This Christmas

by Jane Green

  Sophie began, “I think she missed him more when they were married.”

  “What does that mean?” Gwen asked. “Do we have any sherry?”

  While searching for something sweeter for Gwenny, I explained that Prudence was suggesting that Reilly was an absentee husband. Pouring, I defended him. “Well, I don’t find that to be a problem.”

  “Oh, okay, I’ll be sure to tell her that he’s changed his ways,” Sophie said. “Maybe she’ll want him back now.”

  “You obviously passed the bitch class,” I said, smiling.

  “If you two want to help find Prudence the man of her dreams, by all means you’re welcome to help. Jen and I have been trying to find her a man for months now, so consider yourselves on the committee. But I’m warning you, if you cross me and screw Prudence, it’ll be the worst mistake you ever make.” She walked to the doorway that led to the lower level of my home. “Oscar, time to go!”

  Gwen mouthed, I like her. Oddly enough, I did too.

  Chapter Three

  That night I dreamt I was Paris Hilton, but as luck would have it, I wasn’t ripping loose enjoying her party life. My wrists were bound with telephone wire and I was tied to the hand strap in the back of a Checker Cab. As I struggled to free myself, the driver turned around and asked if I needed help. The driver was six-year-old Thomas, one of Hunter’s classmates. Of course, it was unusual that a child was driving a taxi, but Thomas has cerebral palsy and is confined to a wheelchair so it was that much more implausible that he was a cabbie. Because he speaks with an electronic device, I’ve never heard his voice before, but in my dream, Thomas had an English accent and began singing the Happy Snowflake song. Then he crawled into the backseat to help me untie my hands. “Watch the road!” I shrieked, as car lights swept into us. I bolted upright into consciousness, waking Reilly beside me.

  “Another bad dream?” he asked, placing his hand on my back.

  “It was nothing,” I said and urged him to go back to sleep. Thomas had been on my mind a lot recently. Weeks ago, he and his family were featured on the cover of New York Times Magazine because his father, Richard, fought to reform the city school system to create an immersion program for kids with disabilities. More than that, the child was on my mind because I saw them on Friday at the school holiday party. I couldn’t help notice how his father posed such a stark contrast to me. He bounced all over the place, amusing the children. He made silly faces and seemed as though he were genuinely filled with delight to be with his son’s classmates. If anyone could feel sorry for himself, it was Richard, whose son’s list of challenges dwarfs my myriad of trivial complaints. Yet he seemed thrilled, while I was weighted with the troubles of the world.

  Sophie, Jen, Gwen, and I were scheduled to have lunch the following day while Hunter and Reilly saw a movie about Santa Claus as an action hero. In the animated film, the North Pole is the target of attack by a band of rogue reindeer led by Rudolf, who was tired of being laughed at and called names.

  The four of us were supposed to bring a list of names of single men we thought would be a good match for Prudence. Thomas’s father, Richard, came to mind as a good one for Prudence until I remembered he was already married—to an attractive doctor, no less. Only one of the fathers in Hunter’s class was single and he was so fat, he looked like Shrek with white skin. As Reilly snored beside me, I began listing all of the smart, interesting, single men I’d interviewed over the years.

  At seven in the morning, I bolted upright in bed. This time, it wasn’t a bad dream but, rather, an idea I was surprised I hadn’t thought of earlier—Doug Phillips. Doug is an absolutely stunning-looking stock broker who would give Prudence all the attention she ever needed. He was so full of compliments that every time I saw Doug, I felt like the billion bucks he probably earned for his clients that day. I remembered Doug telling me that he got into the office no later than six every morning. When I heard Reilly’s shower running and Sesame Street on downstairs, I realized that I could call quickly from my cell phone. I stepped out onto the bedroom balcony that overlooked the small yard, forgetting for a moment that it was winter. But only for a moment, as the terra-cotta flooring sent chills through my bare feet straight up to my arms. The crisp air filled my flannel nightgown. I let down my ponytail, so I’d at least have a scarf of hair.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” Doug answered.

  “Hi, Doug, it’s Sarah Peterson,” I said, not sounding quite as confident as I’d hoped I would.

