Selena had replied, “I know it looks that way, Kent, but I don’t think that’s really how it is.” He had only snorted again and gone back to his paperwork. She hadn’t even bothered to try to explain.
She knew he didn’t want to know differently. He’s so simple about things like that, she told herself, but without rancour, even with affection. He can’t handle too many shades of meaning. Like he hasn’t got the capacity for it. You have to keep things simple for him, so he can understand. And, of course, there were still those moments when she doubted that she was the one who was right.
Now she stood in the doorway to the living room, giving it one last check to make sure there wasn’t a speck of dust on the windowsills or the television set, that the few pictures and the curtains were straight, the extra cushions on the couch plumped up and neatly arranged, the undeniably worn-out rug at least spotless and fresh. Mark and Jason were spread-eagled on the rug, their shoes off, propped on their elbows while they watched some loud Christmas special, and Kent, watching too, had stretched out on the couch, shoving all the extra cushions under his head. Phoebe, sitting across from them in the armchair, met Selena’s despairing glance and smiled a little, the sight of which gladdened Selena. When the little kids arrive, the neatness won’t last five minutes anyway, she thought, and was about to go back to the kitchen.
A commercial came on and Mark rolled onto his side, his long arm stretched out under his head, his hand flat on the floor. His sleeve slid up a fraction of an inch and she saw the fine, light-coloured hair growing on his forearm, and the unexpected width of his hand at the knuckles. His hand was shaped like Kent’s, it was a hand she loved. Suddenly she thought, how would that hand, her son’s hand, how would it touch a woman? She glanced at Phoebe, but Phoebe was still looking at the tv. She didn’t want to think about it. She turned away and went to the kitchen.
She took the eggs and cream from the fridge, lifted her blender out from the cupboard, and set it on the counter. And when she had managed to get Diane on the phone to ask her where she wanted to stay, Diane had laughed that new, breathless, pealing laugh, and had said, your place, Selena dear. So the kids won’t be disrupted so much, and they can have Christmas morning with your kids. But … Selena had said, dubiously, and Diane had interrupted. Yes, Tony and I will be sleeping together. Selena, embarrassed, hadn’t known what to say. We still love each other, Diane had said, gently, into the silence, as if Selena were a child being initiated into adult mysteries.
She broke the eggs into the blender and reached for the sugar canister, hesitating, wondering if Kent had remembered to buy rum for the eggnog she was making, but there it was sitting on the counter in front of her. She had to laugh at herself and her distraction, pausing before she switched on the blender. What else do I need? Vanilla, salt.
She leaned against the counter, staring out the window above the sink, but it was dark outside, and the light from the ceiling cast a reflection against the glass so that instead of seeing the glistening indigo of the snowy yard spread out before her, and the inky, star-sprinkled sky above the silhouette of the old barn, she saw only her own face staring back at her.
Shadowy, vague, almost a silhouette, her long hair hanging loose on her shoulders for once instead of pulled back in a low pony-tail, and the puffed sleeves of the new dress she had made herself standing up pertly against the background of the brightly-lit kitchen. She saw her mouth, the lower lip full and curving, and the eagerness of her expression. I’m not old yet, she told her reflection, pleased, and smiled at herself. The woman in the glass smiled back, slowly, a puzzled look in her eyes, an innocence to the smooth curve of her eyebrowns. Selena frowned then, and looked back to the blender.
But still she didn’t press the button. She was listening to the muffled laughter, both mechanical and human, coming from the living room. Had she heard Phoebe laugh too? Kent’s deep rumble lay below Jason’s childish giggle and Mark’s higher-pitched hoot.
In this moment Phoebe’s pregnancy no longer seemed a tragedy, a sorrow that they had to learn to bear. Tonight she could believe they would welcome her child among them, a baby, another member for their family. She sniffed, and all the Christmas scents rushed into her nostrils: the spice cookies she and Phoebe had baked, the chocolate in the candy they had made, the mandarin oranges, the mixed alcohol and fruit smell of the Christmas cake, the peppermint in the candy canes she had bought for her nieces, the buttery odour that came from the plate of shortbread sitting on the counter to her right, and who knew what the other smells were? The smell of other Christmases, of gifts and unopened surprises, affection and of hope.
