Lipstick Apology

by Jennifer Jabaley

  We hailed a cab and I announced to the driver the address from the envelope that I had stared at and memorized for the last fourteen hours.

  We took Lexington Avenue all the way up to the Upper East Side. I tried to let the elaborately decorated window displays distract me, but to no avail. My mind was spinning. What would he look like? What would he say? We slowed down to an apartment building near Lenox Hill Hospital and I wondered briefly if he was a doctor.

  The woman who answered the door had a parrot sitting on her shoulder, a thick European accent, and absolutely no idea who had lived in the apartment before she did.

  Neither did any of the neighbors.

  “There’s got to be some kind of website that looks back at address history,” Jolie said on the cab ride home, but I was miles away, wondering how I could go on with such a permanent void.

  Back at the apartment, Jolie handed me a chocolate donut and I sank back into the couch. Christmas Vacation was on TV, and when I couldn’t take any more zany Chevy Chase, I reached for the remote, accidentally knocking the gray ashtray off the coffee table. I bent down to pick it up, and feeling the smooth ceramic made me recall the day I ran off to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The day I searched for Mom’s gallery to somehow be closer to her. I turned the cold ashtray in my hands, remembering the gallery. The spiral staircase, the diamond-patterned floor, the handsome man with the cleft chin stopping in front of me. I’m sorry. I thought I recognized you.

  People always said I looked like my mother.

  All at once I dropped the ashtray to the table, sending it clattering, and ran to my closet. I ransacked through my boxes until I found the photo of Mom and “D” at the Statue of Liberty.

  Thick wavy brown hair, handsome face, and a cleft chin.

  I tore out of the apartment and hailed a cab. I knew it was Christmas Eve and the chance of him being there was slim, but I couldn’t wait another second. I had to go.

  As we slowed down near 86th Street, I saw the light in the gallery was on.

  Oh my God. Someone is in there.

  I had the cabdriver pull over across the street. I got out and tried to collect my thoughts. I leaned against the cold metal cart of a pretzel vendor.

  “Pretzel?” the vendor asked.

  I shook my head. “No, thank you. I’m just . . .” I pointed across the street toward the art gallery. The door opened.

  “Oh my God!” I gasped.

  “What?” The pretzel vendor looked panicked.

  I continued to point. “I’m not going to make a scene, I promise.”

  “Okay.” The pretzel vendor nodded. “Here,” he said kindly. “Lean under the umbrella so the snow doesn’t get you wet.”

  “Thanks. Look at him!” I kept pointing. He was wearing a camel-colored overcoat and had his arm around a young pretty woman. “He probably makes a habit of seducing the young women who work with him. He ruins lives!”

  “Sure, he does,” the pretzel vendor said.

  “What a player!” I growled.

  “Scum,” the pretzel vendor said.

  “I mean, look at his hair! It’s so suave you just know he uses a blow dryer!”

  “Absolutely.” The pretzel vendor handed me a pretzel.

  I tore off a piece and ate it. As the chunks of salt hit my lips, I felt relief. This man, this Daniel, who was locking up the gallery door and going to spend Christmas Eve with his pretty girlfriend, there was no way he could be my father.

  The woman leaned over and said something in Daniel’s ear. And Daniel threw his head back and laughed so loudly the pretzel vendor looked up toward the sky. Looked, I was sure, for a flock of geese honking by.

  And I knew.

  Suddenly, I was racing across the street, the pretzel flying out of my hands, skidding on piles of slush. I marched up the steps of the gallery, one finger pointed in accusation, the other frantically pushing up my nonexistent glasses, trying to clear my tear-blurred vision.

  “YOU ARE DANIEL!” I shouted.

  He stopped, his arm slowly dropping from the pretty woman’s shoulder.

  The woman instinctively reached into her purse, clutched her cell phone. “Daniel?” she asked.

  Daniel was stone still, a statue collecting snow on his sculpted hair. Then slowly he hunched down, extended his hand toward my face. He looked like he wanted to touch my cheek, but instead he opted to pull his hand back and cover his mouth. “My God,” he whispered through his leather gloves. “My God.”