  “I know who it is. Whaddya think, I answer the phone like that all the time?” It occurred to me that he just might. “Happy holidays. It’s been a while. Doin’ a story?”

  “No, actually, I was calling for, well, not for business,” I said.

  “Then for pleasure? Excellent,” Doug said. The fact that Doug looks quite a bit like Pierce Brosnan makes his persistent flirting bearable. Okay, enjoyable. The truth is that even though I know better, I always held the hope that Doug was sincere when he flirted with me. That maybe he did think I was gorgeous. That maybe when he looked at me as though I were the only woman in the world it wasn’t a well-rehearsed routine. That maybe I was the only woman who could tame this dangerous cad. Thankfully, my head was always in charge of my heart. Doug asked me out three times before I met Reilly, and while it was always incredibly tempting, I knew it would lead to heartbreak—mine. So I declined. Unfettered, Doug always asked again. Until he didn’t. But whenever I saw him, he made it clear that he found me attractive. Gorgeous was what he called me, as if he knew just what words would make me tick. I’ve been called pretty. Reilly even says I’m beautiful. But Doug was the only one who’s ever characterized me as gorgeous. Gorgeous is flowing waves of platinum blond hair, not a gold bob. Gorgeous is bedroom eyes, not home-office specs. Gorgeous is Victoria’s Secret, not L.L. Bean. I am pretty. I feel certain of this. I feel equally certain that I’m not gorgeous, though when Doug says it, I honestly believe he just might mean it. Rudy used to call me Hot Stuff when we were together. I miss the lies of sexy men.

  “Well, I am calling for pleasure, Doug, but not mine,” I said, reining in my desire to add a cool, smoky tone that suggested smoldering sex between us.

  “Oh ye of little faith,” Doug said, laughing. “Most guys don’t know how to please a woman, but I promise you that’s not the case with me, Gorgeous,” he said. How such smarmy shit can sound charming was beyond me.

  “Do you realize it’s seven in the morning?” I said. “Seriously, Doug, I have a friend I want you to meet. I think you’d be perfect for each other.”

  “What’s she look like?” he asked. I heard him begin to peck at his keyboard in the background.

  “Oh,” I said, taken aback. I suppose it was reasonable for him to want to know about Prudence’s appearance. Maybe I was most surprised by how quickly he got over me.

  Snap out of it, Sarah! a stern inner voice reprimanded. It was mine! I was back. Please, dear God, don’t let this be a cameo appearance. I need my old, level-headed self back in the driver’s seat. You have a fine husband in Reilly O’Shaugnessay. Stop flirting with this womanizing freak show and get back to work.

  “Her name is Prudence and she’s an accountant. She used to be, at least. Now she’s an artist. Oh, right, she’s got short black hair and blue eyes. She’s really very pretty. Very thin, though.”

  “Can you send her over digitally?” Doug asked, now all business.

  “Send her over digitally?”

  “Her photo,” he clipped. “Does she have a website or something with her photo on it?”

  I heard Reilly step into the bedroom and knock on the glass door to the balcony. With his towel wrapped around his waist, he shrugged his unclothed shoulders as if to ask what I was doing outside. I held my finger up, signaling that I’d need only another minute.

  “I don’t think I have a photo of her, but she’s very pretty,” I said, hurried.

  “No offense, but a woman’s idea of pretty usually isn’t the same as a guy’s
. Can you tell me someone famous she looks like?”

  “Um, Parker Posey?”

  “Who?”

  “Hillary Swank?” I offered. “Look, why don’t you go out with her and see for yourself what she looks like, and what she’s like while you’re at it?!”

  “Because, Gorgeous, time is money and if I’m going out to lunch with Penelope—”

  “Prudence,” I corrected.

  “Whatever. If I go out with a woman, it means I’m not doing something else. I want to make sure my time is well spent. I have a short list of things I like to do. Making money, playing basketball, watching the Yankees, getting laid—all high on the list. Wasting an hour with some woman I have no chemistry with—not on the list. Now, if it was you we were talking about, there’d be no questions other than where and when.”