She pushed the button on the blender, reaching with her left hand for the punch bowl that had been her mother’s. I’d better use milk, she thought, that cream’s too rich.
She felt a rush of cold air and somebody’s arms in a scratchy wool coat go around her. She reached to shut off the blender, spun around, and there was Diane, her arms open, smelling of perfume and cosmetics, her long, dark hair gleaming, her red coat blazing with colour. Tony entered the kitchen and Tammy squeezed past him to run to Selena and hug her around the waist. Kent stood behind Tony, holding Cathy in his arms, and then Selena was hugging Diane, kissing Tammy, planting a kiss on Tony’s cheek.
The boys squeezed past the men into the kitchen, shaking hands and accepting and giving embarrassed kisses, and there were cries of “Merry Christmas,” all around.
“You’d think we’d been gone twenty years!” Diane said, laughing, pushing her hair back from her face. Kent gave Cathy to Selena, who kissed her, while he helped Diane take off her coat.
“Into the living room, boys,” he said cheerfully. “There isn’t room for everybody in here. I’ll pour us some drinks,” he said to Tony, who was following the boys.
“Where’s Phoebe?” Tammy asked, as Phoebe, having stood aside for the males, came out of the living room and stopped just inside the kitchen doorway. Tammy ran to her, her arms out, and, striking her in the abdomen, bounced back. Diane turned away from Selena and went, without a second’s hesitation, straight to Phoebe and put her arms around her. Of course, Selena thought, Tony told her. If only I could have brought myself to tell her.
“Have you eaten?” she asked.
Diane turned back to her, one arm still around Phoebe, and said, “Before we left the city Tony took us out for a meal.”
“That was hours ago,” Selena said. “You must be starved. Give me a hand here, Phoebe,” she said over her shoulder, opening the fridge. She had gone over in her mind at least four times what she would serve them for lunch when they arrived, but found herself confused now anyway.
“Make way,” Kent called, coming past Phoebe into the kitchen again. Then, in a rare, joking moment, “Us men are thirsty.”
“But I’m making eggnog,” Selena protested as he started to open the cupboard door where they kept the bottle of rye.
“Well, hurry up then, Mother,” he said, and gave her a light pat on the bottom as he turned. Diane laughed.
“Here,” she said, all efficiency, “I’ll help Phoebe with the lunch and you finish the eggnog.”
It was as if Diane had never left, as if Phoebe was still the innocent and faintly recalcitrant teenager she had been a few months before. While they worked, Selena and Diane talked, the words tumbling out, spilling over each other’s voices, while Phoebe worked in silence.
“Where’s Kent’s mom and dad?”
“They went to Vancouver to spend Christmas with Janice and Bob and the kids. They’ll be back for New Year’s with us. How’s your job?”
“Oh, it’s okay. Where’s Rhea?”
“She said, ‘Spare me the racket, please,’”—they both laughed at this—“She’ll be here for Christmas Day. Rhoda and Gus are coming too and bringing Sandy.”
“Poor Sandy. Hand me the mustard.” Poor Sandy was what everybody said whenever Sandy, Kent’s retarded older sister, was mentioned. She lived in a special care home in the
city, had for more than twenty years, and only came out for the occasional holiday.
“Eggnog’s ready,” Selena said. She lifted the bowl carefully and made her way slowly into the living room with Diane following with the cups. She set them on the coffee table in front of the men, as Selena, with Kent’s help, lowered the big bowl of eggnog beside them. Diane went back to the kitchen and returned with the rum.
“Be sure to dip some out for the kids first,” Selena warned Kent. She handed him the ladle. “We’ll get the rest of the lunch.” Together, she and Diane returned to the kitchen.
Phoebe had filled the last cake plate with Christmas cake, shortbread and candy, and had sat down in a chair that, in the commotion, had been pushed well away from the table. She looked up as they entered.
