When I emerged from my bedroom after midnight, the tree was decorated and the living room, the den, and hallways were trimmed in pine garland and red, white, and green candles, and frosted pinecones, and an assortment of red bows. A box labeled “Outside Lights” was by the front door.
There were no classes during finals week, so I stayed home from work the next day to put up the outside Christmas lights. I spent the morning and most of the afternoon hanging strings of marble-shaped, clear lights around the windows and borders of the house and placing nets of clear lights over the hedges. That evening, when Caleb plugged the outlet cord into the electric socket, the house and yard lit up. The Christmas season was officially underway.
* * *
We died fourteen years ago today.
* * *
Since the semester ended and she left, every minute, hour, and day has seemed longer than the one before it. Being home all day with Caleb, especially while he’s in a foul mood, wasn’t helping much either. It had really put a damper on my spirits, so I’d been counting down the days until Christmas. Three more days until Christmas. And four more days until this holiday season was history.
* * *
Her name was Karen Davis. Dr. Karen Davis.
* * *
I found out her name the week after the Thanksgiving luncheon. I recalled glancing at the tag on her Pathfinder the day of the luncheon, so I did a little fact finding the next week when I went back to work. I called one of my former news contacts at the Department of Motor Vehicles and had him run her tag number. That’s how I found out her name. I honestly thought that I would be satisfied knowing her name, but I was wrong. Before I realized what I was doing, I was thumbing through the faculty directory. I learned a little bit more about her. She’d been a marketing professor in the School of Business and Industry for six years. She earned her Bachelor’s degree, MBA, and Ph.D. from the University of Florida. But that wasn’t enough, I needed more. What I really needed was to hear her voice. So I called her office. When she answered, “Hello,” I apologized and said I dialed the wrong number. Hearing her voice wasn’t enough either.
* * *
I’m not going to say “I told you so,” but I did. Didn’t I?
* * *
All I’d been able to do was think about her and wonder what she’d been doing since she’d been in Orlando visiting her parents. Every hour of the day had been filled with the same questions. Was she enjoying the holidays? Was she stressed out even though she did most of her holiday shopping before she left? Who was she spending the holidays with? Did she really care about him?
I made up my mind the day she left for Orlando. When the spring semester started in two weeks, I was going to meet and get to know Dr. Davis. I hadn’t figured out how I was going to meet her, but we were going to meet.
* * *
And you wondered why Caleb had an attitude. You’re either out stalking her or you’re sitting here daydreaming about her. Snap out of it.
* * *
“Merry Christmas,” I said and extended the gift which was wrapped in green foil and a red bow nearly as big as the box. Caleb pushed the leg rest in and rose to a sitting position.
“Thank you,” he said and took the present out of my hands. “What is it?”
“Open it and see.”
“I’ll wait until in the morning,” he said.
“No. I want you to open it now.”
“Now? Tonight? Why?” Caleb asked. “We always open presents on…”
“Forget that! Just open it.”
Caleb removed the bow. “You’re still not getting your gift until tomorrow.”
“I’m okay with that.”
He undid the taped folds on one end and nudged the box from the wrapping. He hesitated before lifting the top off the box.
“A cable box?”
“It’s not an ordinary cable box. We upgraded the cable channel at the School of Journalism, and we will start broadcasting some of our classes during the spring semester. This box will let you view our lectures live.”
Caleb’s eyes lit up. “So, I’ll be in class with you…kinda?”
I nodded yes.
“Thanks.” A smile, brighter than all the lights around him, illuminated his face.
“Merry Christmas, Lil’ Daddy.”
Lil’ Daddy was a slip of the tongue. I never ever called him that. I hadn’t since the accident. Caleb didn’t remember our former life, so I never used the nickname Dad and Uncle Walter gave him because people said he was the spitting image of Dad. I swear it was a slip, but slip or not, Caleb heard me. He still emitted a 200-watt smile, but there was an intruding darkness dilating in his eyes.
I looked at the clock on the wall. It was seven minutes before midnight. Caleb was sitting in Dad’s recliner gazing out the window. I was lying on the sofa pretending to watch ABC’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve. I tried to focus on the countdown, but I couldn’t because I was possessed by an unfamiliar and worrisome feeling. Caleb was sitting in the living room with me, but I had never felt so far away from him. There was a distance between us that could not be measured in miles or breadth.
* * *
Damn. I missed it. We missed it. It’s 12:02.
CHAPTER 13 CALEB
Nigel had another life, a secret life that he assumed I didn’t know about.
* * *
It was past 6:30 and Nigel still hadn’t made it home. I tried to reach him but couldn’t. I called his office three times and his cell phone so many times that I lost count. I didn’t know where Nigel could be, but when he got home, I figured he would give me some long, drawn-out story about how chaotic our day was. I wasn’t wrong.
“We stopped by the library to finish the research we…” he started.
“Fuel my memory.” I cut him off because I really didn’t know what he was talking about. “What research?”
