But fool that I was, I would have tried. If I could stop the spinning planet and turn back time, I would have done something—anything—differently with Greg. Somehow, someway, I would have made him love me.
How I wished I could have made him love me.
9
The next day, Christmas Day, my hangover was amplified by depression.
I’d been dumped on Christmas Eve! Or maybe it had happened on Christmas, since my brain had been so fuzzy with champagne and sake and spiced cider, I’d lost track of time. It was almost too awful to talk about. Fortunately, Leo had a knack for reading between the lines. By the time he had polished off half a tray of Mom’s sticky buns, he had guessed most of the tragic details of my evening.
Unable to eat—more from the hangover than the depression, since depression makes me want to consume massive quantities of yum-yums—I hugged a coffee mug covered with dancing Santas in one hand and picked candied pecans off the buns with the other. The dining room was surprisingly tidy, considering the scores of friends and neighbors who had feasted here last night.
“I can’t believe how it happened,” I said. “I felt the earth move.”
Leo’s brows shot up. “Nothing wrong with that, as Carole King can attest. But I take it that happened before you broke up?”
“Not that old euphemism. I was actually clinging to the boat, feeling the earth spin through space.” I scratched the back of my head and yawned. “That’s the last time I’ll mix sake and champagne and spiced cider.”
“And bourbon sours and martinis,” Leo added.
“No! I wasn’t drinking those, was I?”
“When we were dancing out back in the garden? Don’t worry, I’m sure you sweated most of the alcohol away.”
“No one can sweat that much.” I winced. Maybe it was a good thing that Christmas only came once a year.
“Good morning! Merry Christmas.” Mom appeared fully dressed in jeans and a hand-knit sweater with a snowflake pattern around the neck.
“Merry Christmas, Mom,” I said quietly. I admit, I felt a little pang of daughterly love as she leaned over the table, straightened a sprig of holly in the centerpiece, then trouped off to the kitchen for coffee. Mom must have been so lonely knocking around in this big, empty house. I really was glad she had found someone, and from my brief conversation with Clay I agreed with her choice, but I couldn’t ignore the throbbing voice of my conscience that worried about Dad suddenly realizing that his wife had mentally checked out long ago. I didn’t want my father to feel abandoned.
Ugh! I had come home for a cozy Christmas and had opened a can of wormy issues instead.
I pressed my hands to my cheeks. “I want to go home.”
Leo eyed me over his Rudolph mug. “You are home, Dorothy.”
“No,” I hissed, glancing over my shoulder to make sure Mom didn’t hear. “Back to New York. To our new place.”
“Why don’t you use my ticket and I’ll stay,” Leo tossed off. “I could use another two weeks with Wolf.”
I opened my eyes wide, considering the prospect. In two days, I could be back in New York, squeezing into crowded subway cars and dodging the smoke of hot pretzel carts. “You’re on.”
“Just kidding.” Leo winced. “You know I’m out of vacation time. And since Vilma is out for two full weeks, there’s going to be a ton of administrative catch-up, especially on the soaps.” Vilma was Leo’s boss, and she seemed to be responsible for every aspect of the network’s three daytime dramas—at least, that was what she tried to make people believe. From what I’d witnessed, over the past few months Leo had become her entire backbone, doing everything but taking lunches for her. He sat in on meetings, kept her calendar, made her decisions, and pretty much ran the damned office.
“When is Vilma going to promote you?” I asked.
“I’ve only been there since July. But my six-month review comes up next month.”
“I say you dig your nails in and squeeze out every penny you can. Vilma and those temperamental producers would be lost without you.”
“Do you think?” Leo scratched his chin. “Christ, I’d love a promotion, but I don’t think Vilma will let go of me just yet. Who else would order her flowers and yell at the dry cleaner?”
“Are you two talking shop on Christmas morning?” Mom asked, mug in hand. “Boy, times really have changed. Years ago you used to drag your father and me out of bed at the crack of dawn. Now, you’re lingering over coffee while there’s a mountain of gifts inside waiting to be unwrapped.”
