One Week In December

by Holly Chamberlin

  Alex looked at her, puzzled. “I wasn’t aware I was defending him. Why? Should I have been? Has he done something he needs defending for?”

  “He . . .” Becca paused. Suddenly, she didn’t know how to answer that question. “No,” she said. “Never mind.”

  “It bothers you that I’m friendly with him.”

  “That didn’t sound like a question.”

  “It wasn’t,” Alex said. “It’s pretty obvious you’re not thrilled about my spending time with your father.”

  “I know it’s none of my business who you spend time with but—”

  “You’re right,” he said, yanking an old, bent nail out of a piece of the rotted wood. “It is none of your business.”

  Becca was taken back. Alex’s tone had been matter-of-fact, not at all nasty, but still, his response had startled her. It was so—honest and blunt. And in spite of her determined aloneness, in spite of her dependence on isolation, she could no longer deny that she found him interesting. She had sought him out this afternoon, hadn’t she?

  “So,” Alex said, his voice loud in the cold, still air, “what did you want to be when you grew up?”

  “What?” Becca laughed a little, taken aback. “What a bizarre thing to ask.”

  Alex shrugged and tossed aside another length of rotted wood. “Why is it bizarre?”

  “I don’t know,” she said after a moment.

  “So, what’s your answer?”

  “I don’t know,” she repeated. “When I was a kid I never thought much about the future. I guess I was kind of—shallow. I was a bit wild. What was right in front of me seemed interesting enough. I can’t really explain it.”

  What she could explain—but couldn’t voice—was that the wild, shallow girl had gotten pulled up pretty short at the age of sixteen, and that ever since, life had been all about focusing on school and career in order to provide for her daughter. Life had been all about proving to her family that she wasn’t entirely a screwup.

  “Well,” Alex said, “if you could start all over again, what would you like to be when you grow up? Pie in the sky. In a perfect world. Just say whatever’s in your heart.”

  “I can’t answer that,” Becca said finally.

  “Why?”

  “Because I have absolutely no idea what to say.”

  “I can’t believe there’s nothing in your heart. . . .”

  “It’s not that,” she said quickly. “I just don’t know what I—what I like. I just don’t know what, if anything, interests me. Other than work, of course.”

  It pained her to realize this, and it surprised her to be admitting it, especially to someone she hardly knew. Such admissions could lead to exposure of her secret—and of herself—and that was what she had feared most for the past sixteen years. And yet here she was telling her parents’ neighbor an awkward truth. She felt uncomfortable, but not uncomfortable enough to run. Why was that?

  “I have no hobbies,” she went on. “I have no passions. I go to work. I go to the gym. I read but . . . But not what I want to read, whatever that is. I mean, I read work-related stuff. I listen to the news.”

  Alex wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his gloved hand. Yes, it was cold, but the sun was strong and he’d been working hard.

  “So,” he said, “it’s safe to say that you find little pleasure in life. I mean, in your life, in the way you’re living it.”

  “God, Alex,” Becca said with a laugh that was not one of pleasure, “I might not be the happiest or most fulfilled person around, but I’m not suicidal!”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “That wasn’t at all what I meant to imply. It just sounds as if . . . well, as if you don’t have a lot of fun.”

  “Is fun so important?” she asked, very much wanting to hear his answer.

  “I think it is. Look, I’m not talking about amusement park fun, though I’ve got nothing against a good roller coaster ride. I mean—fun as in simple pleasures. Laughter with friends. Picnics. Chocolate cake if that’s your thing. Museums. Movies. The stuff of daily life. Do you have a pet?”

  “I work too many hours. I’d have to hire someone to walk a dog.”

  Alex smiled. “Have you considered fish?”

  “No.”

  “Do I dare to ask about plants?”

  “You just did. No plants.”

  “Just an idea.”