  “Doug, I really ought to mention that I’m married now, so this little flirtation we have going is no longer appropriate,” I said, feeling quite satisfied that I’d taken part ownership of a game that had been his. It was the old responsible Sarah coming back to life. As I hung the Olympic medal of moral superiority around my own neck, I realized it had been a while since Doug spoke. “Are you still there?”

  “I’m here,” he said.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. But I knew. Poor Doug was devastated that I was married now. It hit him in a place he hadn’t known existed. I was the cause of this womanizing louse realizing that he had a deep chamber within his heart reserved for true love.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “I just thought you knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “I’m married too.”

  “Since when?!” I shouted loud enough that Reilly heard. Now fully dressed, he gestured to see if I needed his help.

  “Since ninety-four,” Doug said. “I guess you don’t want me to go out with your friend anymore,” he said, though his statement had a twinge of a question mark.

  “No! I certainly do not, you, you, you adulterer!”

  “Okay, then, never mind with the picture,” he said.

  “Never mind with the picture?! Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

  “Merry Christmas?”

  I slammed down the phone and returned into my warm home. “What’s wrong?!” Reilly asked, surprised to see me stampede around the house, especially at this hour. “Bad interview?”

  “Very bad interview,” I said.

  Reilly shrugged. “I assume we’re doing carryout again tonight?” I was struck by the guilty realization that I hadn’t prepared a meal for my husband or child in nearly a month. Who had the energy to cook every day? Okay, no one was asking me to cook every day. Just recently I wasn’t able to do much of anything any day.

  “Meaning what?” I shot defensively.

  “Meaning I’ve got a coupon for the new Chinese place on the corner and was wondering if you wanted to give ’em a try,” Reilly returned.

  I cried the tears of decompression, which can easily be mistaken for tears of joy. I wrapped my arms around my new husband’s neck and sobbed into his sweater. “Do I tell you enough how wonderful you are?”

  “Sarah, what’s the matter?” Reilly lifted my chin and looked into my eyes. “You’re not yourself these days. I’ve never seen you get so choked up about Chinese food.”

  “It’s not the food, Reilly. It’s how sweet you are. I guess I didn’t realize how much I missed being loved this way. I guess I’m realizing that I never was loved this way before you.”

  “And that makes you cry?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I sniffled. “I know I don’t make much sense these days. Believe me, crying over being loved is the least of my craziness this holiday season.”

  “Do you want to see someone?” Reilly asked.

  “I most certainly do not!” I shot before I realized he was talking about a therapist and not another man.

  “Let’s not dismiss it out of hand, Sarah. Maybe you’re having the holiday blues, but if by the New Year you’re still not feeling well, we need to talk about counseling for you.” I nodded in agreement. “I’ll pick up some Chinese on the way home, and I promised Hunter we’d watch Freaky Friday tonight. Y’in?”

  “Freaky Friday? Isn’t that a girl movie?”

  “You said All Santa’s Deer was too macho. I thought you’d be happy to see him get into a chick flick.”

  I smiled and agreed. “I’m lucky to be your wife. Hunter’s hockey bag is packed by the door. I get him at three, right?” Reilly nodded his head. “Six for dinner, seven for the movie?”

  “Ten for—” Reilly raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Pencil me in,” I said.

  “Pencil? You expecting a better offer?”

  “Reilly, there is no better offer,” I said, plopping myself onto the bed and weeping again.

  “What’s wrong now?!” Reilly said, putting his arm around me.

  “I don’t know. You get going. Hunter’s not dressed yet, nor has he eaten,” I admitted. “His bag is packed, though!”

  “Sarah, I hate to ask this, but is Hunter’s bag packed with the same gear that was in it from yesterday’s camp?”

  “Yes. He doesn’t need new skates today, does he?”

  “Honey, he needs new socks and shirt. His mouthpiece needs to be cleaned. Forget it; I’ll take care of it myself,” Reilly said, in a tone that suggested it may be he who would cancel our ten o’clock appointment.

