Once More with Feeling

by Cynthia Baxter

“As good as last year’s?”

  “As good as last year’s. Maybe even better.”

  Evan pulled away, never one to sustain a hug even a second longer than he had to. “Does that mean you’ll get me Sega Genesis?”

  “We’ve been through this a hundred times, Ev.” Laura sighed. “You already have Nintendo, and those videogame systems are too expensive to go out and buy—

  She stopped, having recognized the glint in his eye, the hint of a smirk on his lips. “You’re kidding, right? You’re just trying to give your dear, sweet old mom a hard time, aren’t you?”

  Grinning, Evan shrugged. “Couldn’t resist.”

  Laura stuck her tongue out at him. When she got the laugh she was looking for, she grabbed the lights and foraged around until she found the plug.

  “Here,” she instructed, handing it to him. “Hold this, you pip-squeak. I’ll bet you a zillion dollars I can have these going within ten minutes.”

  “Wow! It used to take Dad hours!”

  “My fingers are smaller and nimbler. They also happen to be capable of performing magic.”

  Evan watched with wide eyes as she began straightening out the recalcitrant lights. One by one she liberated the colored bulbs, working until they looked more like the familiar strings and less like a cruel Christmas joke.

  “You’re good!” Evan said admiringly.

  “You’re darned right I’m good.” Wanting to prove just how good, she undid a knot the size of a popcorn ball. “Hey, Ev?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We really are going to have a nice Christmas. I’m not going to let you down.”

  “I know, Mom.” He thought for a few seconds, then said matter-of-factly, “I guess you never do.”

  Laura bit her lip. She pretended she was simply concentrating. It wouldn’t do to mix salty tears with electricity.

  ****

  Tis the season to be jolly, Laura reminded herself as an enthusiastic shopper jabbed her in the stomach with his elbow. Like her, he was desperately fighting his way through the crowd around a display table in Macy’s accessories department. The three simple words printed on the sign rising above it, TWENTY-FIVE PERCENT OFF, evoked in otherwise normal human beings a competitiveness rarely seen off a football field.

  She had no choice but to join in the game. Christmas was only three days away, and she had to buy gifts for Claire and Julie. Ordinarily, shopping for her two best friends was one of Laura’s favorite holiday tasks. It was almost as much fun as shopping for herself. She loved scouring the bins of leather gloves, the glass cases with rows of silk scarves, and the displays of costume jewelry hanging like baubles and beads at a Middle Eastern bazaar. Her usual strategy was to pick out something she liked, then buy it in the most garish color available for Claire and the most sedate shade for Julie. This year, however, it was turning out to be a chore.

  When she finally edged her way to the table, she was disappointed to find only piles of slippers in the shape of barnyard animals.

  She turned away, discouraged. The store was too hot and too crowded. Most of the sales help looked as if they were amazed that people had come into the store. She was contemplating giving up, wondering if one of those enterprising mail-order companies could magically whisk some wonderful trinkets to her door overnight, when a display of brightly colored fabrics across the floor caught her eye.

  A surge of hope rose up through the despair, and Laura headed toward what looked like silk scarves. It was only after she’d hurled herself through the throngs that she realized the confused masses of color weren’t scarves at all. They were neckties.

  Laura was in the men’s department.

  She stood frozen to the spot, blinking, unable to focus on either the decorations or the merchandise. Her surroundings melted into a blur. Instead, what Laura saw were women shopping for presents for the men in their lives.

  In an instant her eyes filled with tears. What she had striven so hard to forget had crept up on her here among the piles of silk and cashmere and suede. It hit her on a visceral level, causing her stomach to knot, her shoulders to tense, her temples to throb.

  You’re alone. It’s Christmas, and you’re all alone.

  Laura found herself recalling the year before. The scene popped out of her memory, playing before her with cruel clarity. She’d been in this same department, in a spot less than fifty feet away, standing in line for what seemed an eternity. Even though the store was as hot as it was today, she’d been wearing her winter coat, preferring that to carrying it. The salespeople, who appeared to have been heavily sedated, moved in slow motion and looked completely baffled every time a customer presented a credit card. The other shoppers were cross, buying gifts for their loved ones with the same spirit and goodwill with which they waited in line at the Motor Vehicle Bureau.

