“I know,” I said, feeling like a teen who’d been out past curfew.
“You could have been dead on the side of the road.”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry.”
She pushed her glasses up on her nose and examined my face for signs of true regret. I must have passed the test, because a moment later she threw her arms around my neck and hugged me tight. I put my arms around her little body and squeezed. She released me and gave me a sharp pinch on my arm for good measure, then smiled.
“Alex is in his room. He’s been pretending not to be worried, but you should go tell him you’re here.”
I ruffled her hair and headed up the stairs. The door to Alex’s room stood closed like an ominous barrier at the end of the hall. I’d never been in the inner sanctum before. I rapped twice on the door.
“Alex? It’s me.”
I heard some shuffling, then, “Come in.”
I opened the door. He was sitting cross-legged at the head of his bed, his back slumped against a husband pillow. There were a few crumpled pages on the floor, and a pen was resting by his foot. The edge of the leather journal I’d bought him hung out of a hastily shut drawer in his desk. I smiled.
“Just wanted you to know I was home safe.”
He shrugged. “I knew you would be. The girls were all freaking out.”
Ah. The girls. I withheld my smile and sat down on the corner of his bed and glanced toward the desk.
“So... you been writing in that journal?”
His eyes widened a bit. Busted. He regained his cool and shrugged again. “A little.”
I nodded. “Anything good?”
He shrugged. “‘Sokay.”
“Would you let me read it?”
His posture straightened a bit, but that was all I got, aside from a barely perceptible nod. We sat for a second in silence. I stood up. “Well, I’m sorry if I worried you.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
I was at the door when I heard my name. I turned around. He was holding the journal out to me. “I wrote a play for your stupid puppet show.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Is it good?”
He shrugged. “Kids might like it.”
I took the journal and grinned at him. “Think you can help me get a performance together by Christmas Eve?”
He shrugged again. I sat back down on the bed.
“Look, Alex, let me tell you something so you don’t end up wasting a bunch of precious time. If there’s something you care about, just own up to it and go for it. If you get hit by a bus tomorrow, do you want to die knowing the only thing you ever did was pretend you didn’t care about anything?”
His eyes widened. “You’re getting preachy in your old age.”
I smiled. “There. An actual statement of opinion. We’re getting somewhere. Now, back to my original question: do you give enough of a shit about what you wrote to help me put a show on?”
He smiled. “You said ‘shit.’”
I held up the journal. “I’ll read it tonight. Meantime, I want you at the Santa Station every day after school, okay? I’ll clear it with your mom.”
“Okay,” he said. I squeezed his foot and stood up, almost out of the room before he called my name again.
“What?” I said, turning around.
“I’m glad you’re home,” he said.
I smiled. “Me, too, kid.”
***
I closed the journal after reading Alex’s play and stared at the ceiling in my apartment. The kid was a writer. There were some rough spots—he had a couple of grammatical issues—but he was a writer. His story was funny, his characters were sharp, and his dialogue wasn’t half-bad.
He was a writer.
I gave a short chuckle, staring down at the journal clutched in my hand.
“Hmph,” I said to no one. “Who knew?”
I leaned over on my side and looked at my wall. Just five stickies left.
Go see parents.
Do something meaningful.
Identify phantom music.
Figure out what I want.
Tell Walter.
I flipped through Alex’s journal, looking at the chicken scratch. I reached over, pulled Do something meaningful off the wall, and threw it into the garbage can. Cuddling Alex’s journal to my chin, I fell asleep, smiling.
Chapter Twelve
I’d been lying on my bed for an hour since getting home. As Christmas approached, things at the Santa Station had been getting out of hand. I’d been dragging that damn train full of kids all day. My back hurt. My legs throbbed. My eyelashes were tired.
And I was still hearing that damn phantom music.
There was a small knock at the door. I didn’t move.
“Come in!”
Kacey opened the door, her arms loaded with a tray carrying two glasses of milk and a plate of what smelled like fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. I sat up.
“You are the best kid on the planet,” I said, getting up to help her with the tray. We settled on opposite ends of my bed, digging into the cookies and milk, addressing priorities before we bothered with small talk. It wasn’t until Kacey was well into her second cookie that I heard her humming.
My tune.
“Kace?” I said. “Why are you humming that?”
“Hmmm?” She looked up at me, the tiniest trace of a milk mustache on her lips. I smiled.
“The song. My song. You were humming it. Have you heard it recently?”
She sighed. “No. That’s the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
She leaned forward, tossing up her hands in exaggerated preteen frustration. “Wanda, I’ve listened to everything. Wagner. Berlioz. Tchaikovsky. I’ve been to the library. I’ve borrowed stuff from my friends’ parents. Brittany’s grandfather plays in the symphony, and I hummed it for him and he didn’t know it. I couldn’t find it. I’m sorry.”
I opened my mouth, came up with nothing, closed it again. I stared down at the crumbs swimming on the surface of my milk. I could feel my eyes filling with tears as I looked back up at her angelic little face. “Thanks, kid.”
