by Sandra Moran
Tara nodded vigorously.
“That’s because someone wouldn’t stop,” she said loudly enough for him to hear and then in a normal tone to me, “He was racing against the time he estimated it would take to get here.”
Andy grinned as he walked past, his arms laden with gifts. He was the perfect husband for my sister. He was easygoing, kind, and agreeable to just about everything. His only flaw was that the only thing he talked about was sports. Who beat who in which sport. Who was injured and how. What coach was rumored to be leaving which team for another. Andy was a veritable encyclopedia of sports information—information that he shared at length and without encouragement. For me, although I liked Andy, having conversations with him were a mind-numbing exercise in endurance that necessitated a very large, very full glass of wine. He gave me a bone-crushing hug as he headed back out to the car.
“Hey, Birdie,” he said. “Remind me to tell you about the new skis I got for Tara and me. They’re the same kind used by the US Olympic ski team. They’re sweet.”
Inside, my mother was looking around the living room with approval. “It looks good,” she said and came over to hug me. “How are you, sweetie? Doing okay?”
I nodded and she kissed me on the cheek.
“Good.” She studied me appraisingly. “Really, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Mom,” I said, and for once, meant it.
“Um hmmm,” she said disbelievingly. Her gaze wandered around the room, taking in the decorations and landing on the tree. “The tree looks good. It looks like—”
“The trees we used to have when we were kids,” interrupted Tara in delight as she came down the stairs. “Even the ornaments.” She grinned at me. “And these stockings, they’re great. They look like the ones Granny used to have. Where did you find them?”
“I had them made,” I said.
Tara studied me. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Yeah.” I smiled at her. “Of course I am. Why?”
“You just seem different. Sort of . . . happy all of a sudden.” She studied me harder and then grinned triumphantly. “You’re in love. You’re seeing someone, aren’t you? You are! Mom, look at her. Birdie’s seeing someone.”
“No,” I said quickly, suddenly defensive. “I’m not.”
I saw my mother and sister exchange a look.
“Okay,” my mother said with a hint of a smile on her lips. “That’s okay. When you’re ready.”
The Christmas holiday passed quickly. The first night we all sat around the fireplace drinking wine, snacking on cheese, and talking about family and friends. I tried to be casual as I steered the conversation to some of Edenbridge’s older residents.
“That’s too bad about Mrs. Spencer,” I said.
“I know,” my mother said. “But she was older than dirt when I was a kid.”
“And what about those notebooks?” Tara said. “I can’t imagine sitting in your house all day doing nothing but writing down the date and time of everyone’s activities. Talk about crazy.”
“I wonder if she wrote down every time we were too loud,” I said with a laugh.
“If so, she’s got a lot of entries,” Tara said. “Back when we had that Slip’N Slide we were outside screaming all the time.”
I smiled at the memory.
“Hey, what ever happened to Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan?” I asked.
“Oh my gosh, I haven’t thought of them in years,” my mother said. “They’re still in Edenbridge—I know that.”
“They had a grandson that was about my age, didn’t they?” I asked casually.
“Oh, I think they have a couple of grandkids,” my mother said. “I know they have great grandkids because they had two of the little girls with them at the store one time.”
“Wasn’t one of them named Tommy?” I asked.
My mother shrugged. “I don’t remember. That’s what happens when you get old. Memory is the first thing to go.”
I forced a laugh and then said, “I just seem to remember him visiting one summer. Tall. Dark hair. Blue eyes.”
My mother thought for a minute and then shook her head to indicate she didn’t recall anyone by that description. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” she said and then grinned. “But if you pour me another glass of wine, maybe it will come to me.”
After everyone was in bed, I filled the stockings and then pretended to be asleep when my mother and sister both crept downstairs to do the same thing. The next morning, we got up late, opened presents, and drank coffee. Later, we made a huge dinner of turkey and stuffing that left us full and sleepy. Andy watched ESPN while my mother and Tara napped on the couch. I snuck over to the computer to check my e-mail and found a message from Tommy.
Birdie:
Merry Christmas. Hope you’re having a great time with your family. I spent the day with some friends down in the Village. We ate too much and probably drank too much as well. I probably shouldn’t be e-mailing, but I wanted to say hello and tell you that I couldn’t help but think about you several times during the day. I hope you’re well and on this day, I hope you know that I value you and what you’ve brought to my life.
Merry Christmas my dear, dear friend.
T.
I smiled and sighed.
“So, what’s his name?” asked Tara who had been watching me from her place on the sofa.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“So, what’s his name?” she repeated. “Or do I have to come over there and see for myself?”
“Thomas,” I said quickly, unwilling to let her see his message to me. “And it’s not what you think. He’s just a friend.”
She shifted on the couch, smiled patronizingly and then closed her eyes again. “Okay,” she said. “If you say so.”
I watched her for a moment and then began to type out a reply to Tommy. Every once in a while I looked up to see if Tara was watching me.
Tommy—
Merry Christmas to you, too. It’s been great having everyone here, but I’m ready to have the place to myself, again. I’m not used to having so many people around. We ate too much, too. I feel as stuffed as the bird.