  For a fleeting moment it had occurred to Laura that she didn’t have to be doing this. But she’d already invested a good twenty minutes picking out the perfect pair of plaid flannel pajamas for Roger. And she had her heart set on buying her husband a three-pack of Calvin Klein briefs— purple, blue, and fire-engine red. Buying Roger racy underwear for Christmas was one of her favorite traditions.

  She thought about forgetting the whole thing, dropping her selections on the counter and rushing over to Houlihan’s for a margarita and a plate of nachos. But she didn’t. She was still throwing herself into all the usual Christmas preparations as of last year, going through the motions of creating a holiday in the Briggs-Walsh household that, at least on the outside, looked happy. She hadn’t yet been able to give up the pretense, or bring herself to admit that she was fighting a battle that couldn’t be won.

  Now, all of a sudden, Laura could tolerate no more. She turned and fled, desperate to get out of the men’s department, longing to leave Macy’s . . . yearning to exit her own life. It was not only the haunting memories that sent her racing from the store, but the realization that while she’d rejected her old life, simply picked up and walked away from it, she had yet to come up with anything better. She was in a holding pattern. She was waiting ... but for what?

  Ever since she’d been a little girl, organized, conscientious Laura Briggs had made a point of knowing where her life was going, what was coming next. Now, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t conjure up what her future held. She didn’t know where she’d be living. Aside from continuing to write, she was unable to imagine how she’d spend her days. And when she tried to envision the faces of the people who would be surrounding her, all she saw were bodies with faceless heads, their features indecipherable.

  Would her decision to get divorced really result in a better life? Or had the choice started her on a road she would one day regret? The roller coaster was fraught with terrifying twists and turns ... but what was waiting for her at the end?

  Rushing through Macy’s, Laura was certain she’d never feel settled again. Something had been ripped away from her. A large piece of her life had been declared unviable. She feared that in the process, a wound too large ever to heal had been created. Not only would Christmas never be Christmas again; nothing in her life would ever again be the way she wanted it to be.

  * * * *

  As always, Christmas morning was anticlimactic. Still, after the shopping, the wrapping, the decorating, the baking, and the writing of enthusiastic messages on cards, all carried out at the desperate pace of someone told she had only three months to live, Laura welcomed the chance to sit back and reap the rewards.

  She sat cross-legged on the floor next to the Christmas tree, a mug of coffee in one hand and a garbage bag in the other, relishing the time spent with Evan. She loved watching as he gleefully tore the wrapping paper off one gift after another. Her anxiety attack at Macy’s had already faded to nothing more than an unsettling memory.

  “I have a present for you, too, Mom,” he said, pausing to take a break after opening a papermaking kit guaranteed to convert junk mail into greeting cards Rembrandt himself would have bee
n proud to send.

  “Evan, that’s so thoughtful!” This was the first year he had given her a Christmas present. Still, she braced herself as she undid the small box wrapped in gold paper. For all she knew, it could turn out to be rubber vomit or a whoopee cushion.

  So she was as pleased as she was surprised when she discovered Evan had gotten her a necklace with a charm that said #1 MOM.

  “Evan, it’s gorgeous!” she said sincerely. “I love it. I’ll wear it all the time. Here, let me give you a kiss.”

  He let out a loud groan. “Oh, no. I was afraid of that!”

  Christmas dinner was a welcome contrast to the quiet morning she and her son had spent at home. Evan went off with his father, excited about spending the rest of the day with his grandparents, Uncle Dirk, and the rest of the Walsh clan. She was free to relax, curl up in front of Julie’s fireplace, and enjoy her surroundings.