  You could see the comprehension cross his face, and I realized he hadn’t known that I existed. He sat down on the wet, concrete steps.

  The pretty woman looked back and forth between us. “What is going on?”

  But Daniel ignored her, staring so intently at my face I wanted to pull the scarf up over my eyes.

  “Jill,” Daniel said softly. My mother’s name.

  I started to cry. “You’ll never be my true father,” I said.

  The pretty woman slowly dropped her cell phone back into her purse.

  Daniel pushed on his knees and returned to a standing position. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But I was never given a chance to be.”

  My heart was thumping, and I didn’t know what to say. This was not at all what I expected. He was supposed to be a player—he was supposed to brush me aside and say I wasn’t entitled to anything from him. “My father was a good man,” I finally said.

  Daniel nodded. “Yes. I’m sure he is.” Then Daniel stopped, noting my verb tense. “Oh,” he whispered. “And your mother?”

  I couldn’t answer; my lip just trembled.

  Daniel nodded, his eyes shifting down. “I see.” He reached into his wallet.

  “I don’t need your money,” I started, but he extended his business card.

  “Now you know where to find me,” he said. “If you ever want to.” He smiled a handsome but also kind smile. “No obligations.”

  I took the card, turned, and bolted down the steps and across the street, only turning back once to see Daniel still standing in front of the gallery, watching me leave.

  chapter thirty-four

  THE FREEZING TEMPERATURES plummeted further and much to the delight of everyone, the snow remained on the ground for Christmas Day. While there were no active snow-flakes falling, the mounds of white ornamentation lining the street were enough for the city to declare it a white Christmas.

  As I fumbled out of bed into the living room, I was not surprised to see an insane number of beautifully wrapped gifts under the tree. I plopped down on the couch and watched Jolie scuttle around setting china on the table.

  Jolie disappeared into the kitchen. “I’m making a turkey,” she called. Her head appeared from behind the wall. “I’ve done some research.” She grinned. “This time I’m going to get it right.”

  “We’ll see,” I teased.

  The phone rang. “Hey. Merry Christmas!” It was Anthony.

  My stomach flipped. I recalled my frantic rush to him for comfort, friendship, and love. Of course, he didn’t know of my manic attempt, but still, everything felt different. In my mind, I had crossed some invisible line. Could our relationship still be easy and comfortable now that visions of Anthony and Adrienne’s embrace scrolled through my mind?

  “Merry Christmas,” I said, feeling embarrassed and exposed like he could read my thoughts.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “You don’t sound like yourself. Are you sick?”

  I didn’t want to say anything, but suddenly there was a feeling deep in my gut, not unlike right before you throw up. I felt it rumble deep within me like an avalanche, then the words spilled out of my mouth without control. “I know my mother’s secret,” I said, voice quivering. “I know why she apologized.” I started to cry.

  “What was she apologizing for?” Anthony asked calmly.

  I told him everything through hiccups and sobs, including my journey uptown to meet my father. “On the one hand, I feel relieved to finally understa
nd.” I sniffed. “I don’t know; it’s just so hard to accept.”

  “And you’ve known about this for two days? Why didn’t you tell me? I could have gone with you to meet him. Given you support.”

  And before I could stop myself, I said, “I tried.”

  “Huh?”

  “I tried to go over to your house Sunday afternoon, but when I got there . . .” I started to cry again. “You were . . . busy.”

  “Busy? What are you talking about?” Anthony sounded genuinely confused.

  “Busy hooking up with that girl—Adrienne—you know the one with the really curvy butt and the long dark hair,” I said.

  Anthony laughed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I saw you. Through the curtains. I wasn’t spying or anything, I swear, it’s just that when I was about to knock on your door, something caught my eye through the window—it was probably Adrienne and her big swaying hips. And I saw the two of you. Hugging and groping and God knows what else. So I wasn’t going to interrupt your little lovefest with my problems.” I started to cry again.