Her eyes widened. “What’s the matter with you?”
I shrugged and tried to catch my breath as the tears came faster. “Nothing... just... you... that you would do that... for me...” I threw my hands up in the air and went into the bathroom to grab a roll of toilet paper, blowing my nose and tossing the crumpled mass into the garbage can, then sat on the bed again.
Kacey laughed. “You’re weird. Why wouldn’t I do that for you? You’re family.”
“Stop!” I said, fresh tears sprouting. “What are you trying to do, kill me?”
She shook her head. “Grown-ups cry over the strangest things, don’t they?”
I laughed and nodded. “Yeah. Sometimes.” I looked up at her and managed a quivering smile. “Really. Don’t be freaked out. I’m fine. It’s just...” I waved my hand in front of my face, trying to fan the emotion away. “I love you, kid.”
She laughed and hopped over to my side of the bed, throwing her arms around my neck. “I love you, too, Wanda.”
As I wrapped my arms around her, I got my first glimpse of the unconditional love parents feel for their children. It was a quick snapshot, an intense burst of emotion that radiated through me, and I knew that I would step in front of a train for her without thinking twice. I would kill anyone who ever tried to hurt her. And if she ever strapped herself to the back of some loser’s Harley, I would never stop loving her, no matter how many stupid mistakes she made.
I gave her a quick squeeze and grabbed the roll of toilet paper again, wiping my eyes and trying to put on a brave face for her.
“They’re happy tears,” I said.
“Yeah,” she said as she stood up. “I think you’ll be okay.”
“You know what, kid?” I said, putting my arm around her as I walked her to the door. “I think so, too.”
I sent her back downstairs and sat on my bed
, staring at the four stubborn stickies left on my wall. I pulled down Go see parents, staring at the letters on the paper, wondering at how a bunch of marker squiggles on some processed pulp could hold so much power. I stuck it back on the wall with the others and called the airlines to get rates for a trip to New York City for Saturday morning.
***
I hate flying. It doesn’t make sense that a multi-ton piece of machinery carrying hundreds of people can stay in the air just because it’s moving really fast. I realize that millions of flights zoom all over the country without event every year and that flying is statistically safer than driving, but I still found myself digging my fingernails into the armrests while staring out the window, as though the plane would drop out of the sky if I didn’t keep my eyes attached to the clouds.
We landed safely in New York, just as the stewardess predicted. I didn’t find out until after I’d referred to her as a stewardess that they were called flight attendants now. I spent much of the flight trying to think of a clever, irritatingly PC nickname for “passenger,” until I realized that it didn’t do much to divert my attention from the real source of my anxiety, and so I turned to crossword puzzles.
My return flight was open-ended. I could leave that night, or I could leave in the morning. Elizabeth and Bones and the kids had assured me the Santa Station could live without me for a day. Now the only thing left to worry about was whether I was about to experience a happy reunion or flat parental rejection.
On with the show.
It wasn’t until I was halfway to Chappaqua in my rental car that I reconsidered my decision not to call first. It was December 23. They could be anywhere. Dad had retired from the firm in the city some years back and started a small practice in town, but he never worked Christmas week anymore. Maybe they’d be spending the day with Aunt Margaret in Hoboken. Maybe they would take a few days and do Christmas in the city. Maybe Mom wouldn’t be home cooking dinner. Maybe they were out nabbing some Chinese and a movie.
Maybe the whole trip would be a bust and I’d have to come back and my whole plan would fall apart and...
My train of thought stopped short as I pulled into the driveway.
They were home.
Through the huge living room window, I could see Dad sitting in his chair, reading the paper. Mom came out, refilled his glass of wine, and leaned in for the quick thank-you kiss that’d been part of their routine since I could remember.
Suddenly, my heart ached for routine.
I hoisted my bag over my shoulder and forced my legs to carry me up the driveway to the front door. I never knew ankles could shake, but mine seemed about ready to give up and drop me.
I hit the doorbell and briefly considered running, until I saw my father glance through the living room window to see who was there, disappear, and then come back, his face registering recognition this time.
Must have been the hair. I was sure he couldn’t recall having given life to a giant match. I ran my hands over my head, and there was my father standing before me, door open. Tall. Gray. Silent. I reached into my bag and pulled out a bottle of Chivas Regal, holding it out to him.
“I brought you something,” I said, trying to breathe.
He reached out and took it from me, staring down at it for a moment before looking back up at me.
“Thank you,” he said, and smiled.
That’s what did it. The smile. It’s shocking how powerful a smile from your father can be. I stood where I was and felt the tears fall down my face. Goof, I thought. Doofus. Say what you came here to say.
“I’m sorry,” I said, barely a whisper. I looked up and caught his face and he was crying, too, and he pulled me into his arms and kissed me on the top of my head, the way he used to do after my recitals at Miss Maria’s School of Dance.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for, honey,” he said quietly into my hair.
“Jonathan?” I heard my mother’s wary tones come up over Dad’s shoulder. He released me, swiped his hand over his face, and turned slightly, clearing the way between my mother and me.