  In a flush of holiday exuberance that would have put Martha Stewart to shame, Julie had decked her halls with a lot more than boughs of holly. In fact, in addition to the perky green sprigs, there were pine garlands, mistletoe, poinsettias, and more Christmas cactus than the Painted Desert. There were also homemade candles and bowls of pinecones and cinnamon-and-clove potpourri. Her collection of handcrafted Christmas stockings hung from the mantelpiece.

  Yet while Julie was playing the role of holiday hostess to the hilt—wearing a red snowflake sweater, serving up a delectable dinner—Laura sensed something was wrong.

  George, playing his usual role of pleasant, if somewhat bumbling, host, carved the turkey. An editor at a news magazine for intellectuals based in New York City, he very much looked the part in his wrinkled khaki pants and nubby brown sweater with a tiny moth hole at the elbow. As he sawed away at breasts and thighs, a lock of straight, dark brown hair kept falling over his tortoiseshell glasses.

  “If I’d known how demanding this task would prove to be”—he chortled—”I’d have spent last week pumping iron instead of laboring over my scathing review of William F. Buckley’s latest treatise.”

  Laura laughed, but when she glanced at Julie, she saw her lower her eyes. Evidently, creating symmetry in the bowl of string beans amandine was more important to her friend than joining in the appreciation of George’s little joke.

  Later, when Laura and Claire sat in the living room together, nursing a second glass of eggnog, they overheard Julie and George bickering in the kitchen.

  “What are you doing1?” Julie shrieked. “George, the leftover chestnut stuffing doesn’t go in the same container as the sausage stuffing!”

  “I’m sorry, Julie,” George returned. Peeking through the doorway, Laura saw the bewildered look on his pale, gaunt face.

  “Mixing the spices in Tupperware would be a travesty!”

  “I said I was sorry.” Poor George sounded as if he didn’t know what had hit him.

  When Julie finally came into the living room, leaving George in the kitchen to abuse spices at will, Laura gently placed her hand on her friend’s arm.

  “Julie, is everything all right?”

  “It would be if George—” Staring into the fire, Julie bit her lip. Laura sneaked a peek at Claire, who looked puzzled.

  “Oh, it’s not George’s fault,” Julie suddenly burst out. “It’s mine, all mine. I’m just so—so edgy lately.” She took a few deep breaths, her thin chest heaving. Then, in a soft voice, she said, “I had dinner with Bobby.”

  “Dinner?” Claire cried. “What happened to coffee?”

  “It started out as coffee. But it went on to dinner.”

  “Please don’t tell me it ended with breakfast,” Laura pleaded.

  She expected a string of reassurances. Instead, Julie looked at her mournfully. “I can’t help it. I’m really attracted to him. It’s as if there were something . . . something magical between us.”

  Claire snorted. “Magical? Or chemical?”

  Laura cast her an icy look.

  “Not that I’m anti-chemistry,” she was quick to add. “I owe some of my most memorable nights to pheromones.”

  “Julie,” said Laura, pointedly ignoring Claire, “do you realize what you’re saying?”

  “I know what I’m saying,” Julie replied in a hoarse whisper. “I just wish I knew what I was doing.”

  “Cappuccino time!” George chose that moment to burst through the doorway, tray in hand. On it were four white cups arranged around a plate of home-baked cookies shaped like stars, bells, and eight tiny reindeer. “Any take—”

  Laura perked up immediately. “Caffeine, the greatest gift of all!”

  “You must have read my mind, you gem.” Claire was already reaching for one of the steaming cups.

  As for Julie, she simply glanced at him sorrowfully, then pulled her snowflake sweater down over her bent knees. Laura watched her stare into the flames of the fire, left untended for so long they were beginning to die down.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine,” Laura assured Julie, cradling the phone receiver between her neck and her shoulder. “New Year’s Eve has never been a biggie in my book.”

  “But you shouldn’t be alone, tonight of all nights,” Julie insisted. “The whole world is out partying!”

  “All the more reason to stay in.” Laura nestled against the soft cushions of the couch, tucking the afghan around herself. “Actually, I’m looking forward to a quiet evening all by myself. With Evan at Roger’s, I can watch what I want on TV. I can hardly believe I’ll actually be able to tune in to something besides Nick at Night.”

