With You and Without You

by Ann M. Martin

  “I do. Thanks, Mom.”

  We hugged each other, and then Hope came in and we put her to bed.

  “I can go,” I told Marc the next day. I didn’t even wait to meet him in the cement yard. I caught him right after math class.

  “Really?” said Marc. This huge grin spread across his face. “That’s great!” He turned and walked down the hall.

  The party was nine days away. In those nine days I fixed my hair about twenty different ways and tried on at least a million outfits. I tried on all my jewelry, and I fooled around with the makeup Denise had given me.

  By Friday at five I was a wreck, but I chose an outfit anyway. I decided on jeans, a funky pink sweat shirt, and barrettes with long streamers to wear in my hair. When I was finished and standing in front of Mom’s full-length mirror, I had to admit I looked very nice. Maybe even pretty.

  I called Denise to see how she was doing. She and Justin were both going to be at the party.

  “Hi,” I said when she picked up the phone. “Are you ready?”

  “I’m going crazy!” she cried. “You know my new blue pants?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Those are what I’m wearing, but then I couldn’t decide whether to put on the striped sweater or the sweat shirt with the sheep on it.”

  “Wear the sweat shirt,” I said.

  “Well, I was going to, but I tried it on so many times I got a hole in it.”

  “Oh!” I couldn’t help giggling. Then I added, “I’m so nervous. Promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “If you see me standing around alone, come talk to me, okay?”

  “Okay, but I can promise you something else—I won’t have to. Marc is so wild about you, he won’t leave you for a second.”

  “Really? I mean, he really likes me that much?”

  “Trust me.”

  At ten minutes to six, the doorbell rang and there was Marc standing on our front steps. His mother was sitting in the car in our driveway.

  “Hi, Marc. Come on in,” said Mom warmly.

  “Mom, we have to go,” I said.

  “Oh, hang on. I just want to see the two of you together.”

  Marc was blushing furiously.

  “Mo-ther,” I said. This was so embarrassing. After all, Marc was just picking me up. It wasn’t as if he were my date or something.

  “Oh, all right,” said Mom. “Have fun.”

  “Okay,” I said. I waved to her and we ran out the front door.

  Marc’s mother drove us to the Giannellis’.

  “My Mom’ll pick us up,” I told Mrs. Radlay as I was getting out of the car. “She said she’d come by at ten.”

  “That’s fine,” replied Marc’s mother. “Have fun, kids.”

  Fun. Right. Marc couldn’t possibly know how much I didn’t want to do this.

  But when he reached for my hand while we were waiting for someone to answer the door and said, “You look really nice, Liza,” I felt a lot better.

  Carlo’s father answered the door and showed us the room where we could leave our coats.

  “Ready?” asked Marc.

  “Sure,” I said.

  For a few exciting seconds we gazed into one another’s eyes.

  Then we heard Mr. Giannelli letting Justin and Denise in. When they had taken off their coats, we went into the rec room. The Giannellis had decorated it for Christmas. Red and green cloths covered the tables where food had been set out. A little Christmas tree stood in one corner. Streamers crisscrossed the ceiling and colored lights outlined the doorway to the front hall.

  “Come on, let’s get some food,” said Marc. He steered me toward one of the tables.

  And that was the beginning of one of the longest evenings of my life.

  Denise was right. Marc barely left me alone for a second. The time passed quickly. It was about two hours later, after we’d eaten and talked and danced to loud music, when someone said, “Let’s sing Christmas carols!”

  Several boys groaned, but all the girls thought it was a good idea, even Denise, who knew she would have to play the piano.

  We went into the Giannellis’ living room. Denise sat on the piano bench.

  “Do you need music?” asked Carlo.

  “No,” said Denise. “Not as long as we stick to carols everybody knows.”

  So we gathered around Denise, and someone called out, “‘The First Noel’!” And we began singing. It was when we were in the middle of “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” that I suddenly had to stop. One minute, I was around the piano with all those kids, and the next, I was remembering a snowy afternoon last Christmas when our family had sung carols by the fire. I remembered it as if it were yesterday and all those days between had never passed.