  Becca was silent for a moment. She lived in a neighborhood replete with galleries and she hardly ever glanced in a window, let alone attended an opening. When was the last time she’d been to the Museum of Fine Arts? It was within walking distance of her apartment; what good excuse could she have for not seeing a show or attending a film there? And then there was Fenway Park, and the aquarium, and the science museum, and the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. . . . She hadn’t been to any of these places in years. As for entertaining at home, she never did any; who was there to invite for dinner or cocktails or Sunday brunch? And in spite of the fact that Becca had a fully furnished guest bedroom, the only person who had ever spent the night at the condo was Rain.

  Becca felt slightly sick.

  “So,” she said finally, “here I am, a person with no pleasures in her life. What does that say about me?”

  “I don’t know.” Alex eyed her curiously. “Do you really want an answer from me?”

  “Does it say that I’m boring?”

  Now he laughed heartily. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that!”

  “So, what would you say?” she pressed.

  “It’s not what I’d say that matters, Becca. It’s what you would say about yourself.”

  “Humor me.”

  “All right.” Alex paused. “How about: Becca Rowan is a person who hasn’t yet discovered her bliss.”

  Becca grimaced. It wasn’t a good look for her, but she couldn’t help herself. “My bliss? I’ve never much cared for that word.”

  “Okay. How about this: Becca Rowan is a glass half empty.”

  “A what?”

  Alex gave a sigh of feigned irritation. “Fine. How about: Becca Rowan is a person who hasn’t yet discovered—love.”

  “You mean that I should get married?” she blurted. “Because a man will solve all of my problems? Because a man will give me a life I don’t seem capable of making on my own?”

  Alex put up his hands as if defending himself physically. “Hell, no. I’m the last person to claim a man is the answer to anything! Besides, I don’t mean romantic love, necessarily. I mean love as in a passion for something. Love as in a motive for getting up in the morning and looking forward to doing whatever it is you’re going to be doing. Love as in—love as in having a real purpose in your life.”

  But I do know love, Becca argued silently. I know the love for my daughter. And I have a purpose. I’m a mother and an aunt. Isn’t that enough?

  No, that pesky other voice replied. It’s not enough. And I think you know that by now. Becca shut her ears to the voice’s message.

  When Becca didn’t say anything more, Alex went back to the job of repairing the old tool shed. And while he worked, she thought.

  Since Rain’s birth, she had come to think of herself as a person living post-trauma, as a person living post–defining incident. She saw everything in her life, every word and incident, to be in some relation—even if it was a strained one—to the fact of Rain’s birth. Part of her suspected that this was an unhealthy way to live. But she simply couldn’t imagine her life being otherwise.

  Suddenly, she found herself wondering about the nature of Alex’s emotional life. He had gone through a divorce, and though Becca knew no details of the situation, it couldn’t have been pleasant. No divorce was free of pain. Did Alex, too, consider himself as living in a state of “after,” forever suffering the effects of one traumatic moment in time?

  “So,” she blurted, almost surprising herself, because she hadn’t been sure she would speak, “what is it like to be divorced?”

  Alex looked up from his
work and laughed. “Excuse me? Talk about a bizarre question.”

  “Oh.” Becca felt her cheeks flush. “I guess that didn’t come out the way I meant it to come out. Sorry. It’s just that my mother told me that you had been married. I just . . .”

  Alex smiled kindly; he didn’t seem to be at all angry with her. “You just wanted to know if I’m an emotional wreck?”

  “Well, that’s not it, exactly. I suppose I’m just wondering what it feels like to go through something so traumatic and then, you know, have to live on. I mean, people get married thinking—hoping—they’re going to be together forever and then if they get divorced, well, it’s got to be a pretty big shock. I would think you, anyone, might feel—lost. And very alone,” she added. Like the way I feel. “And angry. Even hopeless sometimes.”

  Alex nodded. “Yes to all of those feelings. But I try not to let my divorce define my life. Yes, it was painful but . . . But I guess I’m just not the type of person to dwell on the past. It happened, it’s part of me, but there are lots of other parts, too. Lots of other experiences have defined me, many of them good, so I try to acknowledge the whole of my life.”

