I brought the lightweight laundry basket closer to us. She had her arms folded; her patience with me clearly dwindling fast. Tilting her head to one side, she raised her eyebrows with a silent question. I shrugged in a silent response. “Am I keeping you in suspense?” Two pairs of folded jeans remained in the suitcase, which I picked up and held to my heart. “I bought these on the Champs-Élysées. Oh, I do love Paris.”
“Loving a city is different than loving a man.” Her voice had a discouraged tone, and she shook her head. I had dumped my suitcases’ contents on the bed, and she sorted the blouses into hand-wash and machine-wash piles.
“Being in Paris together confirmed how I feel.” My eyes welled up from the worry that maybe something had gone wrong on his end. What could it be? I grabbed my travel-sized cosmetics bag and went to return the items to the adjoining bathroom. I didn’t want my mother to see me cry.
I talked louder from there, so she could hear me. “Mitchell and I had a day and evening to ourselves. We went to the Musée d’Orsay to see many of the French Impressionist paintings I’ve studied and admired for years. They were awesome. Then we took the speed train to visit one of his colleagues who served us dinner at his home in Vendôme. The family didn’t speak English, but we managed to communicate with pantomime.” I didn’t tell her how I’d cried bittersweet tears in the restroom on the train back to Paris. We would fly home the next day, and I didn’t want the trip to end.
I carried the empty suitcases to the garage door. I was also carrying an empty heart. “I’ll put ’em away later. Thanks for your help. It would have been a lot sadder to unpack by myself.”
She put her hand on my forearm. “Sad? But, Honey, I thought you had a romantic trip.”
“I did. It felt like a honeymoon. But he hasn’t called at all since we got back. Maybe, for him, it was just a fling.” I plopped onto the living room love seat, and my mother took a seat on the wicker chair, her lips pressed together in a tight line.
The look on her face made me crumple inside and brought my sobs to the surface. She got up and wrapped her arms around me, comforting me as only a mother can. “Maybe he’s busy at work. Maybe he had to catch up after being out of town.”
I had thought of that, too, but even busy people have time to text. “I thought I’d send him a Christmas card, but he’s Jewish and I don’t want to make a religious mistake.”
“A card? Why not just call him yourself?”
“Never. I have to know that he wants to be with me. I wouldn’t want him to see me again just to humor me or to feel as if he has to make up an excuse not to see me again.”
We ate chocolate ice cream, and I shared more stories about the Parisian places I’d visited. When she left, I pulled the blank Hanukkah card I’d bought out of my purse. Yes, I had already bought him a card for his upcoming holiday. It was generic and distant. Not something I’d give to a man I wanted to marry. I signed my name without love or best wishes, just my signature, and I wrote his address on the envelope.
I didn’t mail it, though. The card stayed in my purse, the envelope bending and the corners crumpling more each day. I couldn’t bring myself to drop it into the mailbox. Work wasn’t enough of a distraction for me. Flashes of scenes from Paris kept popping up, and I missed Mitchell more than I would ever have guessed. I wrote out Christmas cards to my friends and family and mailed them all, but still the Hanukkah card withered in my purse.
Ten nights passed without a word. That night I brought out my tabletop artificial Christmas tree. I turned off the house lights after 8 p.m. and stared at the twinkling clear bulbs wrapped around the branches, imagining the tree to be the Eiffel Tower. I remembered the hum of the boat’s motor as we glided on the smooth river. Mitchell had wrapped his strong arms around me as the sparkling tower came into view in the distance. We floated closer to the magical lights, and I put my head on his shoulder. He kissed my forehead several times. When we reached the tower in all its brilliance, we embraced, and I was sure a lightning bolt of energy connected us.
I must have been wrong. Ten days after that magical moment, I was alone in my house with a twinkling fake tree.
The next day I shuffled through a mall in a throng of excited shoppers. There were a few Christmas gifts I needed to buy for friends and family. I carefully avoided the men’s section at Macy’s. I looked away when I passed display windows filled with glittery engagement rings.