It makes me happy that you thought of me today. You crossed my mind, too. My mother and sister even accused me of having a boyfriend (HA HA).
Well, I’m off to eat leftovers. Have a nice night,
Birdie
As I hit Send, I glanced up to see Tara again watching me. She raised her eyebrows and gave me a knowing look.
“What?” I hurriedly clicked on a message from Roger with the subject line of “Greetings on this Pseudo-Christian Holiday Based on Pagan Dates.”
“Nothing,” she said. “Just that you seem different. Happy. Like you’re finally living life. I’m glad, that’s all. I’m glad there is someone out there who can bring that out in you. It’s just nice to see you happy—like you’ve put the past behind you. It’s good.”
“It is good,” I agreed as I began to scroll through Roger’s annual Christmas tirade. “It’s very good.”
Her words were echoed by my mother the next morning as we watched Andy pack up the SUV.
“You seem happier and better than I’ve seen you since you were little,” she said as she hugged me good-bye. “I haven’t always agreed with your decision to move up here by yourself or to not get professional help, but now that I see you like this, maybe I was wrong. Maybe you made the right decision.”
“It was the right decision. I needed to be alone to work through things. And I think I have. I’ve turned a corner. The things that were haunting me seem to be gone. I can’t explain it. They just are.”
My mother smiled and hugged me again. “Will you work on getting out more often? Or, what about coming with us? You don’t have to shop or ski. You could just spend time with us.”
“I would love to,” I lied. “But I’ve got things I have to do here. And I have Toby. You guys go have fun. I promise, though, I’m going to make it a point to get out around people more.
It’s the next thing on my agenda.”
“Well . . . okay,” she said as she began to root around in her purse. “I gave you the numbers for the hotel, right? If you need anything or change your mind, you’ll call? Are you sure you don’t want to come? You could bring Toby. Lots of people bring their pets.”
“Next time. I’ll come next time.”
Andy leaned out the driver-side window. “The sooner we hit the road, the sooner we’re on the slopes—not that we’re in any rush, Birdie.”
My mother quickly gave me one last hug and we walked together to the SUV. I opened the back passenger door for her to get in. Tara leaned out the window and gave me a clumsy hug.
“Love you,” she whispered. “It’s really nice to see you happy.”
“I love you, too,” I said and impulsively kissed her cheek. “Bye, Andy. Bye, Mom.”
I stepped back and Andy carefully executed a three-point turn and began his slow, cautious crawl down the drive to the road. Toby gave a brief, halfhearted chase and then returned to the porch. I inhaled the cold mountain air and watched as Andy signaled and pulled onto the road. My mother’s hand appeared briefly out the window in a final wave. And then they were gone.
Chapter 28
The days after Christmas passed quickly. The weather was beautifully clear and the views of the mountains were breathtaking. I said as much in my e-mails to friends.
It sounds lovely, came Tommy’s reply. I just wish you had a camera that would allow you to send a picture of it. I’d love to see your view.
The simplicity of my life was an ongoing joke between us. Although our e-mails were still in many ways, superficial, we were beginning to discuss more serious things. This became especially true on New Year’s Eve. Like me, Tommy had opted to stay in and we had decided to ring in the New Year together online. Each of us had our televisions on to Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve and we were going to watch the ball drop together—first in Tommy’s time zone and then in mine. We both had purchased sparkling wine for our New Year’s toasts.
Got your television on?
We had gotten to the point where we no longer bothered with names.
I do, I replied. You?
Yep. I’m ready for the toast. I’ve been working on it all day in my head.
I laughed.
I didn’t know we were doing formal toasts, I typed.
We are—though I’m less worried about that than I am about how we’re going to manage the kiss.
I felt myself stiffen as I read the words. I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know if I wanted to respond. Why did he say that? Tara’s words came back to me: She’s seeing someone. That wasn’t true. Tommy and I were just friends—weren’t we?
What do you mean? I typed.
His response came several minutes later—long enough for me to finish my glass of wine and pour another.
I’m not going to lie, Birdie. I’m offering friendship, of course. But I hope you will consider more. I’ve had a bit to drink, so I’m probably saying more than I would otherwise, but I feel like I need to get some things out in the open. I have thought about you constantly over the years, wondering where you were and what you had become.
I know we’ve only been communicating for four months, but I feel that we have such a connection—like we’re the only two people who understand who the other is, deep at their core. When all those days went by and you were unavailable (snowed in without power) I was going crazy with thoughts of why you weren’t answering. And it was then I realized how much you mean to me—how much you’ve always meant to me.
I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think this could easily become more than friendship for me. That’s not to put pressure on you. I realize that it’s probably the last thing you want to hear. But I feel like it’s something I need to say. Just think about it? Please?
T.
“Holy shit,” I muttered in disbelief. I turned to look at Toby, who lay snoring on the couch. “This changes everything.”
I was stunned. Overwhelmed. Frightened. More as a reflex than anything else, I grabbed the computer power cord and yanked the plug out of the wall, my heart thudding so violently in my chest that it felt as if it might explode. I took a deep breath to calm myself and as I exhaled, I tasted the vomit in my throat. I was about to throw up. Quickly, I rushed for the front door, threw it open, and hurled my upper body over the porch railing. Wine and stomach bile gurgled out of my mouth in a violent torrent. The sky was a gray-black against the snowy ground. My ragged breath puffed in misty clouds. The cold air felt good on my sweaty skin.
