She laughed.
“Anya had Kiki when she was thirty-seven. She wants another. What do Americans say—it ain’t over ‘til it’s over?”
“Or until the fat lady sings.”
“Forget it, I’m not saying that to Anya.”
She looked at him a long time. At the eyes they both inherited from Joe.
“I like you,” she said.
He tossed the dishtowel at her. “As far as sisters go, you’re not bad.”
She took the compost tin and walked Michel back to the carriage house. After saying goodnight she headed to the chicken coop, warmed from the conversation. Almost regretting her plans to go home the next day instead of staying to cut down the Christmas tree.
But sometimes it was better to leave the party when you were having a good time.
She dumped out the tin of vegetable scraps in the chicken run and made sure the doors of the coop were securely fastened. A fat three-quarter moon shone, streaked with silver clouds. The air was laced with wood smoke. Daisy stopped and looked around the land, held still a moment and leaned into it.
Thank you, she thought. I had a good time tonight.
She showered, turned down her bed and plumped all the pillows high. She was going to start her third trip through The Golden Compass and decided a piece of pie would go well with the journey.
She went downstairs. Pattering through the living room, the phone rang, startling the sleepy house. She ran for the kitchen extension, seizing it up with a breathless “Hello?”
A man’s voice. “Francine?”
“No, it’s Daisy.” She tucked the receiver in her shoulder and opened the fridge.
“Daisy?”
“Yes, it’s Daisy, who is this?” She took out the pie and knocked a Tupperware container off the shelf just as the man spoke.
“Rick.”
Annoyed, she tucked the phone tighter in her shoulder, picked up the Tupperware, crammed it back in. “Who?”
“Erik.”
Her chest pulled backward through her shoulder blades. She stood in the chill of the refrigerator door, clutching a pie plate in one hand, the phone in the other, open-mouthed and stunned.
It’s today? she thought.
“Hello?”
“Fish?” she said, her heart pounding.
“It’s me.”
It’s you.
“Hi,” she said. Touching the word the way she would touch a burn.
“Hi,” he said. The word was a quick exhalation of sound but she heard the trembling in it.
She blinked, trying to shape a reply. “And holy shit.”
She closed the refrigerator door and put the pie down. She felt dizzy. And more than a little sick.
“Yeah,” he said. She heard him blow out his breath, a load of steeled courage within it. This wasn’t a whim.
The walls and surroundings of the kitchen swam back into focus. Now she was confused. She was at her parents’ house. Why was he calling her here?
“How did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t. I was calling your mother to find you. It didn’t occur to me you’d be there.”
“I’m right here…”
I’m here.
And he came looking for me.
The cuckoo clock whirred and its doors popped open. The little red bird emerged for a single two-tone chirp then retreated.
It was nine-thirty on Thanksgiving night.
He came back…
DECEMBER 13, 2005
Dear Rita,
Erik called me on Thanksgiving.
I can hear you now. “And how did that feel?”
Frankly, I almost threw up. Because you think about someday and prepare mentally for someday. But someday is never today.
But he called. He called my mother’s house, actually, looking to get my number from my parents. Not thinking I would pick up the phone myself. At least Fate was kind enough to throw us both off guard and level the playing field.
He sounded just as shaky and vulnerable as I felt, which was a surprise. I mean, all the ways I envisioned a conversation happening, I always had him somewhat distant. Definitely defensive. But that was with me calling him. He looked for me. So he was open. Bringing a lot of leftover hurt but wanting to be an adult about it. It was a conversation, not a confrontation. And though it wasn’t blithely picking up where we left off as if no time had passed, it felt like the conversation was waiting for us. Two chairs set in front of a fireplace, reserved for this moment. Come on, it’s time. Sit down. It was only about five minutes of shaky chit-chat before we got right into it.