Dumping my packages on the kitchen table, I went straight to the bathroom to run a hot tub. My day was done. A bath and an early bedtime—that was all I had to look forward to. The phone rang at about 6:30 p.m. I wrapped my pink terrycloth robe around me and reached to answer it.
Mitchell’s voice greeted me. “Are you ready to celebrate the holiday tonight?”
What? He sounded like I was supposed to be remembering a prearranged date. My heart pounded. “Tonight?”
“Did you forget? Remember I said I wouldn’t be able to see you for a while but that we’d have dinner on Hanukkah?”
No, I didn’t remember him saying that. I certainly would have remembered. Nevertheless, he sounded sincere; maybe he thought he had told me. I stifled my surprise with the first thought that came to mind. “I guess I didn’t realize Hanukkah started tonight.” Since returning from Europe, though, I had marked the days on my wall calendar. I knew the Jewish holiday had arrived, and I had been ready to toss that Hanukkah card in the trash.
An hour later, we met at the Holy Land Restaurant on College Avenue in Berkeley. He gave me a tight hug and seemed happy to see me. This was the man who hadn’t called? It didn’t seem possible, but yet…We chatted about Paris and work, ordered matzo ball soup and falafel. When we finished our meal, Mitchell reached for my hand and his deep brown eyes teased me as if he had a surprise. Then he pulled out a present from his pocket and put it into my hand, with an expression that chased away all my doubts. “Happy Hanukkah, Julaina.”
I mumbled a thank-you. My face burned with embarrassment. “Um, I have this card for you, but, um, it’s not in very good shape. I’ve carried it around for days.” I retrieved it from my purse and placed it on his side of the table.
He smiled and nodded toward the gift he had given to me. The wrapping paper had the Star of David on it. I took his nod to mean I should open it. I struggled with the ribbon and tape on the five-inch-square box. When I opened it, I gasped. A multistring necklace of small jade beads lay on a bed of cotton.
“It was made in Israel.” He shifted in his chair. “I worried it wouldn’t arrive in time. I didn’t want to spoil the surprise, and I knew I would tell you about it if I talked to you before tonight. It was a long wait. Eleven days were too long without you.”
From across the table I nodded numbly, fingering the beautiful necklace.
He opened the envelope I had brought, acted like there were no bent corners, and read it. His face beamed, but I wondered how a card could compare to the treasured necklace.
Mitchell rose from his chair and came around behind me, gently clasping the strings of Israeli jade around my neck. This precious gift was the first of many necklaces he gave me for every holiday that came along. On my birthday that year, he gave me an engagement ring and a year later, we were married. I found gifts for him, too, but I’ve never given him another Hanukkah card.
We celebrate two holidays every December. I plug in my tabletop Christmas tree, and he lights the candles on the menorah. We share my pretense that the tree is the Eiffel Tower, and he says the flames on the menorah’s candles represent the love we have for each other. And the best part about being married to Mitchell? He’s never kept me waiting again.
A BOX OF MEMORIES
CHRISTINA RICHTER
We had passed the seven-year itch, but it was looking as if we might hit the ten-year ditch. My husband and I were both working full-time, juggling kids and family responsibilities, leaving no time for romance—let alone a nice discussion once in a while. Christmas was coming, which meant yet anot
her activity was added to our already full lives.
Even though we were busy, little girls have a way with their fathers, and our daughters were no exception. Audrey and Anna, six and four, were especially fond of their papa, and he was completely smitten. Whenever they were together, the three of them would talk endlessly. But I noticed lately their chatter occurred only when I wasn’t in the room. I knew they were up to something!
Secrets were not easily kept as we lived in a very small house back then. The little one-bedroom post-WWII bungalow was advertised at 1,200 square feet, but in reality it was barely that size. It had a cute front room with ’40s-style casement windows, a tiny dining room attached to a galley kitchen and a walk-through room to the back porch that you might call a den. The spot dubbed as the laundry room only had space for a washing machine, so our dryer had to service us from the back patio.