“You’re right. We’re too complacent, aren’t we?” I stood up and stretched. “There must be some way to strike a balance between ripping the gifts open and totally ignoring them.”
“I wasn’t ignoring,” Leo insisted, “I was politely waiting for all to rise.”
“That’s right,” I said, turning toward the grandfather clock. “Shouldn’t we wait for Dad to come down?”
“Oh, your father left for the hospital hours ago,” Mom said. “Didn’t he mention it last night? He agreed to take over a shift so Dr. Feinstein could spend Christmas morning in Sausalito with his grandchildren.”
“That rat!” I huffed. “It’s not like I’m here every day, and Dr. Feinstein can see his Sausalito family anytime.”
“Honey, you’re preaching to the choir,” Mom said. “But I learned long ago not to let our happiness ride on your father’s actions.” She carried her mug in to survey the gifts under the tree. We managed to extract the gifts for the three of us and toted them into the small parlor, which was a lot cozier than the very grand marble-tiled living room.
First, I opened my gift from Leo—a tiny snow-globe ornament depicting Rockefeller Center, where he worked. “This is so great! Next year, I’m going to have a tree-trimming party back in New York.”
“I used to do that in my first apartment, fresh out of Stanford,” Mom said. “It’s a great way to meet guys.”
“This is so exciting,” Leo said, pulling off a velvet bow. “My mother hasn’t bothered to wrap a gift for me since I was ten.”
“You poor dear,” Mom said, watching expectantly as Leo tore the paper off an odd-shaped carton. The shiny, waxed cardboard was shaped like a Chinese take-out container.
“How kitschy!” Leo opened the flaps and pulled out a waxy-looking dumpling. “It’s bath soaps!” he said, holding up the soap dumpling. “I love it! This is just the thing for our new apartment. Did Madison tell you I’m getting my own bathroom?”
Mom smiled. “That’s quite a find for a New York apartment.”
Next Mom opened the box containing the creamy cashmere sweater I’d gotten her and claimed to adore it. Then I opened a box with a silk nightgown and a gift certificate to Victoria’s Secret.
“Ohmigosh, I need underwear desperately. Thanks, Mom.”
She nodded knowingly. “I’ve seen those scraps you wear coming out of the dryer. And if your mother can’t replenish your underwear supply, who can?”
I put the gift certificate in a safe spot, then chased tissue paper and stray ribbon around the floor as Leo dug into another gift.
“Socks!” He held up a pair of argyles I’d given him. “And with a tag from Bendel’s. Do I need to frame them, or can I wear them?”
“You have to wear them,” I said. “I love expensive socks. Even when you have to wear stiff clothes for work, your cushy socks can make you feel pampered.”
“Thank you,” Leo said, as we shifted attention to Mom, who was opening Leo’s gift.
As the decorative gift packages turned into a carnage of strewn merchandise, torn wrapping paper, empty boxes, and decapitated bows, a hollow feeling came over me. It was more than the ebbing excitement of Christmas Day.
I realized what a huge mistake I’d made with Greg. Ugh! I’d misjudged the situation in my ever hopeful Madison way. I had mistaken a fuck-fest for a meaningful relationship. I had hoped for something long term, with a house and a husband and babies.
And in
the end, what had Greg said? That I didn’t know him, and it was true. I had fallen in love with the image of Greg and with the romantic notion that marriage to one of San Francisco’s hottest bachelors would be a Town and Country event.
Oh, what a major Christmas botch job.
I had committed the ultimate Christmas sin. I’d peeked into my biggest, most exquisitely wrapped package on Christmas Eve, and discovered the devastating truth.
It was empty.
That night, Mom roasted a stuffed turkey breast and I helped her make garlic mashed potatoes and string beans with almonds. Normally I hate cooking, but it wasn’t fair to stick Mom with all the work, and I don’t mind contributing when someone can supervise me to make sure the dishes turn out delicious. We enjoyed setting out a traditional dinner for Leo and Wolf and Dad, who was wildly appreciative, though he had to head back to the hospital to look in on a few patients afterward.
“Are you sure he’s not having an affair?” I muttered to Mom as we loaded the dinner dishes in the dishwasher.