  To my horror, I felt my eyes fill with tears, but I was not going to cry in the middle of Carlo Giannelli’s Christmas party. I made a dash for the bathroom, couldn’t find it, and ended up in the room where we’d put our coats. But I hadn’t been there for more than ten seconds when the door opened and Marc came in.

  “Liza! What’s the matter?” he said.

  Do not cry, I told myself sternly. “It was just that carol. It made me think of my dad. … I want to go home. Do you know where the Giannellis’ phone is?”

  “Do you have to go? I think they’re getting tired of singing.”

  “I shouldn’t have come here in the first place,” I told Marc.

  “What do you mean? Why not? Your mother said it was all right.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just … it’s not right for me to have fun when my Dad is … when my Dad can’t. I’m not even going to celebrate Christmas this year.”

  Marc looked terribly embarrassed, as if he’d rather be anywhere except here talking about my dead father. But he said, “Don’t you think your dad would want you to enjoy yourself?”

  “Oh, that’s what everyone says, but it just doesn’t feel right.”

  “Do you feel better not having fun?” Marc asked me incredulously.

  “I don’t know. …”

  Marc cleared a space on the couch, and we sat down next to the mountain of coats. His red face was starting to return to its regular color.

  “Are you happy now?” he asked.

  “No!” I snapped. “My father’s dead. How could I be happy?”

  “I don’t know. I mean—” Marc’s face was blazing again. “So you’re going to forget Christmas this year? I bet your dad wouldn’t like that. I mean, unless he was really selfish or something.”

  I jumped up. “My father was not selfish! He was very generous. He wanted everyone to enjoy Christmas because he liked it so much. He—ohhhh,” I said. I sat down again. “I guess my father wouldn’t exactly approve of what I’m doing. I’m the one who’s being selfish. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

  “That’s all right. … Well …” Marc looked around uncomfortably. “You want to go back to the party now? We can’t stay in here all night. If anyone found out, they’d think we were … you know …”

  I giggled, then stopped abruptly. “I can’t go back.”

  “What are you going to do instead? Do you still want to go home?”

  “I guess not. But I can’t sing carols anymore. I just can’t.”

  “Okay,” said Marc. “Hey, listen.”

  “What? I don’t hear anything.”

  “I know. That’s what I mean.”

  And at that moment, a Bruce Springsteen song came blaring out of the tape deck.

  “Come on,” said Marc. “You can go back now, can’t you?”

  I giggled again. “Okay, let’s go.” I felt as if a weight had been lifted from my chest.

  But the evening wasn’t over yet. When I finally crawled into bed a couple of hours later, I’d been lying there for only a few seconds, thinking of Marc and the party, when I became aware of little sniffing noises and muffled sounds coming from Carrie’s bed.

  I flicked on my reading light and saw Carrie lying in a rumpled mess
of blankets with her pillow over her head. “Hey, what’s wrong?” I asked her. “Did you get in trouble?”

  “No.” Her voice sounded very small.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “I just miss Dad, that’s all.”

  “You do?”

  Carrie didn’t answer.

  “You really miss him?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “But I thought you didn’t care.”

  Carrie yanked the pillow from her face and slammed it on her bed. “You thought I didn’t care?”

  “Shh!” I said. “Mom’ll come in.”

  “Well, what made you think that? You’re the one who won’t go to the cemetery.”

  “But you didn’t do anything about his birthday, and you’re all caught up in the art club and baby-sitting and—”

  “It doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten. I think about him all the time. I’m lonely and I miss him, okay? Are you happy? Now let me go to sleep.”

  “Carrie, I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. But I’m trying to now.”

  “That’s okay,” she said.

  “If you want to talk about Dad sometime, we can.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Good night.”

  “Good night, Liza.”

