In a mere matter of days, he garnered the interest of a big firm. They were flying him out for an interview. By now it was early November—and Christmas was just around the corner. Christmas, the time of year when I was the most sentimental, the most vulnerable, the most emotional. The time of year when I was most likely to do something very, very stupid.
We didn’t tell anyone.
“I want to keep us to ourselves for a while,” I told Michael, but in truth I was too scared to tell my friends or family, most of whom had held my hand through the divorce, the custody battle and the acrimonious aftermath. I wanted to live in this lovely bubble a little longer.
Then the past weighed in—and I panicked. Driving to work in my Jeep the day before Michael was due to arrive for his interview, I played our song, which I am embarrassed to admit is that lame Foreigner song “I Don’t Want to Live Without You.” (What can I say; it was the eighties.)
I was giddy at the thought of seeing him. Too giddy. Dangerously giddy.
I’d felt this way before—and it had taken me a lot of years and a lot of yoga to get over it. What was I thinking? I flipped off the iPod and burst into tears. Sobs, really. I wept so wildly that I couldn’t see the road.
There was a Dunkin’ Donuts on the corner. (There is a Dunkin’ Donuts on virtually every corner in the great Commonwealth of Massachusetts; we invented it.) I pulled into the parking lot and sat there, engine idling, until I’d cried myself out. Then I texted Michael: Tell me this is real.
He texted me right back: It’s real. C u tomorrow.
I took a deep breath, and then did what any self-respecting woman planning to win back her ex would do: I called in sick and went and got a mani-pedi.
The next day I was at the airport early. Twitchy, jittery, silly. It was unseemly in a woman my age. I was a grandmother, for God’s sake.
I closed my eyes and thought of my granddaughters. I smiled to myself.
I opened my eyes, and there he was. Long and nearly as lean as he’d been when I’d married him twenty-five years before. Well, that was one of us. I smiled to myself again.
Michael loped over, his dark blue eyes never leaving mine. He grinned, took me in his arms and that was that. Once again, he was the man who’d called me his Marilyn Monroe—and I was the woman who’d called him my Heathcliff.
He got the job. The offer letter came December 9, the same day I got laid off. Serendipity? Karma? Blind luck? Whatever you called it, to us it seemed as if this was meant to be. I was home with nothing to do but worry, so I made the ultimate sacrifice and started clearing out closets to make room for Michael. A week later, he packed up his truck and started driving east.
It was time to start telling people. First, our son, Mikey, who was still away at school. I would’ve preferred to tell him in person, but by the time he came home for Christmas break his father would already be here. I tried calling, but of course he didn’t answer. This was a text message waiting to happen.
Mom: Your father is coming home.
Son: y
Mom: We’ve reconciled.
Son: srsly?
Mom: Seriously. What do you think?
Son: idk Mom: I know it’s unexpected.
Son: meh Mom: What?
Son: whatever
That wasn’t so bad. Emboldened by Mikey’s lackluster response, I called my mother in Las Vegas.
“Hi, Mom,” I said.
“What’s wrong?” My mother always knew when something was up.
“I’ve got good news and bad news,” I said. “Or bad news and bad news, depending on how you look at it.”
“What’s wrong?” she repeated.
“I got laid off.”
“Oh, honey, I am so sorry. What is wrong with those people?”
“I should have looked harder for another job.” I paused. “I’m looking now.”
“What’s the good news?”
“I hope you’ll see it as good news.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Michael and I have reconciled.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” she said.
I laughed. “He got a job here and is on his way right now.”
I could hear the wheels turning in my mother’s mind. “It’s a good position?”
“It’s a good position.”
“Hmph.” My mother paused. “So maybe he’s your blessing in disguise.”
News travels fast among siblings. I didn’t have to tell my older children; Mikey told them for me. By the time we all got together at a diner for dinner, they were ready to discuss their mother’s folly as if I weren’t even there.
Mikey: It’s the yoga. When Mom became a yoga teacher, she completely changed. All she talks about now is love and forgiveness and redemption. She really believes in all that stuff.
Mom: I’m right here, you know.
Greg: You’re totally wrong, Mikey. I don’t think Mom’s changed at all. This proves it. She’s just repeating her old patterns. She’s stuck.
Mom: I can hear you.
Alexis: Mom’s getting old and we’re all gone and she’s all alone and miserable. She just wants to be happy. Give her a break. What do you care what she does?
Mom: Thanks, honey. I think.
With the big reveal safely behind me, I took my old, deluded, stuck yoga self home to meditate upon my past patterns and future follies. Five days, 2,727 miles and two new tires later, my blessing in disguise rolled up to the garden fence that fronted our little cottage in his beloved F-150 truck.
He kissed me. I laughed.
It was our déjà vu Christmas all over again.
LOVE NEVER DIES
NORMA JEAN THORNTON
Returning from a meeting in the middle of December and listening to a poignant rendition of “White Christmas” on the radio, I took a detour to look at Christmas lights. Suddenly I found myself driving by the restaurant where my husband and I had had our first date over forty years ago. As I slowly drove home alone through the rain, memories of the past took over.