What was he telling me? Was he falling in love with me? I felt the familiar fear welling up, but also, despite my violent reaction, a tingle of . . . what? Excitement? No wonder Grace had reacted the way she had. She had sensed how he felt and she was jealous. I waited for her to confirm my realization, but she remained quiet in the background, watching and waiting. She had planted the seed and now she was just going to wait and see what I was going to do.
I shivered, cold, but not wanting to go back inside. I wanted to walk. I wanted to think. I needed the fresh air. I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand, pushed myself away from the railing, and went back inside. I grabbed my coat from the hook. Suddenly awake, Toby jumped up and rushed over to me. I grabbed his fleece off the hook, pulled it over his head, and then clipped the underside below his barrel chest.
“Let’s get some fresh air,” I said. “Just for a little bit.”
It was one of those amazingly silent and crystalline nights in which you could hear the light snow that was beginning to fall, land on the trees and the ground. The thick blanket of snow from the past few days made everything glow. I gulped in the cold air and watched as Toby raced down the area I had cleared and then bounded headfirst into the foot-high snow drifts.
I had to respond to Tommy’s message. I knew that. I just wasn’t sure how. I let my mind wander through the various emotions his e-mail had evoked. Fear, of course. Confusion as to where this had come from—where he had come from. It—he—this—scared me. I didn’t even really know this man. And Grace was right. He’d just appeared out of the blue. Of course she would say that, wouldn’t she?
It was odd that he had tried over the years to find me, but at the same time, I had wondered about him, too, hadn’t I? So, perhaps it wasn’t so strange. But, what did I know about this man? What did I know about any kind of relationship outside of platonic friendships? I had spent so much of my life hiding from the world—protecting myself from vulnerability, from crime, from anything that made me uncomfortable. I didn’t know how to respond to his . . . what? Attention? But, I wanted to. That was part of what was so frightening, wasn’t it? I wanted to. I wanted to see where this could go. I was tired of having my most significant relationships be with a dead girl and a gay man.
I twirled crazily. It made no sense. I wanted a drink. I wanted to shout. I wanted to laugh and cry and . . . explode. Calm, I thought. I need to calm down and think about this rationally. I took a deep breath. None of this was making any sense. It was all too sudden. I tried to slow my mind and examine my own feelings. What did I feel about Tommy? I liked him. I knew that. But he scared me. He always had. But was that my fear or was it Grace’s? I liked him and yes, if I were to be honest, I did feel attracted to him. I felt like he understood me. I felt like he and I shared . . . something. But was it just a childhood experience? Was it guilt? Was it . . . what was it?
And my attraction to him—I knew it was emotional. But was it physical? Could it be physical? I was still a virgin. I hadn’t even really done more than kiss a man. Could I have a sexual relationship? Did I want to? It was terrifying, and I wondered what Grace was thinking about this. I wasn’t sure what to do. I had to consider that aspect of it, too. There were no easy answers. I stamped my feet and Toby raced past me and bounded back onto the porch, ready to go back inside.
“Okay, okay, okay.” I turned back toward the cabin. “I n
eed to get some clarity.”
Once back in the cabin, I pulled out a notebook and a pen. I was going to make another list.
“Let’s answer some questions,” I said aloud.
Do I like him? Yes.
Am I attracted to him? Yes.
Is it emotional attraction? Yes.
Is it physical attraction????
Could I fall in love with him? Not sure what that means.
Do I want to act on it? Not sure.
Does he scare me? Yes.
Why? I don’t know him. He’s an unknown. I don’t trust men.
Do I want to pursue this?
I stared at the last question and realized I had no answer. I was, I thought, quite possibly making a big deal out of nothing. He had said only that he thought he could feel more than friendship. But what did it mean? It was nothing I could deal with now. I had to think about it. I had already told him I needed time to process my feelings. He probably thought I was crazy, anyway, reacting that way just about his desire to be friends. But, if he knew I was a bit of a recluse and accepted it . . . and . . . if he understood that much of it stemmed from what happened when I was eleven, he might be accepting of my hesitance.
I stood up, walked to the kitchen, and grabbed the bottle of wine. Without bothering with a glass, I tipped the bottle up and took a huge swallow. It felt warm in my empty stomach. I waited to see if I would be sick again, but felt no nausea. I should eat, I thought, but decided instead that food would get in the way of getting drunk. I wandered over to the couch and sank heavily down. The fire needed more wood, I realized as I took another swig of wine. And then another. And then another.
“Here’s to the fire,” I said loudly and raised the bottle in a toast. I was beginning to feel the effects of the wine. “And here’s to you, Grace,” I said, tauntingly and also a little drunkenly. “Happy New Year! Here’s to you and your ability to completely fuck up my life.”
I raised the bottle to my lips only to find that it was empty.
“I need more,” I muttered and heaved myself off the couch and staggered into the kitchen. “Necessito mas vino!”