Her eyes fixed on me and paused. Eight years and a wacky haircut were hell on recognition. When the moment hit, her eyebrows knit together briefly, and she looked at my father. He nodded at her, and she froze, her hands still clutched to her apron in a gesture of perpetual drying.
I reached into my bag and pulled out the first English edition Anna Karenina that Bones had let me have at a hell of a discount and handed it to her.
“I brought you something,” I said, my voice crackling as I spoke.
She released her apron and took the book from me, running her hands lightly across the cover. I tried to concentrate on breathing, steadied myself, and then looked at her. When her eyes rose from the book to me, I spoke again.
“I understand now,” I said, falling back on memorization and rehearsal to get through it. “I didn’t for a long time, but now I do. George is gone. Long gone. I’m living in Tennessee, and I have a life there. I like it. But I wanted to come here and tell you how sorry I am.”
My mother calmly put the book on the small table by the door and stepped forward, putting her arms around my neck and pulling me in for a hug.
“We love you, honey,” she said. “I hope you always knew that.”
“I knew,” I said, although I hadn’t, not really, not until I heard the words.
Dad stepped back and ushered me into the house, and we settled into the living room. Mom went to fill some glasses with ice, and Dad went to work opening the Chivas.
“Have you developed a taste for Scotch?” he asked. “I remember you hating the stuff when you were younger.”
“I’ve changed a little,” I said.
He looked at me and grinned. “I can see that. I like the hair.”
Mom came in with the glasses, and Dad filled them, and the whole scene was surreal in its serene domesticity. She handed me a glass and sat down next to me on the sofa. Her eyes were red, and it looked like she’d been crying in the kitchen, but Dad and I didn’t say anything. Either one of us could crack at any moment, so there was nothing to be gained in pointing fingers. “So how have you been?” she asked quietly.
“Good,” I said. “I’m divorced. Single. Living over a friend’s garage.”
I saw my parents exchange glances, and I berated myself for testing them. Old habits die hard. I smiled.
“I own my own business. I’ve been seeing a lawyer.”
My father’s face brightened. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I said, not worrying that Walter and I weren’t technically dating at the moment. I was taking it one sticky note at a time. “He reminds me of you a bit, Dad.”
Dad smiled. “Sounds like a good man.”
“Yeah,” I said, taking another sip of my drink and feeling a small smile emerge on my lips. “He really is.”
***
It was the middle of the night. I woke up in my old room, which hadn’t changed since the day I left. I sat up in bed, staring at the faded, curling eighties heartthrob posters on the wall, hearing phantom strands of that goddamn song.
Again.
I’d been hoping that it had something to do with this visit. That it would just go away, magically, as soon as I resolved things with my parents. Apparently, I’d been engaging in what the kids today call wishful thinking.
I threw my feet over the side and slid them into my old slippers. I laughed. I couldn’t believe they still had my stupid slippers.
I saw light from the television flickering over the living room as I came down the stairs. Dad was sitting on the couch, futzing with the remote while The Philadelphia Story played silently in the background. I smiled.
“Hey,” I said.
He looked up, his face chagrined. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep, so I put the tape in. It started out pretty loud...”
I waved him off. “I was awake.” I jerked my chin toward the television. “Haven’t seen that in a while.”
He grinned.
“Me neither.”
“How about you rewind it and turn the sound back on, and I’ll go get us some ice cream?”
He nodded. “Sounds perfect. Thanks.”
I padded into the kitchen and stuck my head into the freezer. There were three pints of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia.
“You’re a good man, Mom,” I said, grabbing one pint and two spoons and heading back into the living room.
I froze. There it was. The music. The phantom music I’d been hearing all along.
The theme from The Philadelphia Story.
“Oh my God,” I said.
Dad turned around and looked at me. “Wanda?” he said, concern thick in his voice. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, swiping at my face with the back of one hand and coming around the sofa to sit next to him. I pulled the top off the ice cream and handed him a spoon.
“When did we start doing this, Dad?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even. “Watching The Philadelphia Story every Christmas?”
He shrugged, taking a dig from the ice cream. “I don’t know. We had it on tape when you were a kid.”
I nodded. From the corner of my eye, I could see him watching me.
“Wanda?” he said. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I looked up at him and smiled, snuggling next to him. He put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. I felt twelve again. Safe. Loved.
At home.
And I knew at that moment exactly what I wanted and whom I wanted it with.
“That theme music,” I said. “That’s not even close to a classical style, is it?”
He laughed. “Not really, no.”
I licked my spoon and laughed. Dad sighed.
“It’s good to have you back, Wanda. I wish you would stay for Christmas.”
“I can’t,” I said. “I have plans tomorrow night. But...” I sat up and looked at him. “Mom’s birthday is in February. Why don’t you guys come out for a visit? I’d love for you to meet my friends.”
“And your young man,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
I smiled and snuggled back next to him and settled in for two glorious hours of Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant. And Jimmy Stewart.
Time Off for Good Behavior Page 18