  Chapter Eight

  THE NEXT MORNING I woke up feeling like Scrooge—not like the “Bah! Humbug” Scrooge, but like the Scrooge who awakens after he’s been visited by the three spirits and realizes he hasn’t missed Christmas after all, and now he has only a few hours to dress and buy a turkey and do all his shopping.

  I looked at the calendar on my desk. There were about three weeks until Christmas. I had an awful lot to do. I knew it would be hard, but I could always change my mind again.

  In her bed, Carrie moaned, rolled over, yawned, and opened one eye.

  “Hi,” I said to the eye. “Want to go Christmas shopping today?”

  The eye closed. “Phlmrstrp.” Then both eyes opened. “Christmas shopping?” she said.

  “Don’t ask. Do you want to go or not?”

  “Well, sure. I’ve got a lot left to do.”

  “Okay. Maybe someone will drive us to the mall.” After all, I thought, if I got there and couldn’t go through with it, Carrie and I could always go to a movie or get a hamburger. I hadn’t seen much of her lately anyway.

  So later that morning, Mom dropped us off. She didn’t ask any questions. When Carrie had told her we were going Christmas shopping, she had raised an eyebrow, and that was it.

  Neither Carrie nor I had nearly as much money to spend as we’d had last year because we weren’t allowed to dip into our savings accounts, but we had our allowances, and Carrie had her baby-sitting money, and I had some birthday money left over.

  So we went to the stores and did our Christmas shopping. Then we ate lunch at Friendly’s. And after that, we stood by Barton’s Men’s Store, waiting for Mom to pick us up. I was looking idly in the window at the suits and ties and belts when something occurred to me. I knew I was going to have to call Denise as soon as I got home.

  “Denise,” I said. I was standing in our kitchen with my coat on, still holding the packages from the mall. “Can I come over? I have to ask you something.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Come right now.”

  I hid the stuff I’d bought under my bed and dashed over to Denise’s. It took a little longer to get there than it had when we lived at 25 Bayberry, but soon I was sitting across from her on her bed, hugging a pillow. Denise was setting a bowl of M&M’s between us.

  “So?” she said.

  “So I realized something while Carrie and I were out shopping today.”

  “What?”

  “We have to get Marc and Justin Christmas presents. I mean, don’t we?” I figured that of all people, I should give Marc a present.

  Denise’s hand, which was on its way to her mouth full of M&M’s, stopped in midair. “Oh, wow! You’re right. I guess we do.”

  “What do you get for a boy?”

  “Well, what do you get Brent?” Denise countered.

  “Oh, forget that. Brother stuff—socks or underwear, or things he’s asked for. But we can’t get Marc and Justin socks or underwear. And they haven’t asked for anything. And we can’t afford really nice gifts, like sweaters.”

  Denise put the handful of M&M’s in her mouth and thought. She put another handful in and thought some more.

  “Maybe,” I said, “we could get them something meaningful.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Like if Justin has a favorite song, you could get him the tape it’s on. Something like that.”

  “Oh, that’s a good idea.”

  “We’ll have to think.”

  “Yeah.”

  That evening at dinner, Brent, our very own household budget analyst, said, “I don’t see how we can afford that trip to New York I was thinking about and do everything else for Christmas that we’ve planned.”

  “No,” said Mom. “I agree. New York is out. I don’t think we have a free Saturday before Christmas anyway.”

  “But,” said Brent, “even though it’s expensive, maybe we could still go out to Thompson’s to chop down a tree, instead of just buying a cut one here in town.”

  “I guess so,” Mom replied. “Sure. That’s a good idea.”

  “Could we go tomorrow?” asked Brent.

  “Yeah, please?” cried Carrie.

  “Please, please, please?” chimed in Hope.

  “Why not?” said Mom. “Liza, do you want to come with us?”

  I wasn’t sure I did, but I said I would anyway. I figured I could always stay in the car, if necessary.