“Remember the article Dr. Alexander asked us to write for the department’s Outlook magazine?”
“Not really,” I responded, which was the truth because Nigel was making this lie up as he went. I didn’t know why he even tried to lie because, to him, lying was like a Botox injection.
“When was this?” I asked even though I knew he was incapable of replying because his facial muscles were immobilized. “Was it before the Thanksgiving break?”
His pupils contracted. His lips stiffened. Finally, his stupefied expression earned my pity.
I pretended to recall what he was talking about. “Hold on. Wait. You mean the ethics article?”
“Yes,” he uttered with slight hesitation. After he was sure that I was part of the story again, Nigel said emphatically, “The one Dr. Alexander asked us to write.”
For the past couple of days, Nigel had been lying about where we’ve been and what we’ve been doing. Nigel was honest to a fault, so when he did lie, there’s an earnest reason for it. At least that’s what I’d made myself believe.
* * *
We always put up our Christmas tree on the first day of December. This year was different. As I sat staring at the four boxes of Christmas lights and other decoration in the living room, I debated whether or not I should put them up. The debating started around 9:00 this morning and I still didn’t have an answer at 2:00 in the afternoon. Every year I went out of my way to make sure the holidays were a joyful time for Nigel. I’d seen the old photographs in the albums he kept. Christmas was once a spirited time for our family. The holiday traditions we followed were part of the memories captured in those photographs, so the holidays were a nostalgic time for Nigel.
Normally, I pulled all the lights and decorations fr
om the closets the day after Thanksgiving, but this year I said damn it all. That’s why Nigel pulled the boxes of lights and decorations out the closet before he left for work this morning. After staring at the boxes all day, I decided that I wasn’t going to put up the lights and decorations. Nigel could put them up if he wanted them up.
* * *
Nigel brought a Christmas tree home when he got off work or when he finished doing whatever he’d been doing. My plan was to sit and watch him try to painstakingly recreate the Christmas tree of yesteryears, a task I can do with my eyes closed. But then I decided to go ahead and decorate the tree. After all, I was the one who had to look at it twenty-four-seven.
* * *
We composed the final exam the way we did the midterm. But instead of discussing the wording of every question, I wrote all of the multiple-choice questions and Nigel wrote the short-answer questions and the reporter’s notes for an article the students were required to write. Afterward, he looked over the questions I’d written and I did the same for him. Neither one of us had any objections. Well, at least we didn’t voice them.
* * *
I called Nigel’s cell phone and he didn’t answer, so I left a voice message. I didn’t bother to call the office since the semester was over. Although he claimed he goes to our office every day, it was obvious he was lying. An hour later, I called his cell phone again and I still didn’t get an answer. So I sent him a text message: Call me 911. There wasn’t an emergency; I wanted to see how long it would take him to call. He didn’t, and he didn’t drag his ass home until nearly midnight. He said the car broke down on Capital Circle. A busted radiator, he claimed.
“And we were on Capital Circle because…” I queried.
“We were on our way to the flea market.” Nigel yawned. “I’m exhausted.”
“We went to the flea market to look for? To buy…?”
“To just look.” He squinted his eyes to feign sleepiness.
“Why?”
“No reason why,” Nigel responded. “Just to have something to do.”
“What time was this?”
“What time did the car break down or what time did we…?”
I cut him off. “Did the car break down?”
Nigel’s calmness and bad acting faltered.
“Around four,” he answered. “Give or take a half hour.”
“Well, we left here at one. Where did we go?”
“We stopped by the office to check on some things.” Nigel turned and looked at the clock and tried to act surprised. “Damn! I didn’t know it was this late.”
“I guess we got the car fixed since you drove it home.”
“There’s this garage not far from the flea market. One of the mechanics drove out and towed the car in. Then he patched the radiator as best as he could. Well, good enough to drive it home. They ordered a new radiator. It should be in tomorrow.”
I nodded slightly.
“We’ll talk in the morning.” Nigel walked into his bedroom and closed the door.
* * *
Nigel didn’t leave the house at all during the next few days. He sat around staring into space. I guess he forgot about the car and the new radiator that was supposedly ordered. I wasn’t sure why, but something kept nagging me. Whatever Nigel did took nearly twelve hours. He’d rarely been away from home that long. Curiosity got the best of me and I decided to do a little digging. Nigel didn’t like carrying a lot of cash, so the first thing I did was check Nigel’s credit card purchases. We shared joint accounts so I had easy access to the information. I couldn’t believe what I found out. Nigel was near Orlando the day he claimed the car broke down. He used his Visa card to purchase gas at a Turnpike travel station. Like a cockatrice, I turned and glanced at Nigel. He must have felt my virulent stare because his face hardened and his strangulating guilt nearly choked him to death. I steered clear of Nigel since then, and I didn’t speak unless I was spoken to.
* * *
I knew it. I knew it. I knew it.