If this were only nine years ago, a fire would be roaring in the fireplace because he knew it made me happy, and I’d be walking into a nice, warm, toasty house. Tonight, I blink through tears, knowing I’ll have to light the pinecones and wood for myself when I get home. But do I really want a fire? Watching the flames no longer warms me the way it did then, and it hurts my heart.
In the past, I’d pull into the driveway and see two pairs of tiny, shiny eyes staring out at me from the small arched windows, just as they do tonight: two of our cats sit in the windowsills in the den and peek through curtains, waiting for me to come inside. He said they seemed to know exactly when I was due home from work, because every day at the same time, that’s where they’d be.
The cats are still looking out the window, waiting for me each time I come home, but there’s no fire to greet me, to warm my heart and soul, and no husband with a welcome-home bear hug.
I go inside, and the memories continue flooding back as I feed the cats. My thoughts wander back to that last Christmas season, and our final three days together, especially our last night.
Even though he was as excited about each present as the kids were and enjoyed Christmas, every year he would lightly grumble and grouse and complain about everything, including the stockings that were filled with goodies. He’d always mumble “The Grinch had it right!”
This was a second marriage for both of us, bringing a total of six kids to the family, so at Christmas eight stockings were always hung. However, one Christmas, one stocking was missing. Although I had filled his, I didn’t hang it that year, waiting for his response. When he couldn’t find it, he asked hesitantly, “Where’s my stocking?”
I commented: “I thought you didn’t want one.”
Early in our relationship, he had found that rather than actually apologizing for anything minor, all he had to do was give me that apologetic look and pout, the way a little kid would, and it worked every time…melted my hear
t and always got a smile from me.
This time, like a shy little boy with his lower lip in that deliberately exaggerated, yet endearing pout and those pleading green eyes in the way that always tugged at my heartstrings, he sheepishly responded: “You know I don’t really mean that.”
He was right; he didn’t mean it. But each year after that, we played the game, and he had to hunt for his stocking, as though it were an Easter egg, and he loved it.
But his last year, it was different…In the beginning of December, he was brought home by ambulance from his latest, and final, stay in the hospital. Complications of the cancer that was ravaging his gorgeous body had kept him there for six weeks this time.
As the attendants wheeled him through the house to his newly set-up hospice bed, he kept repeating, “I really didn’t mean to be the Grinch and spoil Christmas. I really didn’t. I’m so sorry.”
He wasn’t a Grinch and never could be, but he loved the Grinch, and had called himself that every year—another little game we played. The kids had even bought him a stuffed Grinch one year.
We all knew he didn’t mean it, but now it bothered him more and more each day, especially since I hadn’t done a thing yet for Christmas. Every other year by this time the house would smell good from homemade candy and cinnamon-spiced pinecones and be over-decorated with poinsettias, garlands and wreaths, with stuffed teddy bears, snowmen, Santas and elves sitting everywhere.
He would already—grudgingly, yet willingly—have put up the tree and added the lights, while I was busy making hot chocolate, playing Christmas music and pestering him to sing along with me, to keep him motivated, until it was my turn with the tree, to decorate it. His only job was to put the tree up and gladly take it down.
Suddenly, on the morning of December 10, he blurted out, “I don’t want Christmas to be any different than before. Promise me you won’t change anything; do everything just like you’ve always done.”
Completely confined to the bed, he feverishly focused on how Christmas should be, and hurriedly continued to tell me what he wanted done. Christmas 2005 would be his doing, even though he knew his time was quickly fading, and he wouldn’t be there by Christmas Day.
“Be sure to have turkey, with your cornbread and wild rice dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy, and your sweet potatoes. And this time, don’t forget the cranberry sauce!
“All the salsa, dips and chips, and everything else you always fix. Don’t leave out anything…be sure to have beans and your bean dip. Everybody loves that.
“I want the tree decorated in red, white and green; same with the wrapping paper. Use paper plates and plastic forks…and this time, throw them away after dinner; don’t wash ’em and save ’em like you always do.
“And make lots of candy, with nuts…especially the peanut butter fudge.”
His hospice bed had been set up in the den, his favorite room, close to his TV. It was also near where we always put the Christmas tree, so I shoved my way through stuff that had been piled in the shed, to find the fake tree. While two of our boys worked on putting it up, I made a quick trip to Walmart for paper products and decorations.
Not wanting to be away from him one second longer than I had to, I rushed through the store, throwing everything red, white and green that I could find into the cart.
When I got back to the house, I dropped everything at the foot of his bed. I sat next to him and pulled each item from the bags. He tried to show interest, but he was so ill he couldn’t even raise his head from the pillow and listlessly nodded his approval. He halfheartedly watched as four of the older granddaughters decorated the tree with red and white lights, red and white garlands, and red, white and green glittery ornaments.
I hastily dug through the myriad of Christmas stuff from years past to find his favorite ornament and added it to the tree: we had bought it in Hawaii in 1996. It was Santa and Mrs. Claus kissing on a surfboard. Santa was dressed in a red and white surfing outfit; Mrs. Claus in a white muumuu with red and green poinsettias and a red poinsettia lei around her head. He always said it reminded him of us.