The house didn’t afford much privacy, but there was one place that was entirely the domain of my husband—the garage. It was actually quite spacious for the size of house, and Mark set up his office in its confines. Not that he needed an office; he just needed his space. I didn’t venture into that area much; among other things, I was too busy with a full-time job and being an involved mother of two active daughters to notice what happened in the garage. In fact, it usually came as a relief when he and the girls were occupied in “Hubby’s office.”
The fall of 1996 was rather chilly in Southern California, so the garage door remained closed much of the time. I noticed around Halloween that the three of them were behind that door more than usual. The day I knocked and asked to come in was the day I was certain they were scheming something. All three of them responded, “You can’t come in!” I knew better than to ask why, so I announced that dinner would be ready soon and walked away.
They sat down at the table full of giggles. These three had a secret and, judging by their dad’s face, they weren’t about to give up many clues. “What are you up to?” I asked very pointedly to the older of the two.
Audrey looked at her sister. “Noooothing!” Knowing I might get something out of them if I pressed, their dad quickly changed the subject. Dinner proceeded as usual and the subject was easily lost in the chaos of everyday life.
Before I knew it, Christmas was just days away. It seemed my job was demanding more of me than usual, but it could have just been the life of a full-time working mom at the holidays. Report deadlines, school parties, holiday cards, Christmas gifts and tree trimming all added up, and the days flew by.
I had no idea what to get my husband that year. He was just as busy as I was, so we hadn’t really discussed gifts. At the last minute I settled on some clothes and a few other meaningless items. I didn’t even think about feeling guilty. I was just getting through this year by crossing things off the to-do list. The presents were purchased, wrapped and under the tree. Check. I was ready.
Christmas morning is by far one of the best times for memories in our family. Glittering decorations complete with a tree filled with homemade ornaments, Christmas music and an aromatic breakfast in the oven provide the setting. Our excited eagerness and laughter provide the memories. As we gathered that December 25, it was no different. The girls and their father were especially full of smiles that morning.
Gift giving proceeded as usual. Noisy tears of wrapping paper, squeals of delight and appreciative, loving hugs filled our morning. The last present under the tree had finally been opened and the girls looked at their father in anticipation. Did he really forget to get a gift for me this year?
He looked at me and asked the girls if they were ready. In unison they replied, “Yes!” They grabbed my hands, made me close my eyes and led me out the front door. I heard the garage door opening and a quick shuffling. As I stood with my eyes closed, I wondered what in the world they could have in the garage for me. Then I was instructed to open my eyes, and there it was! The most thoughtful, sweetest gift anyone had ever given me!
Mark was into woodworking and had planned with the girls and made a beautiful, exquisitely constructed cedar chest! The looks on their faces told me how proud they were, and the three of them smiling at me told me how lucky I was. They showed it off to me: the cedar-lined inside complete with brass hinges, how the lid closed so snugly and the beautiful footings. The best part, they told me, was on the bottom. As the three carefully tilted the chest, I saw the wonderful inscription.
To me, from my hubby, a forever note that will always serve to remind the cedar chest’s owner that it was a gift of love. No matter its contents or where it resides, my cedar chest will always carry with it the memories of that wonderful Christmas morning, when life slowed down a little, and the caring nature of family once again made a beautiful memory.
DÉJÀ VU CHRISTMAS
PAULA MUNIER
You can blame it on Hurricane Irene. At the University of Connecticut, my son Mikey lost power for a week at the house he rented with his college buddies. Back home at the little lakeside cottage in Massachusetts where I raised him, I had no lights or fans or water for five days of sweltering August heat. And out West in the air-conditioned cool of Phoenix, my ex-husband Michael worried and waited for his son to call him back and let him know he was okay.