  But I had a feeling it might not be necessary. Just before dinner, one of Mom’s friends had dropped by and smoked three cigarettes. After she’d left, Mom had asked me to empty the ashtray. It wasn’t until twenty minutes later that I remembered about “flakes of Dad.” And when I did remember, I smiled. It seemed silly now. Besides, I had so many other things to think about—like Marc—that I didn’t have time to remember “flakes of Dad” every time I saw an ash.

  “Yay!” shouted Hopie. “Liza’s coming!”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  The next day we piled into the car and Brent drove us out to Thompson’s. When we arrived, Mom got out and looked around.

  “Your father really used to love this place,” she said. “He came here for a Christmas tree every year from the time he was thirteen.”

  “My age,” I said.

  Mom nodded.

  “Do you think he’d be glad we came here without him this year?” I asked anxiously.

  “I don’t think he’d have wanted it any other way. We can carry on the tradition for him,” replied Mom. “Brent, this was a good idea.”

  We chose a fat little tree and took it home with us. Everyone really got into the spirit then and brought some of the decorations out of the attic. But I’d had enough, and I sat down in the kitchen to do some homework. I didn’t want to see the tree or the decorations.

  The phone rang.

  I answered it. “Hello?”

  “Hello, is Liza there?”

  “This is Liza.”

  “Hi. It’s Marc.”

  “Hi!” I cried.

  “Would you like to—If you don’t want to, I’ll understand. It’ll be okay. But next Saturday, a bunch of kids from our class are going Christmas caroling. Justin and Denise are going, and Margie and Cathryn Lynn and Carlo and about six others. Then we’re going to Tommy Schwartz’s for hot chocolate and stuff. I’m sure we wouldn’t have to sing “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.” Want to go with me?”

  I paused. “Sure … ,” I said slowly. “Yeah, I guess so. Let me check with Mom. Hold on.”

  I got Mom out of the living room, where she was looking through a big box of tree ornaments.

  “Marc wants to know if I can go Christmas caroling with some kids next Saturday. Denise is going.”

  “O
f course,” said Mom. She looked at me thoughtfully. “Are you afraid?”

  “Yes,” I admitted, “but I’m still going to go.”

  Mom kissed me on the forehead. “I love you,” she said.

  I returned to the phone and gave Marc the good news.

  Saturday morning arrived with snow. It snowed all day and was still snowing at dinnertime, but we decided to go caroling anyway. I bundled up in layers of clothes and walked to Denise’s house. Then Mrs. Petersen drove us slowly through the silent white streets to Tommy’s house, where the carolers were meeting.

  Tommy handed out little songbooks, and we started walking through his neighborhood, singing at each home. Everywhere we went, people came to their front doors to listen and to offer us cookies or chocolates.

  I think we were at the sixth house when Marc took my hand. I couldn’t feel it too well since we were each wearing two pairs of mittens, so that there were four layers of wool between my hand and his, but it didn’t matter.

  We held hands until we returned to Tommy’s house an hour later. And just before everyone’s parents started arriving, Marc kissed me quickly on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, Liza,” he said.

  At first the words froze on my lips, but at last I got them out. “Merry Christmas,” I whispered.

  I went home in a daze.

  The next day, I couldn’t think of anything but Marc. He was everywhere. I floated through the morning.

  After lunch, Mom said, “Liza? Carrie and Hope and I are going to the cemetery this afternoon. Would you like to come with us?”

  I knew what she was thinking. I was changing, calming down. I was going to take part in Christmas, maybe. I had other things on my mind besides Dad. (Marc, for instance.) But I could not face that cemetery yet. The cemetery was Dad dead, just like the ashes were. And I didn’t want to deal with it.

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so,” I told Mom. “Not yet.”

  Chapter Nine

  BUYING MARC’S CHRISTMAS PRESENT started out as a little project and turned into a gigantic one. I could not think of anything to give him that was both meaningful and cheap. Denise was having as much trouble as I was.

  We didn’t know what the boys’ favorite songs were.

  We couldn’t afford sweaters or tie clips or cuff links.