* * *
We needed life preservers to keep our heads above the asphyxiating waves of reticence coursing through this house. Silence swelled around us; deafening silence. We anticipated each other’s every move to keep our paths from crossing. That way we didn’t have to say “excuse me” or “I’m sorry” if we mistakenly bumped into each other. We used labored smiles and meager nods to say whatever needed to be said. A cursory lukewarm smile substituted for “good morning” and “good night.” And a slight nod said “Thank you” or “Yes, I agree.” From Nigel’s constrained hush, he deduced that I was on to him. If he didn’t feel guilty about what he’s hiding, he would have found a way to end this strife between us.
* * *
Nigel received a letter in the mail today from a political writer for a national magazine, and he tossed the unopened envelope in the trash. Every now and then he got requests for interviews, but he still wasn’t ready to talk about Barney Aman or explain why we weren’t wearing Anderson Cooper’s shoes.
* * *
Only God knows where Nigel had been. He rushed out of the house right before noon without saying where he was going. Actually, I didn’t mind him leaving because it was the first time he’d left the house in days. Still, I was not looking forward to hearing Nigel’s stitched-together fable about our day that I’d be part of to pacify him. That bothered the hell out of me. Nigel still expected me to believe him, despite the fact that he’d been lying the entire time. It’s almost like he was telling me that my life outside this house was whatever he made it; that our story wasn’t co-authored. However, since Nigel was out driving the Lumina, which supposedly needed a new radiator, I did have time to buy his Christmas present. I decided on a new car, a white Lexus Coupe. I was having it delivered to the house Christmas morning.
* * *
In hindsight, maybe I shouldn’t have, but after I’d purchased the car for Nigel, I decided to resolve something that had been pestering me for almost two months. I tried to disregard Nigel’s version of our homecoming day, but I couldn’t forget the absence of the facial paralysis that signaled he was lying. He talked about navy blue, red, and white floats and bison mascots that were not in the parade I saw on television. He wasn’t lying though; at least not in his mind. If he had been, I would have seen the tension on his face.
Nigel never told me, but I was aware that he had gone to college before we started at Richmond. We had a junior class schedule our first semester there. After spending twenty minutes searching several Internet databases, I found out that Nigel was a student at Howard University during our former lives and he’d pledged the Chi Alpha fraternity. Hence, it explained his knowing the Chi Alpha step dance. And Howard’s mascot was the bison and its colors are navy blue, red, and white. I was relieved. For a little while, I thought my brother was losing it.
I clicked on the exit button, but the monitor flickered and jumped back to the Google search page. That’s when I did what I shouldn’t have. I typed in: Richmond Times Virginia newspaper. Forty-five seconds later, the cursor was in the archives search box of the Richmond Times. I counted back fourteen years; Nigel and Uncle Walter told me I was in a coma for two years and that was twelve years ago. Each keystroke felt like scaling a mountain with my fingertips…each stroke a painful step toward the peak. O - b - i - t - u - a - r - i-e-s; D - e - c - e - m - b - e - r -2-0-0-; G - r - e - e -n----. I couldn’t go on. I pressed the power switch and the screen went black.
I’d never been that close to knowing what dreadful event changed our lives forever. Until now, I never wanted to know what happened to Mom and Dad. To me.
* * *
I was somebody else before that December night.
* * *
Whenever I started feeling sorry for myself, I tried to think of profound and searching words that, when strung together in the right manner, defined life’s purpose. Not only my life; life in general. Sometimes, months passed without an insightful thought. And sometimes, out of no
where, and mostly during an indifferent moment, I found reasons in the simplest of things. Seeing the color purple. The sound of music. Jazz. My brother. However, there were times when life’s meaning unraveled in the sooty shadows of restless nights, when the fear of a future without me was my irascible bedfellow.
Even though I didn’t feel like it, I had to write a blog. I wanted to write something about my failed search for information about that December evening nearly fourteen years ago, but I couldn’t. Nigel read the blog, and I didn’t want to bring up any bad memories for him. Since it was the Christmas season, I decided to write about a Christmas memory that we may have lived.
* * *
The (not so true) Way I Remember It – by Caleb Greene
Too Old For Santa?
The worst Christmas presents I ever received were the first ones I bought for myself.
I wanted to be like the other neighborhood kids my age who, because of our age, were no longer on Santa’s delivery list. Even though I was twelve, I had not gone through this rite of passage and was the only person my age still waiting and wondering if Santa would bring them the perfect gift. The other kids knew what they were getting for Christmas because their parents gave them money to do their own Christmas shopping.
All my friends had been deleted from Santa’s list the previous year, so I spent the entire month of December tagging along as they searched for the perfect Christmas gifts at Burdines, the Fair Store, Vera’s, and Crossroads. The Calvin Klein and Cross Color jeans, the matching sweaters, and the Converse tennis shoes were all perfect fits because my friends were able to try them on before they bought them. They loved the Timex watches they got for Christmas because they’d spent several hours deciding which one they liked best. They even had the presents gift-wrapped in the paper of their choice.
Our First Love Page 9