Diane paused in the doorway and looked at Phoebe as if she were finally seeing her. She looked for a long, searching moment, then moved silently past her and turned to face her, her eyes softening, a different light appearing in them. She went to Phoebe, touched her lightly on the shoulder, then stroked her hair gently back from her face. Selena saw that Diane was no longer wearing her wedding rings.
Phoebe was sitting very still, her plump, short-nailed hands folded quietly on her lap, her head tipped forward.
“Poor Phoebe,” Diane said, smoothing Phoebe’s fine, light-coloured hair. “I’m so sorry.” Still Phoebe didn’t speak, only sat without moving, while tears began to trickle down her cheeks. Diane stopped stroking her hair and stood motionless, one hand on Phoebe’s shoulder, the other resting on the crown of her head. Selena went to them, put her hand out and rested it on Phoebe’s warm, round cheek, feeling Phoebe’s tears dampen her palm, feeling Phoebe’s sorrow seep into her palm and move in a slow wave into her chest. Her breasts that had nursed three children suddenly began to ache. She thought briefly of Kent’s touch on them, so remote from whatever it was she was feeling, thought of nursing each of her babies, how could she have known they would bring her such pain? She thought of the heads of all the people she had comforted, pressing them one by one against her breasts.
Something hung in the air, quivered around them, something powerful, perhaps it was the blending of the emotions each of them was feeling, their mutual sorrow and pain building and rising around them. It overrode the Christmas scents, the Christmas feelings, it overrode family and tradition, place and time, it connected with some current beyond all these things.
Diane lifted her hand from Phoebe’s hair and put it around Selena’s shoulders, and Phoebe, in an unusual gesture, lifted one of her hands from her lap and took in it her mother’s hand that rested against her cheek. They remained this way, a silent circle of women, joined, each to the other.
In the morning as soon as the presents had been opened, the mess cleared away, breakfast cooked and eaten, Kent and Tony drove to Rhea’s and brought her back to the house. Then they took all the children except Phoebe outside, where they hitched horses to an old sleigh Kent had restored, and took them for rides.
“Aren’t you going to church?” Diane asked, as Selena and Phoebe finished the dishes. She and Rhea sat at opposite ends of the kitchen table.
“No,” Selena said, fighting down the uneasy feeling that struck her whenever she thought about church. She hadn’t been as faithful about going lately as she used to be. She could sense Diane waiting for an explanation. “Don’t ask me to explain,” she said finally. “I can’t. I just don’t like going as much as I used to.”
As soon as they had finished tidying the kitchen, stuffed the turkey and put it into the oven, Selena went to the living room and gathered all of Rhea’s presents from under the tree. She set them on the kitchen table in front of Rhea. With an air of bemused patience, Rhea unwrapped them one by one and remarked on them. While she sat quietly, they removed her shoes and put her new slippers onto her large, strong feet, they fastened the fine, gold chain around her wrinkled brown neck while they combed out her hair in order to place the shiny new combs in the thick, white tresses, and brushed her neck and wrists with her new cologne.
The three of them worked around her, brushing, arranging, bejewelling and scenting her as if they were her handmaidens. None of them resented this, and Rhea seemed to accept it as if this were the way things should be.
Rhea never brought gifts. This ought to have annoyed or hurt them, but it did not—not even the kids seemed to find this strange. Selena wondered why it should be that they all brought presents for Rhea, which she accepted, albeit with faint amusement rather than gratitude, yet seemed to feel no need to respond in kind. But when she thought about it, Selena realized that if Rhea ever entered the house on Christmas Day, her arms full of brightly-wrapped packages, the whole household would have been uncomfortable and puzzled, it wouldn’t seem right at all. It was as if they all knew that Rhea’s connection with them had nothing to do with that kind of giving and receiving.
It’s because she’s had such a hard life, Selena thought, that we treat her like this. It’s because she’s a pioneer, one of the last living ones, and she’s old. But although this was true, it seemed to Selena an explanation that failed to touch on the heart of the matter, although what that might be, she had no idea.
“My goodness,” Rhea remarked, her voice wry, “such splendour! I hardly know myself.”
“Coffee’s ready,” Selena said. She poured four cups and they took them into the living room and arranged themselves lazily around the room.