  As my taxi was stopped at a red light, I watched a blind woman cross Twenty-third Street with her dog. The day was as gray and icy as New York could get. Not the picturesque city Christmas featured in postcards, the ones where the Flatiron Building looks like a generously iced slice of cake sitting on a plate dotted with electric gumdrops. As they fought the cold, most people held an expression of steely determination. The happiest person who crossed in front of my taxi was the blind woman, who, when reaching the sidewalk, grabbed a treat and held it out for her dog. She patted his head, laughed, and continued their walk.

  Where was she going? Why was she out walking and not in a warm taxi like me? And how could she stay happy in the face of blindness? I felt like such a failure of a human being that I was reduced to tears over trivialities like Doug Phillips and Chinese food when people had real problems to deal with this holiday season.

  “Ma’am?” the taxi driver asked. “You okay back there?”

  “Excuse me?” I asked, realizing that I was crying again. “Oh, thank you. I’m okay,” I said recomposing myself. “I always get a little sad around the holidays.”

  “You and my wife,” the driver said.

  Oh, then you certainly mustn’t drive yourself and your mistress to your death and leave your wife behind with an infant or she may find this time of year especially difficult in the future.

  “You know us women,” I said instead. I despised myself for not being more like the blind woman who was enjoying the present instead of dwelling on whatever hardships were behind her. I had Reilly now. My son had never been happier. My family was finally complete. It seemed that if ever there was a time to be celebrant, it was now.

  I paid the driver and gave him an extra ten dollars.

  “Sorry it was a bumpy ride,” he said, thanking me for the tip.

  “No it wasn’t. Your driving was perfect.”

  “You sure are sweet, lady. Most people woulda been bitchin’ nonstop about those last three potholes.”

  I grabbed my purse, my umbrella and checked again to be sure I put my wallet back in my purse. “There were no potholes. Everything was as smooth as silk. Thanks again.”

  I walked into the restaurant to find Gwen seated and chatting with our waiter. She placed her hand on his conspiratorially and the two laughed. She saw me and popped like toast, waving her hand and smiling. “Sarah, this is David; he’ll be our server today,” Gwen said giddily. “He’s pre-med and Jewish.”

  “She only loves me for my resume,” David said. “Can I get you something to drink? Catch up
with Gwenny?”

  “I don’t drink,” I said flatly.

  “Since when? We drank sherry yesterday,” Gwen reminded me.

  “I’ll give you two a moment to decide,” David said, excusing himself.

  “Don’t you think he’s a little young for you?” I said, trying not to sound annoyed. I can’t imagine why her flirtation with the twenty-year-old waiter would irritate me, but it did.

  “Quite a bit too young for me, thank you for rubbing it in,” Gwen said, laughing. “But my niece Jessica is transferring to NYU in three weeks, and I think David would be perfect for her.”

  “Why, because he’s Jewish?”

  “No, because he’s a scuba enthusiast, loves cooking, is into jazz, and is a complete cutie pie.”

  “Oh,” I said. She showed me.

  Every night, I go to sleep early thinking that when I wake up, my spirits will naturally lift. I convince myself that I’m overtired, though honestly I’ve been doing less than ever before. And sleeping more.

  “Why do you look like that?” Gwen asked. “Are you ill?”

  “Like what?”

  Gwen looked shocked by the question. “Like that. No makeup, messy hair. Your outfit looks like you threw it together while trying to escape a fire.”

  “I’m busy with the holidays. I don’t have time for primping,” I said. “Look, there’s Sophie.”

  Gwen turned to wave Sophie over to our table and quickly shot, “Since when is showering primping?”

  “Hey, girls,” Sophie said, leaning in to kiss Gwen, then me. Decidedly warmer than yesterday, she asked if I had a cold. “Your eyes are all bloodshot. Were you crying?”

  “It’s a Goddamned Wonderful Life,” Gwen explained. “Gets her every time. I tell her not to watch that sap, but she can’t help herself.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet.” Sophie tilted her head and sat. “Jen can’t make it today, but she gave me her list of names and said to remind you that we’re putting our trust in you two. I told her that I know you’re doing this with Prudence’s best interests at heart, and that I already made a bunch of threats that we don’t need to rehash, right?”