  “Yes. I mean, that must be hard, though. To remember the good along with the bad.” Very hard, she thought. Sometimes, it seemed impossible.

  “At times it’s hard,” Alex admitted. “But as I said, I’m not the type to dwell on or wallow in my misery. In my experience I’ve found that the type of person who dwells on his pain tends to make other, innocent people part of that pain. It’s not pleasant to be around someone who’s let something sad infect every aspect of his life. People who dwell in their misery seem to show a lack of imagination. But hey,” he said, throwing up his hands, “that’s just my opinion.”

  A lack of imagination. Becca thought about that. Was that what unhappiness came down to, a lack of imagination? A failure to imagine other futures than the one you’d convinced yourself was your lot in life?

  “Do you have a family?” she asked abruptly. “I mean, are they living? Do you see them?”

  “Yes, I have a family. Some are living, some aren’t. My father died a few years ago. Heart disease, and yes, I go to the doctor once a year. My mother lives in Riverview, New Jersey, and my sister and her husband and their two kids live in the next town over. I see them when I can, which isn’t enough, or so they tell me. I’m the baby of the family, you see. Mom and Anna want me living right under their watchful eyes, but I just can’t do that. They love me to death and that’s the problem.”

  Becca smiled. “To death?”

  “Well,” Alex said, “to smotheration, if that’s a word. They mean well and I appreciate them. I just need to live out of easy visiting distance or I’d have no personal life whatsoever.”

  “They must have been very upset when you got divorced.”

  “Of course. According to my mother and sister, the divorce was all the fault of my former wife. But then again, she—her name is Bridget—never really cared for Mom and Anna, so I suppose for the women it all worked out nicely.”

  “And for you?” Becca could barely believe the boldness of her question.

  Alex grinned. “I’m doing pretty good. I could be better, but maybe I will be before long.”

  Becca wondered if he meant something—pointed—by that remark but decided that he couldn’t have. “When was the last time you saw your family?” she asked.

  “Oh, this past summer. Late July, I think it was.”

  “That’s a long time ago.”

  Alex smiled. “You should talk. You haven’t been here since last December.”

  Becca looked off at a large crow perched in the naked branches of the ancient oak that in summer held a tire swing. Crows, she’d always thought, were frightening birds, too black and sleek to be friendly. The bird shifted on the branch and seemed now to be staring at her. She turned away.

  “Any particular reason for the long absence?” Alex was asking.

  Though Alex’s tone betrayed no prurient motive, his question made Becca feel threatened. There it was, that old, powerful fear of exposure.

  “I’ve got to go,” she said, already heading for the house. “I have to check in with my office.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Becca stopped and turned to look back at Alex.

  “For what?” she asked, struggling to meet those intense blue eyes without flinching.

  “That the office can’t be left at the office.”

  Again, his tone was neutral, but Becca didn’t know if she could trust that neutrality. What, exactly, had Alex meant? Was he criticizing her devotion to career? “Yeah, well,” she said, “that’s just the way it is.”

  Becca again turned toward the house. “Just the way it is.” The words and the attitude behind them were more evidence of her failure of imagination. Why did anything in her life have to be “ just the way it is”? Besides, the truth in this case was that the office could very well be left to fend for itself. The empty e-mail box and the silent phone attested to that.

  Behind her the crow in the ancient oak tree cawed loudly.

  “Besides,” she said, turning back once more to find Alex watching her with those penetrating blue eyes, “I’m cold.”

  35

  Later that afternoon, Rain came upon her aunt Becca alone in the kitchen. She was making a pot of tea the old-fashioned way. At least, water was boiling in the kettle. Julie didn’t care much for microwaves; she thought food tasted “funny” after being nuked. She did, however, concede to the convenience of tea bags.

  Rain held out her long, well-manicured hands for inspection. “Aunt Becca, you haven’t mentioned my nails once since we got here. Do you like the color?”