That was his first mistake. Well, hardly his first mistake—more like his hundredth, thousandth, millionth mistake over the course of the twenty-five years in which I’d known him. But who’s counting.
Teenage boys do not return phone calls. Given sufficient motivation, they may deign to return a parent’s text via their smart phone, that motivation typically being the threatened loss of said smart phone.
But apparently Michael hadn’t figured that out yet. So, in desperation, he broke the first of the many unspoken rules that had governed our relationship since we divorced nearly a dozen years before.
He called me.
This was highly irregular. All our communication was initially conducted through lawyers, and then, eventually, as passions and prejudices faded, through the occasional email. Phone calls were only permitted when Mikey was 35,000 feet in the air, hurtling toward one coast (mine) or the other (his), and the plane was late.
But Mikey was not en route at the moment.
I was sitting in my bed alone in absolute darkness, bored and hot and aching for a cold shower, when I saw the words My Ex appear on my cell as the first ring shattered the dark silence of the night. (Originally, the words that indicated my ex was calling were, shall we say, less neutral, but Mikey noticed and reprogrammed my phone. Like many children of divorce, he is, within the context of our broken nuclear family, the smart one.)
I was not pleased.
But after acknowledging that a natural disaster may indeed trump a delayed flight, I picked up, bracing for the sound of the only voice on the planet that could strike me dumb with fury.
“It’s me,” he said.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine.” Fine. Every woman’s favorite four-letter word.
“With the storm, I thought—”
“Fine,” I repeated. “No power but fine.”
“And Mikey? I haven’t heard from Mikey.”
“He doesn’t have power either, but he’s fine.”
“What can I do?”
I bit back the wicked words that bounded into my throat and swallowed my bitterness. “Nothing. Really. We’re fine.”
My ex paused. “So I’m guessing everything’s fine.”
I laughed.
He always could make me laugh. It’s not that he was really funny; funny was not the first word most people would use to describe an intense, taciturn guy like Michael. But whenever we were together, he had a tender way of teasing me that disarmed and charmed me every time. That playfulness, coupled with a passion that never failed to surprise and delight us both, made ours the one relationship we’d come to measure every other against. I’d had a husband before him and a couple of almost-husbands after him, but Michael
remained the one significant other in my life who felt like home.
You can never go home again, which is why I’d moved to Massachusetts when we broke up. I took his son with me, and broke Michael’s heart a second time. I did what I believed I had to do to save us from one another; in the end, all that playfulness and passion couldn’t offset the mundane challenges that can undermine any couple—communication, money, teenagers. We both had kids from our first marriages, and they weren’t exactly thrilled when we got married. And though they were thrilled when we had Mikey, even he couldn’t save our not-so-blended family.
With enough time and distance, I thought I’d get over Michael. And I thought Michael would get over me—or die trying, as men are wont to do. But when he went off and got married to a Skinny-Mini-Me, I wasn’t so sure.
Now he was single again—that marriage having died an inevitable death (she says with some satisfaction)—and I was single still. He was alone in his bed—and I was alone in mine. He was teasing me—and I was laughing.
You know what happened next. We talked all night and all day and all night again. He said he was sorry and I said I was sorry and he said he’d always loved me and I said I’d always loved him and he said we’re older and wiser now and I said: Are we really?
By the time the lights were back on, so were we. More than a decade of rancor and regret forgotten as we reminded each other why we’d been so good together all those years ago. Flush with muscle memory, our hearts remembered what our brains had vowed to forget. Over the course of two months and a million phone calls, texts and emails, we were in love. Again.
It was like being struck by lightning a second time; already inured to the shock, we felt only a strong afterglow. And in the warmth of that afterglow, we made plans. Serious plans. We arranged to meet face-to-face somewhere in the middle of the country after Christmas for what would be only the third time in eleven years—a sort of trial run. In the meantime, Michael started looking for a new job on the East Coast.
A Kiss Under the Mistletoe Page 11