  “Won’t you be lonely?”

  “Not me. I’m armed with a pint of Haagen-Dazs chocolate chocolate chip, the January issue of Glamour, and a really juicy novel. I even have the makings for my favorite cocktail for a midnight toast: Southern Comfort and cherry Diet Coke. I call it Janis Joplin Meets Jenny Craig.”

  “Well, if you’re sure ...”

  “I’ll be fine. Scout’s honor.”

  Laura really was looking forward to having an entire evening all to herself. When she got off the phone she picked up the spanking-new issue of Glamour. Predictably, the cover blurbs promised several articles on how to make oneself over for the new year.

  Usually opening the magazine was like taking the cover off a box of chocolates. So she turned the pages, hoping to work up some excitement over the barrage of advice crammed onto them. Moisturizing. Accessorizing. Determining the best haircut, given the shape of one’s face. Choosing a jacket that could be coordinated with several different outfits.

  Instead of being inspired by the do’s, the don’ts, and the don’t-even-think-about-its, however, she quickly became discouraged. She tossed the magazine onto the coffee table.

  What I need for the new year, Laura told herself, isn’t a reminder to put hand lotion on my fingernails. It’s not the scoop on the latest trend in belts. No, my resolutions have to go much deeper.

  She paused for a moment, thinking back to all the New Year’s Eves when she’d dutifully made a list of promises to herself. Why should this year be any different? she wondered. She dragged herself up off the couch to seek out a respectable piece of paper, instead of reaching for the nearest scrap of junk mail. This, after all, was an effort worth legitimizing.

  RESOLUTIONS, she printed at the top of the page, underlining the word twice. She was using the first writing implement she’d come across, a neon-green felt-tip pen of Evan’s. Directly underneath she wrote, Be good to yourself.

  There, she thought triumphantly. That seems to define a healthy attitude with which to approach the new year. It was certainly better than the old standbys about losing five pounds, getting serious about a savings account, and telephoning her mother more often.

  She stared at the words she’d written, thinking hard about their implications. The idea of being good to herself was a novel one. After all, up until quite recently her focus had been on being good to others.

  Over the years Laura had found
her struggle to prove that she was the grown-up version of the perfect little girl an exhausting, thankless, and ultimately futile endeavor. She resented the fact that while she was married she did so much—pretty darned close to everything, as far as she was concerned. She was the one who made sure there was always milk in the refrigerator and bagels near the toaster. She had dinner ready promptly at six forty-five every night, a three- or four-course meal made entirely with fresh ingredients, since Roger didn’t believe in mixes, frozen foods, canned goods, or preservatives. She kept the house clean enough to keep out the board of health. She was the one who made phone calls and wrote letters to the insurance companies, the credit-card companies, the utility companies, and the banks, figuring that all in all she spent more time wheeling and dealing than Donald Trump.

  And while Roger was usually good for a few rounds of wrestling with Evan or a long evening of building spindly cities out of Tinkertoys, it was Laura who made sure there was always clean underwear in their son’s top drawer. She was the parent capable of reciting in her sleep which days were gym days, which were music days, and which were art days. She coordinated the extensive staff of professionals necessary to keep an eight-year-old in working order: doctors, dentists, haircutters, Cub Scout leaders, babysitters, and friends.

  In addition, Laura had also been the main wage earner in her household. The success of Gertrude Giraffe and her cohorts not only paid for the basics; it also financed the best nursery school, a ten-day trip for two to Paris, and the countless periods that Roger spent trying to decide what he wanted to be when he grew up.

  Just thinking about it all made her tired. But she brushed it aside and jumped into resolution number two.

  Get on with your life, she wrote.

  Too general, she decided, chewing the end of Evan’s pen. How can I get on with my life? I already made the most critical move: getting myself out of a marriage that wasn’t working.

  She closed her eyes and leaned her head back. What do I want? Laura wondered. Here I am, back at square one, ready to redesign my life. How do I want it to look?