There’s no short version of this. I think it’ll take longer to summarize the phone call than to transcribe it word for word. We talked about two hours. It was brutal. Holy shit, it was tough. I can’t remember the last time I had that kind of adrenaline level. Probably in your office. Erik likened it to an exorcism. I don’t disagree. I never doubted it would be a hard talk in terms of subject matter. Plus every ten seconds I was trying to grasp I was actually hearing his voice. Getting my mind wrapped around how he called me. Came looking for me. Wanting to talk.
I can’t describe the relief. I keep thinking up words like cleansing and baptismal and rebirth. Makes it sound like a religious experience but…I guess it was. The ultimate confession. “What happened, Dais?” he asked and I told him the story. Let it unfold in its honest, bare-bones version and I told him, finally, how sorry I was. How it had never stopped mattering to me.
Part of me still can’t believe it.
By the way, I’m insanely proud of getting through the entire exchange, including the crying, without a cigarette during or a Xanax afterward.
Erik asked if he could come see me and nothing I want more exists in this world. Nothing. We’ve been talking on the phone nearly every night these past two weeks. It’s not easy. Actually, let me rephrase that. It’s still easy to talk to him. We go at it until we’re hoarse. One topic leads to five others. We finish each other’s sentences and definitely still have a rapport. But the stories we have to tell hurt like hell. Like finding out he was married. They separated more than a year ago and I believe him when he says he didn’t entertain the idea of reaching out to me until the divorce was final. But he was married. He met a woman and he loved her and married her. I had to swallow that and… God, you think you’re prepared but you’re never prepared. He was somebody’s husband. It just twisted me inside-out and I cried hard. And he let me. He lets me and I let him and we mop up and keep talking.
Sometimes after I hang up with him, I think, “fuck everything, I’m his. I’m still his, who are we kidding? We’ll pick up where we left off and it’ll be fine.” Other times I step carefully out of the conversation, almost not daring to want what I want. Trying to go as far as I can see, which is tomorrow. When he’ll be here.
He’ll be here tomorrow.
Rita, he’s coming to see me. I couldn’t tell you what’s going to happen. But everything in the past couple weeks has been more than I dared wish for. And
The timer on the oven dinged. As she had been writing, the kitchen filled with a warm, spicy scent. Out of the oven, Daisy pulled two trays of cookies and anxiously inspected them. Their edges had browned nicely but the centers looked soft. They were supposed to be crisp.
She called her mother.
“They don’t look crisp.”
“They’ll harden as they cool. Do you have them on a rack?”
“Yes.”
“Leave them alone, then. Don’t push on the centers for at least ten minutes.”
“You’re sure?”
“It’s the exact same recipe for pepparkakor I used before. It comes right out of that Swedish holiday book, word for word. I promise, darling, they’ll be perfect.”
“All right, I trust you.”
“How are you? Excited?”
“Yes.”
“Terrified?”
Daisy laughed. “Slightly.”
A pause, then Franci
ne asked, “Happy?”
“Oh, Mamou. It’s still not real to me.”
“Darling, don’t misunderstand me. But if it doesn’t work out, call me right away. Or just come home. We’ll be here.”
“Mamou, if it doesn’t work out, I’ll be all right. I know I will.”
“I know but…”
“It’s already worked out, Ma. It’s already more than I ever wished for. And I’m fine. I’m perfectly happy right now.”
“I’m so glad, darling. Oh, there goes the timer on my cookies, I have to fly now.”
They kissed their ends of the phone line and hung up.
A glass of wine in hand, Daisy looked around her kitchen. The garland of pine greens and white lights on her windowsill. Her paper snowflakes dangling on invisible threads against the dark, frosty panes. The candles burning on countertops and the cookies cooling on the wire rack. Christmas music floating over like a light layer of powdered sugar, all the vintage old-school favorites from a CD her father burned for her.