“I don’t hear them outside,” Diane remarked.
“Kent probably drove them over to Simca’s,” Selena said. “It’s only a couple of miles and it’s not a bad day for a drive.” Diane sighed.
“What luxury,” she said, “not to have to rush around, not to have the kids in my hair.”
“Honestly,” Selena said, “I don’t even know where to start.” Diane looked amused.
“I know,” she said. “Why did I leave Tony. What do I think I’m doing. Have I lost my mind?” She laughed and looked out past Rhea to the snow-filled front yard where a half-dozen partridges were ambling around on the crust of snow, searching for seeds. “Don’t waste your breath, Selena.”
“I wasn’t going to ask you that,” Selena said, hearing the hurt in her voice. But even as she spoke she knew it wasn’t true. Of course she had been going to ask that. She had had little else on her mind for days. Some of her optimistic Christmas mood left her now, and her attention reverted to Phoebe sitting silently in Kent’s armchair, smoothing her smock over her abdomen.
Instead of replying, Diane turned to Phoebe.
“When are you due?” Phoebe didn’t say anything, merely dropped her head so that her neat, straight part revealed the startling whiteness of her scalp.
“She won’t say anything,” Selena said suddenly, surprising even herself. “I don’t know why she won’t.” Phoebe didn’t lift her head. “March,” Selena said. “Late March.” Diane looked at Rhea.
“Did you consider an abortion?”
Rhea said, “Phoebe knew what she wanted.”
“But wouldn’t she consider it?” Diane asked, looking again at Phoebe’s bent head. At this, Phoebe raised her eyes to look at Diane. For a second it seemed as if she might speak, but instead, she looked away to the wall. Diane looked questioningly at Selena and then at Rhea.
Selena said, “She just wouldn’t have it, in the end, although she thought for a while she would. She just … refused.”
Diane was silent. Then to Phoebe’s turned-away head, she asked, “Are you going to give it up?” Phoebe shook her head slowly no. Diane again looked questioningly at Selena, but Selena only shrugged, and sighed.
“We’re going to have a grandchild in this house,” she said, making her voice light, trying to sound pleased.
“You could come and live with me,” Diane offered.
“You’ve got your hands full,” Selena said. “And anyway, I want to look after her. I want her here with me.”
Rhea sat, her body turned so
that she could look out the window behind her into the front yard. The partridges had disappeared into the carragana hedge.
“Phoebe is trying to understand this in her own way,” she said, without turning to look at them. A sparrow came and perched on the windowsill and pecked at the window frame, then flew away, knocking some of the fresh snow off onto the bank under the window.
Across the room from her, Phoebe moved abruptly so that Diane and Selena turned to her. She lifted her head.
“Things have to be complete,” she said. “You have to accept what’s given to you.” Her voice was stronger than it had been months before, deeper, too. Selena’s surprise at her speaking was overshadowed by what she was saying. “Rhea helped me.” She paused, but before either Diane or Selena could say anything, if they had been going to, she went on. “When that happened to me, it wasn’t just my body that changed. Everything changed. The world was different after that. Before, everything seemed bright and filled with hope. But afterward, it all became darker, there were shadows where I hadn’t seen any before. I felt as if I had entered a dreamworld. But now I think that what I left behind, that bright world, was the dreamworld, and this one is the real one.” She looked at them, one by one, meeting their eyes, but there was no certainty in hers, only that intensity and depth.
They didn’t speak. Selena glanced tentatively at Diane. Surely Diane would understand, for wasn’t she lost in some vision of her own, too? But Diane was only leaning forward attentively, watching Phoebe, apparently not intending to say anything. She looked then to Rhea.
“Why did you leave Tony?” Rhea asked, and all their eyes went to Diane. Unexpectedly, she blushed. “Was he such a bad husband?” Rhea went on, her voice filled with amusement. She laughed then, the sound girlish amidst the Christmas decorations, the crumpled paper that had been missed in the cleanup sticking out from under the couch, the open boxes turned this way and that under the Christmas tree, the smell of roasting turkey drifting in from the kitchen.
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