“Honey, I wish he would. I think any diversion from the cardio business would help to fill out his life, but your father is one of those single-minded workaholics.”
After Dad took off, the remaining four of us played a few hands of spades at the kitchen table with a round of Irish coffees. Mom put on a Glenn Miller Orchestra Christmas CD, then curled up behind her hand of cards in her snowflake sweater, jeans, and ragwool socks. It struck me that she seemed suddenly youthful, not a liposuction alumnus, but one of those women who emerged from a magazine makeover with a new light in her eyes. Leo and Wolf seemed so comfortable in my house, I was beginning to think of them as the brothers I had longed for throughout my childhood (though when I’d fantasized, I’d imagined brothers who would bring their friends home as date material for me—not for each other).
“‘Gone away, is the bluebird,’” Mom sang along with the CD. “‘Here to stay, is the new bird. He sings a love song as we go along . . .’”
“‘Walking in a winter wonderland,’” we all chimed in, then cracked up.
“Good God,” Leo sputtered, “if anyone ever speaks of this evening again, I will vehemently deny my involvement.”
“I won’t mention it,” I said. “But let me point out that you do know all the words, Leo.”
“Just play a damned card,” he told me.
We had some laughs and enjoyed circumventing each other’s game strategies. Yes, it would have been a fun, relaxed Christmas night if it weren’t for the fact that I’d been derailed by Greg the night before.
Fortunately, no one brought that up. I knew that Wolf must know all the details by now, and I suspected that Leo had shared the pertinent facts with Mom, as the two of them had become buds in the week or so of our visit. Hell’s bells, they all probably knew. They were probably sitting here playing spades to cheer up poor, rejected Madison, but since no one acknowledged it I was happy to sop up their pity and enjoy the company of the three people who mattered to me most in the world. Oh, I know, it was a corny sentiment, but after all, it was Christmas night.
After a few rounds, Mom got up and gathered up the empty mugs. “I’d better change if I’m going to head over to that Christmas party,” she said, putting the cups in the sink. “I could say that I’m going to Emily’s house, but we all know that’s a load of crap.”
Wolf’s eyes opened wide in amazement and glee as Leo let out a mock gasp. I was a little shocked myself, but it was a relief to see Mom back in form.
“I believe a nightcap or two at Top of the Mark is in order,” Leo suggested. “What say you, warriors?”
“Sounds great,” Wolf said, slipping on his leather jacket.
But I wasn’t up for a night out. “You guys go,” I said. “I’m beat, and AMC is doing a marathon of It’s a Wonderful Life tonight.”
“You are kidding, aren’t you?” Leo pressed. “You can get that movie on tape.”
“We have it on tape,” Mom said.
“But it’s different when it’s being broadcast,” I said. “You can watch it knowing that thousands of other people are watching with you. It gives you this community feeling—that you’re not alone.”
“Maybe we should stay,” Wolf said, unzipping his jacket. But I knew he was motivated by pity for me, that he didn’t share my desire to snuggle up in front of the Christmas classic.
“No, no, you guys go,” I insisted. “I’ll join you at the Mark if I get a second wind.”
“Come on, Wolf,” Leo said, tossing his muffler over one shoulder. “If I’ve learned anything, it’s that you cannot disrupt the Greenwood women from their Christmas rituals.”
“Merry Christmas!” I called after them as they headed out the side door. I turned to Mom and edged her away from the sink. “You go get ready,” I insisted. “I’ll take care of that stuff.”
She didn’t turn away from the sink and didn’t look at me but kept scrubbing a clean mug with a sponge. “Are you okay with this? With my seeing Clay?”
Welcome to the world of bizarro, I thought, a world in which your mother asks for approval and looks the other way while you’re nailing the caterer in her rose garden.
I wrapped the dishtowel around one hand and leaned against the counter. “Mom, the important thing is, are you happy?”
She let out a breath, sort of a sigh. “Yes. Yes, I am. For the first time in a long time.”
“Then hold on to that,” I said, feeling a little wise for my twenty-one years. But before Mom had a chance to appreciate my Yoda-esque sentiment, the doorbell rang.