Gingerly she touched the center of one of the pepparkakor. It was still soft. She broke it in half for a taste test. She’d attempted to put her own twist on the recipe by adding a little burnt sugar essence, and using white pepper instead of black. Closing her eyes as she carefully chewed, she was pleased by the combination of orange and spice, singed and sweet with just the right amount of heat. Perfect with the dry red wine, too.
Brushing off her fingers, she took her glass back to the table and returned to her letter writing. Bastet rubbed against her ankles, walking in figure eights. Daisy reached down to smooth the silver head as she looked up at the lights and decorations. Looked up at her home. Looked up at her life.
Right now, I’m just grateful, she wrote.
Grateful and happy with where I am and who I am. I can believe he will forgive me and even if he doesn’t, I still forgive me. I’m still the girl he knew yet I’m different. He’s different, too, but still familiar to me. Our journeys mirror in so many ways. I believe he truly regrets disappearing and leaving it unfinished for so long. And yet, I can also believe we’re better people for it somehow. And if there is still an “us” to be found in all this, it will be a new us. A different us. Even a better us. And somehow that makes everything that came before necessary to get to this one moment.
And now you retire, right?
I’m sure I’ll be writing again soon. Until then, have a wonderful holiday and be well.
Daisy
P.S. Thank you.
HER CHEST WAS ON FIRE, throwing lightning bolts down her arms and legs. Threatening to throw her stomach up into the stratosphere.
Don’t let me throw up, she thought. Fainting is fine. Don’t let me throw up…
She stepped onto the white-lettered Bienvenue on the hotel doormat and the doors purred open. She slid her sunglasses off, looking around the busy lobby. The people meshed into a clump of humanity. She couldn’t distinguish anyone. Maybe she wouldn’t recognize him. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe…
From the easy chair by the fireplace a figure unfolded and stood up.
“Oh God,” she whispered around her breath.
It’s you.
She pressed her lips tight as he came closer and pushed her hands deep in her pockets to hide their shaking. He was coming to her. Jeans and a blue V-neck sweater under his jacket. A plaid scarf hanging on either side. Hands in his pockets. His hair cut short and spiked every which-way. A little grey in his sideburns. His face pale and beautiful. His eyes wide and nervous. His smile not sure if it should stay or go.
He stood in front of her then, close enough to touch. She could feel him trembling.
“Welcome to Canada,” she said.
“My new favorite place on Earth.”
They both took their hands out of their pockets. Started. Stopped. Started again and moved into each other’s arms.
His last touch was him bucking and throwing her off his back onto the floor. Tossing her away from him. Now his arms gathered her to his chest and held her close.
She took a breath. Took it in.
It’s you.
THE FIRE HAD DIED DOWN to orange jewels. Weak, tired steam rose from the mugs of tea on the table between their chairs. The tin of pepparkakor was nearly empty. Lights twinkled from the garland on the mantle and Bastet made a continuous, purring thrum as she slept in a ball in Erik’s lap.
He went through Daisy’s two dance scrapbooks, looking at the pictures and reading articles and reviews.
“I can’t believe I missed all this,” he said. “I missed seeing you dance with Will in a real company. I missed your entire stage career. All these ballets, all the collaboration and all your success… I missed it.”
Sighing, he put the scrapbooks aside and picked up the envelope of memories Daisy had also brought down.
“Oh, no,” he said, laughter in his voice. “You have these?”
One at a time he went through each card, note and picture, letting them fall to a neat pile by the leg of his chair. Piece by piece, finishing with the empty wrapper of Swedish Fish, the love note and the condom wrapper. Then, empty-handed, he looked at the fire, his expression blank.
Watching him, Daisy peeled and ate clementines, throwing the orange scraps onto the fire as she went. She was quiet and still, letting him think.
“I left this behind,” he said, gesturing to the pile on the floor. “All of this. I packed up my room that night and I was in an insane rage. I took everything of yours, of ours, and I chucked it.”
“I know, I dug it out of the garbage,” she said.
“Why?”