The daughters set out the red poinsettia table centerpiece and white sparkly place mats with a red-and-green poinsettia design and red cloth napkins. Matching salt-and-pepper shakers and coasters were added to the table, along with fat red candles.
Everything would be as normal as possible for him, under the circumstances, with me on autopilot. I pulled the Christmas stockings out and hung his at the foot of his bed, and a granddaughter found his stuffed Grinch. When we put it next to him, he accepted it with a tentative, little lopsided grin.
He was adamant about having a clock and a light beside him at all times those last three days. His last night, just as the sun went down, and every thirty minutes or so afterwards, he asked, “What time is it?” He asked the time more frequently as the night went on. At 10:15 p.m., December 11, he frantically said, “It’s time—quick, everyone come here…Hurry, hurry…Come on, little girls. Hurry!”
My sister, all six of our kids and four of the fourteen grandkids were there. He told each of them how much he loved them, how important each of them was to him and how proud of them he was. He kissed them all, and there wasn’t a dry eye on any of us.
After his turn with the kids, he turned to me and said, “Come closer!”
I scooted as close as possible to him, but he kept saying “Closer!”
Crying silently, I crawled into bed with him, trying to get as close as I could. But he angrily said, “You’re not the real Normie…Where’s my Normie?…I want my Normie.” His vision was all but gone by that time, and his eyes were clouded over. As his pain meds were rapidly increased, he was going in and out of consciousness, and it was impossible to tell whether it was him or the meds talking.
I kept repeating, “It’s me, Honey.” I finally straddled him on the bed, and I leaned down, holding his face in my hands, and kissed him. “What do I need to do to prove I’m me?”
I had on a lightweight button-up pajama top, and he put his hands to my chest, his fingers fumbling as he unbuttoned the thing, and said, “Ahh…that’s my Normie.” He took me in his hands and nuzzled his face into me.
He had rarely called me Normie in the past—maybe two or three times. I have no idea why he did then.
Everyone had already gone into the living room, allowing us to be alone, although they were still close enough to see and hear what was happening. I whispered, “Honey—all the kids are in the other room and can see what you’re doing!”
He loudly said, “That’s their problem!” as he moved his hands all over me and nuzzled me more.
Sometimes there’s nothing one can do but laugh, even at the most horrible of times. That time brought a nervous laugh from everyone.
He kept repeating, “I love you, I love you. I’m so sorry I’m leaving you. I’m not going to be here to protect you.”
Heartbroken, and knowing it was little consolation, I tried to reassure him: “Don’t worry about that…Just remember, I love you with all my heart and always will.”
He stayed with us for another five hours, going in and out of consciousness. He didn’t ask for the time again, but at midnight, three hours before he died, he suddenly said, “Would you marry me again?”
Of course, I said, “Yes!” not realizing he meant right then, at that moment. I thought he was asking if I would do it all over again.
To my surprise, he hurriedly told me, “Give me a ring, quick, give me a ring!”
I took the wedding ring that had been my mother’s from my left index finger, expecting him to put it back on that finger, but when I offered it, he said, “Give me the right finger—your ring one!”
During his last conversations with everyone that night, his voice was high-pitched and rushed, his sentences short, choppy and erratic. It was obvious that medication played a big part, but he was fighting to stay in control, even through the haze of mind-muddling drugs and the cancer. Because his actions had been so unpred
ictable, and we thought that his vision was completely gone, I was amazed that he had realized that it wasn’t my ring finger. As he lay in bed, I held out the correct finger for him, without taking my original wedding set off. Without a word, and with his hands shaking, he took my hand and placed the ring on my finger.
I kissed him and said, “I love you.” He closed his eyes and, less than three hours later, he was gone. My husband proposed twice, thirty years apart, and put a ring on my finger each time. There may not have been a second wedding ceremony, but it double-sealed the bonds from the first. Both rings will stay on that finger forever.
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
DAWN ARMSTRONG
A charitable blog correspondent, Dawn wanders the world in search of time travel, danger, eternal love, all of which contribute to the scenes and content of her inspirational books and novels. Dawn’s first book, Sensations: A Little Book of Love…, spreads hope around the globe. Don’t miss her exciting new paranormal romance, Knower. To learn more, visit her at www.littlebookoflove.net and www.theknower.wordpress.com.
JENNIFER BERN BASYE
A New York Times bestselling author and former Random House senior editor, Jennifer is the mother of two amazing sons. She teaches publishing skills and nonfiction writing, coaches writers, and runs writing retreats in Lake Tahoe and on her great-grandfather’s farm in Washington state. Learn more about her retreats at www.writebythelake.com or www.writeatthefarm.com.
SHERYL J. BIZE BOUTTE
Sheryl is a Northern California writer and management consultant. More of her short stories, poetry and commentary can be seen at www.sjbb-talkinginclass.blogspot.com/.
RUTH BREMER
Ruth is a freelance writer, blogger and aspiring novelist. Her stupefying brilliance can be found at www.insightfulish.com.
A Kiss Under the Mistletoe Page 12