  “Good God,” Anthony said, sighing. “Okay, calm down. First of all, there was no lovefest. Adrienne’s my cousin. She has a thing for my friend Bobby. And he had just blown her off—or at least that’s what she thought. Listen, stop crying, Em, it’s going to be okay. I really wish you would have just come in. I could have talked to you about all this. You shouldn’t have to deal with this alone.”

  Suddenly, I was horrified at my raw vulnerability. Anthony knew that when I found out this news, I went running to him before anyone else. He probably thought I had no friends or worse, that I was totally in love with him. “I have Georgia,” I said defensively.

  “She’s in Hawaii. Come on, give me some credit. I do listen to you, even when you ramble.”

  I found myself smiling through the tears.

  “What can I do?” Anthony asked. “How can I help?”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I don’t think there’s much anyone can do.” We hung up.

  When I walked back into the living room, Lindsey had just arrived. She took off her coat and greeted Jolie and Trent, who had also arrived while I was on the phone.

  Lindsey ran over holding a new necklace out for me to admire. “Look! My parents must have really felt bad about being gone—they left this with my grandmother.” She held out a huge diamond pendant that hung gracefully from a silver chain.

  “Wow! That’s beautiful!” I gushed.

  Trent and Jolie hovered over to see.

  “Girl, that might just sparkle more than you do!” Trent said. He leaned in closer. “Ooh, Cartier!”

  A blaring fire alarm sounded from the kitchen.

  “Damn it!” Jolie yelled, racing toward the smoke clouds.

  Trent shook his head and mouthed: HOPE-LESS.

  We giggled.

  Jolie reappeared looking relieved. “No big deal. Luckily I bought extras just in case.”

  Extras of what, we’ll never know, because just then the doorman buzzed, sending up another guest. Then, before we could move, the door swung open and in walked Dr. Reeves wrapped in a long cashmere coat and scarf. He removed his coat, placing it over the back of a chair. He was wearing dark jeans pressed with a crease down the middle and a white button-down shirt. He was handsome. Maybe not movie star glamour like Jolie’s beaus of the past, but handsome in a way to fluster a crowd of PTA moms.

  “Hi, guys!” Dr. Reeves said casually. He walked over to Jolie and gave her a peck on the cheek. Jolie smiled and her cheeks reddened slightly.

  Dr. Reeves extended his hand and introduced himself as Jacob to Lindsey and Trent. He patted my back with familiarity and said, “How are the choppers, kiddo?”

  I nodded. “Doing good, thanks.” There was something odd about seeing Dr. Reeves outside of his office without the hum of painful equipment in the background. But it was nice too, because in some way totally unexpected he reminded me of my father. Certainly my father didn’t have his suave nature or his fancy wardrobe, but they were both easygoing and exuded a certain comfort. And I was glad for Jolie to finally have that.

  Trent pulled out Scrabble, and he and Jacob started a game while Lindsey and I went to help Jolie in the kitchen.

  We leaned over Jolie’s shoulder. She was using a wooden spoon to fish out flakes of black burnt char from a lumpy substance I could only guess was stuffing.

  “It’ll be okay,” Jolie said, talking more to herself than us.

  Surprisingly, the turkey didn’t look half bad. At least it didn’t look so dehydrated and crusty like last time. I had started to wash the lettuce for the salad when again, there was a buzz. The doorman announced two more visitors. We all looked around at each other dumbfounded.

  Jolie leaned her head out into the living room and glared at Trent. “If you ordered Chinese, I will kill you!”

  We all laughed. Jolie opened the door, and no one was more shocked than me to see Anthony, familiar NY Giants hat on his head and several white boxes in his hand. Behind him, a woman who had to be his mother was holding a large bag in one hand and a huge centerpiece of festive flowers in the other. Jolie ushered them in, taking the bag from Mrs. Rucelli’s hands.

  Anthony reached for the flowers and put them in the center of the kitchen table. “See, Ma, I told you they wouldn’t have flowers.”

  Mrs. Rucelli smacked Anthony on his head and spouted something in Italian. She turned to Jolie. “My boy,” she said with her heavy accent. “He have no manners. These,” she said gesturing to the arrangement, “are for you.”