“I couldn’t blame you for leaving it behind. But I fucked up so I had to pick up the pieces.”
He stared at the undulating, scented flames, his hand making long strokes along Bastet’s body.
“Thank you for saving what I threw away,” he said.
“I threw it away,” she said.
“You dug through the garbage to get it,” he said. “You picked through the pockets of my clothes because it was in there and it meant something. You kicked aside dust and grease under the stove to look for it and find it and keep it. What did I do but bury it in the backyard and walk away?”
“Because I hurt you.”
“And I punished you for more than a decade.”
“And you’re here now.”
“Here I am,” he said, running his hands over his face and back through his hair.
“What made you do it?” she asked. “Finally pick up the phone and call?”
He exhaled roughly. His finger reached up and started playing with the charms on his necklace. “It wasn’t any one thing,” he said. “But lots of little things building up. I think it started when I heard you speaking on the radio show. I knew you were talking about me, but you didn’t say my name. Not once. It really bothered me. And I felt stupid about it bothering me because what the fuck—here’s this chick I slammed the door on, how dare she not publicly acknowledge me as the number one asshole in her life. What, do I not mean anything anymore?”
Daisy covered her mouth, laughing around oranges.
“So that was in the back of my mind. Then the day we signed divorce papers, my ex-wife told me the entire last month she was living at home, I was calling your name out in my sleep.”
“You were not.”
“According to her, I was. And then my friend Miles… I told you about him, right?”
She nodded. “Friend, mentor, substitute father figure.”
“Right. After my divorce, we were running in the park one day and I expressed surprise…not surprise but puzzlement that Melanie wanted to keep in touch with me as a friend. Miles said it was puzzling because I didn’t have any experience with relationships ending in a healthy manner and by the way, I did to you what my father did to me.”
Her mouth fell open and she stared.
He nodded back. “My head exploded. Even as I’m self-righteously sputtering ‘what the fuck are you talk
ing about,’ I saw it all laid out before me. Black and white. His tree. My apple. Have a nice day.”
He drank some of his tea and shifted around in his chair, trying not to disturb Bastet. “But really what clinched it was when I started thinking about my mom. Not as my mother, but as a woman. I’d never let myself do that before. And I had this intense vision. I saw her sitting alone somewhere. In a room that was dark except for one lamp on a table, and under the lamp was a phone. She was looking at the phone. Staring at it. Willing it to ring. And the phone was never ringing.”
Daisy blinked and swallowed hard as she gathered up orange peels and threw them on the fire.
“It made me feel sick,” Erik said. “And I hated him. God, I hated him for doing that to her, leaving her so unfinished and unresolved. And then I went and did the same fucking thing to you. The exact same thing. Walked out and left you sitting alone and cut off with no answers. And for what? Pride? A point? As I’m sitting in the dark with my failed marriage and no more able to breathe without you than I was twelve years ago? Nice point.
“A couple weeks later I went down to Lancaster. Because it was time. And I ended up sitting in a bar having beers with Kees, and he looked me up and down and said it best: ‘You’re better than this.’ He was right. I am better than this. I have to be better than this…”
He looked over at Daisy and began to raise his fingers. “So first your voice. Then Miles pointing out my genetic predisposition for being a prick. Kees seeing through my bullshit. And last, the undeniable fact that I don’t stop thinking about you. I never stopped thinking about you. It was no more finished for me than it was for you.”
Holding her eyes, he let his fingers fall in a loose fist. “And I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get past it. Couldn’t find the stones to face it. To even just talk about it. Give you a chance a week later. Give you some closure a year later. I wasn’t sorry then because I wasn’t letting myself feel anything. But right now, looking back…I’m so sorry, Dais.”
She couldn’t answer him. She wasn’t crying. Not actively sobbing. But the tears tracked down her face and she let them go unchecked. “I need a second,” she said.
“Take as long as you want,” he said. “God knows I did.”
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