“That must be Clay.” Quickly, she dried her hands and dashed to the front door.
“He picks her up for a date,” I said to myself. “He comes in right through the front door. Dad, you are so in another world.”
“Well, this is a surprise!” I heard Mom’s voice booming in that tone that said: Madison, I want you to hear me!
What now? Had Clay brought her a prom corsage? Rented a limo?
I turned toward the dining room arch to see Mom escorting a gorgeous man in white. Oh, no! It wasn’t Clay at all, but Vanilla Man!
“Ryan,” I said flatly, staring at his dress whites, “don’t the Marines know that white is a faux pas after Labor Day?”
“Navy. I’m in the Navy,” he corrected me, then he smiled that tentative smile of a kid who never quite got over the stigma of having braces. “Merry Christmas, Madison.”
Oh, hit me where it hurts! I wanted to yell, looking up at the tower of white beaming beside Mom. It wasn’t supposed to be Ryan; I was supposed to be here with Greg, dammit.
“Ryan, are you hungry?” Mom asked. “We’ve got plenty of leftover turkey.”
“No, ma’am. Thank you, but I had dinner with my father and his wife,” he said.
“Then coffee,” Mom suggested. “And pie. We’ve got pumpkin pie, and apple, and pecan.”
I wanted to step behind Ryan and wave the checkered flag, signaling Mom that the race was over, but she wasn’t paying any attention to me. She was pulling out a chair for Ryan, opening the fridge, handing me the coffee can.
“Madison, will you make some coffee?” Mom said. “What kind of pie do you prefer? Or a little of each?”
“Some of each would be great,” Ryan said, sitting at attention and placing his hat on the table. His hat. The guy couldn’t even stop by without bringing his freaking general’s hat.
On the way to get a coffee filter, I paused beside Ryan and looked down at him. “At ease,” I said. “Apparently you’ve already passed inspection.”
At least, he’d passed Mom’s inspection, I thought. Okay, maybe it was snarky of me, but I wanted Ryan to stop being so polite and stop sucking up to Mom. Actually, I wanted him to just go away. Aside from a few teenage memories, and many of those were awkward adolescent explorations that no one ever wants to remember, Ryan and I had nothing in common. And dammit, I wanted to keep it that way.
“There you go,” Mom said, placing a dinn
er plate of pie slices in front of him. While I hung back by the granite counter waiting for the coffee to perk, she sat down across from him, pouring on the Robin Greenwood charm that had won over my teachers and adversaries on the soccer field. “We didn’t really get a chance to talk last night,” she said.
Ryan nodded over a forkful of flaky pie crust. “No, ma’am, we didn’t. And I didn’t get a chance to thank you for the wonderful party.”
“We were delighted to have you,” Mom insisted. “I saw you talking with Mrs. Sonnenberg.”
The old witch.
“She mentioned that you helped fund a new computer system for the library,” Ryan said.
“I just organized the committee,” Mom said.
As they chattered on about local biz, their words blurring to blah-blah-blahs, Mom’s image paling in the glow of the vanilla god, I was haunted by one of the most awkward moments in my life. In the backseat of a car with Ryan, and I wanted to do it. I was the aggressor. But he kept saying no. No. We needed to wait. We were too young. He wanted it to be special.
So instead, hotshot that I was, I decided to give him a blow job. Ugh! How stupid was that? I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I actually leaned over him and blew air on his penis. I did! A stupid act that will haunt me till I die.
At least he didn’t laugh. “I think that’s just an expression—about blowing?” he’d said. “I think you’re supposed to sort of rub it with your lips?”
Ugh! Even thinking about it now, I felt my face grow warm. I had to turn away and pretend to check the coffee. I’d been so naive back then, so sure that my life would be perfect if I could just squeeze my way into the cheerleader clique and get voted into the prom queen’s court.
And Ryan . . . He’d been so idealistic, wanting to wait until we were older to have sex. Which had unnerved me, making me wonder if I was doing something wrong. But many times we’d come so close . . . steaming up the windows of his car, stroking each other into a frenzy in Golden Gate Park, making out between the rocks at Cliff House.
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