  Jolie smiled. “Thank you so much. I didn’t know you were coming,” she said, shooting me a look. “But please, make yourself comfortable.”

  Mrs. Rucelli took off her coat. “My boy tells me you need a little help around the food. Me,” she said, pointing to her enormous body. “I love food. So, we make a go together, no?”

  Jolie smiled, shaking a finger at Anthony. “You talking trash about me?” she teased.

  Anthony set the white cardboard boxes down on the table. “Not me,” he said, hiding his finger and pointing over at me.

  “I SEE THAT!” I said, walking over toward him.

  Anthony stood there in his pressed khaki pants and navy blue hoodie. The outfit was so mismatched it just reeked of a battle between him and his mother. She won the bottom half, he won the top. My heart raced when I looked at him. Part of me wanted to run to him and hug him, but an equally persuasive part of me wanted to escape to my room and lock the door. We stood there motionless. Then Anthony casually reached over and gave me a hug. “Merry Christmas, Em,” he whispered in my ear.

  My eyes filled up, and I reached around to blot them with my sleeve. Lindsey met my glance and smiled. I pulled away and took Anthony by the arm to introduce him to Trent and Jacob.

  Lindsey sat on the couch between Trent and Jacob. Anthony and I sat on the floor on the opposite side of the coffee table. Lindsey pulled out two more Scrabble wells and placed them in front of us.

  Trent stood up and with a dramatic sweep of his arm flung all the tiles off the board back into the box. “Good, let’s start over,” he said, crossing out his and Jacob’s tallies.

  “Look out for the sore loser,” Jacob said, laughing.

  “Pu-lease! You were using all your fancy dental jargon,” Trent said.

  “Jargon?! I used the word clean!” Jacob laughed. He turned to us. “He’s just mad because I was up by fifty points.”

  I watched Anthony pass out tiles and Lindsey offer to keep score as Trent and Jacob argued whether schmooze was a word. There was the sound of a food processor humming in the kitchen followed by laughter. Jolie popped out from the kitchen wiping her hands on Mom’s retro apron and turned on the radio.

  Christmas music filled the apartment. Have a holly jolly Christmas. It’s the best time of the year.

  I thought about years of Christmas holidays celebrated on Arbor Way with my parents. The cornucopia of holiday c
heer, with stuffed stockings draped on the mantel and happiness in our hearts. I allowed a few scribbled lines in an old diary to somehow erase all my solid family memories. But in my heart, I knew it didn’t have to. I could still hold on to that family image carved into my mind before the plane crash, before the diaries. But now, with my parents gone, could Christmas ever be the same?

  As I sat there, watching Lindsey tease Trent about a misspelled Scrabble word, I leaned slightly against Anthony and he didn’t back away. He stayed there, firm, like a rock of strength. And suddenly, it occurred to me: Christmas was no longer about model families and decorated trees and perfect turkey dinners. That holiday became a symbol of change. It was about crawling out from under the wreckage and rebuilding after disaster—making new memories and new families with people who fill our voids and make us laugh. Because as my sports-obsessed shrink once said: The game must go on.

  Anthony laid down five tiles to spell the word crazy. He put his arm around me. “You’re the definition, Em.”

  We all laughed.

  Jolie and Mrs. Rucelli appeared from the kitchen and said that in about one hour, a homemade Christmas meal would be served.

  “Oh, thank God. My Christmas prayers have been answered,” Trent said.

  And we all laughed. Even Jolie.

  AFTER EVERYONE HAD LEFT, I gave Jolie her present.

  When she pulled the lipstick necklace out of the box, she started to cry.

  “The clasp is broken, but the jeweler said he would replace it. And I used Krazy Glue to glue the diamond back in, so that’s why it’s not so sparkly, but it is real.”

  Jolie held the chain up to her neck. “I want to put it on, but . . .” She looked down at the broken clasp and started to laugh. Soon we were both laughing and I was telling her about my night of destruction.

  “I have something for you too,” Jolie said.

  I gestured to the mountain of gifts under the tree. “I think I have enough.”

  She shook her head. “Wait here.” She returned with a box covered in plain brown paper.