  Like mother, like daughter, Becca thought. Rain had inherited Becca’s strong, natural nails and her penchant for wearing them long, no matter what the current fashion. “I think the color is fantastic. What’s it called?”

  “Blue Moon. When it first came out a few years ago I bought a couple of bottles, even though it’s pretty expensive. I just love it, but I save it for special occasions.”

  “Like Christmas with your family,” she suggested, pouring steaming water into another of the cups that Naomi had crafted. This one Becca actually liked. Naomi had used a striking teal glaze and done away with further decoration, like doggies and kitties and smiling pumpkins.

  “Sure. It’s always special when we all get together.”

  The obvious honesty of that reply touched Becca. “Come, sit with me,” she said.

  “Dad, of course, hates this color,” Rain said as she plopped into one of the chairs at the table. “He says he doesn’t know why I can’t wear pink. He says if I want blue nails I should just spill a bottle of ink on my hands.”

  Becca laughed. “Well, no one ever said my brother had much of a fashion sense. He spent all four years of college in what I’m pretty sure were the same pair of gray sweatpants.”

  “That’s gross,” Rain said, making a face. “Well, Alex has a fashion sense, even if he does need a haircut. He told me that he likes my nails.”

  “He did?” Becca was startled.

  “Yeah. He told me he doesn’t know many women with nice nails. He probably likes yours, too.”

  “Was he flirting with you?” Becca demanded. Because if he had been flirting with her teenaged daughter, she would destroy him. End of story. They could put her in jail, but they’d have to find her first. They could—

  “Ugh, no!” Rain cried, interrupting Becca’s silent fury. “He’s so old! Anyway, he’s not like that. He’s nice. I know because Dad likes him.”

  It was true. David had always had a good instinct about other men. Too bad he hadn’t met Rain’s father, she thought. Maybe he could have warned me to stay far away from him. Yeah, right. Becca knew that if her brother had warned her to stay away from the guy, it only would have made her run to him even faster than she had under her own impetus. She’d been a heedless girl. She’d become a cautious woman.
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  “Wait, let me show you something in here.” Rain grabbed one of the fashion magazines she’d left strewn across the table and flipped it open. “There’s an incredible pair of jeans in here you’ve just got to see.”

  Julie appeared just then. She came into the kitchen and stood with her arms folded, giving Becca a look that could only be interpreted as a warning. Becca couldn’t help but wonder if she was being followed, watched. Had someone alerted her mother to the fact that she was alone with Rain? It seemed entirely possible.

  “What do you want, Mom?” she asked, meeting Julie’s eye.

  Julie laughed, though there was nothing funny about Becca’s question or tone. “Can’t a woman come into her own kitchen for no reason at all?”

  “Of course. I certainly didn’t mean to imply—”

  “So, what have you girls been talking about?”

  “Nothing,” Becca said.

  “Rain?”

  She looked up from her magazine. “Yes, Grandma?”

  “What were you two talking about?”

  Rain looked at Becca. “Uh, like Aunt Becca said, nothing.” She shrugged. “A pair of jeans I want that Dad won’t let me get.”

  Julie shot another warning look at her daughter. “I’m sure your father has a good reason for not wanting you to have them.”

  “Yeah. They’re too expensive.”

  “Well, I hope you’re not asking your aunt for the money to buy them.”

  Rain looked embarrassed.

  “Mom.” Becca’s tone was firm. “She didn’t ask me for anything. We were just talking.”

  Julie hesitated a moment. “Fine,” she said then. “Well, I’ll leave you two to talk about—jeans.”

  Her mother left the kitchen. Becca wondered if anyone in the Rowan family would trust her ever again. She doubted they would. She doubted that any of her relationships with the family would ever be the same.

  Even her relationship with Rain? Becca watched her daughter flipping through the magazine. Suddenly, she felt—uncomfortable. And she wondered if she’d already, irrevocably destroyed something good between them, between her and her daughter, simply by considering breaking the family’s agreement. God, she hoped that she hadn’t.