“Uncle Bobby! Listen to this . . .” the oldest boy shouted over the music. “Gunnar and I are starting a band. Can you film us? You can do our music video.” Gunnar launched into a drum roll, while the stuffed animal flew into the line of waiting toddlers and one of the nephews dived in after it.
“Bobby . . .” Destiny pressed a hand to one temple. “They’re giving me a migraine. Make it stop.”
“Please, Uncle Bobby,” chimed in his sister, whom I remembered as Chelsea, “make it stop. I’ve been stuck with them since Christmas break began.”
Bobby raised his hands. “Hey! Trevor? We’ve got a show to do here. Ugh . . . guys? Boys and girls . . .”
A tug-of-war was going on over the stuffed animal, while Gunnar began to tap out a beat on one of the camera cases.
“Cut!” Bobby shouted. “We need quiet. Trevor? Turn that off!”
Trevor gave him a thumbs-up, then switched to a canned version of a Ricky Martin song, while two of the other kids were now rolling on the floor, wrestling over a toy.
Two of the Santas peeked out from their doorways, while Charley from Personnel shouted something to Bobby. Destiny was complaining to Chelsea, who sank down on a gumdrop and buried her head in her hands.
Enough was enough.
I went over to Trevor and flipped the black switch to Off, killing the music. “We’ll return this for you,” I said, slipping the strap off his shoulder. “Why don’t you go say hello to your uncle.”
He squinted up at me. “Hey, I remember you. You’ve been at our house.”
“You must be mistaken,” I told him. “I’m Mrs. Claus.”
Next I closed my hands over the drumsticks and told the banging boy that he’d better get in line if he wanted to see Santa. The stuffed animal was returned to the youngest one, while the other toys were quickly collected and the nieces and nephews joined the line.
Handing the drum over to Charley, I was relieved to hear strains of “Joy to the World!” once again. These kids had always been a workout; why did Bobby think they belonged here while he was trying to shoot a show?
Within a few minutes, order was restored. The nieces and nephews had moved on to see various Santas, Destiny had returned to the hotel to nurse her migraine, and the crew was sent off for a lunch break.
I tucked a toddler onto the train and stepped back with a sigh. “At last,” I told Regis, “peace returns to the North Pole.”
“Not for long,” Bobby called from one of the trees where extra lights were being strung. “My guys will be back in an hour, and then we’ll finally start shooting.”
“Finally is right.” I joined him, feeling less stressed now that Destiny wasn’t here to dissect me. “Your crew takes forever.”
“We’re perfectionists.”
“Good luck with that. Just try to stay out of the way of our youngest customers. Santaland is a special experience for them, and swearing cameramen shouldn’t be a part of it.”
He laughed. “You know, we could use someone like you to keep the crew whipped in shape. A tough production manager is hard to find, and I like the way you took control of the situation back there. I think Trevor is still stunned.”
“Hey, Mrs. Claus does not mess around. You can spend days futzing around on one shot, but Christmas comes only once a year. The Claus trade is a seasonal business.”
Bobby released the strand of lights and turned to face me. “I miss your sense of humor, Livvy. Your quick wit.”
“You think I’m being funny?”
“You always did make me laugh. Picked me up when I was at my lowest.” He glanced over at the cameras set like three aliens across the maze. “I’m sorry you weren’t a part of this, Liv. It should be your success, too.”
“As I told you, any time you want to send me a check, I’m easy to find. Mom’s still got the house on Lombard. You do remember it, don’t you?” I wanted to add that we’d both lost our virginity under that roof, but somehow it didn’t seem an image befitting Mrs. Claus.
He picked up a strand of my hair and studied the curl at the end as if it were a precious gem. “I’ll never forget that house. I can’t forget you, Liv.”
“Well, considering the fact that you’re married to someone else and I am not the type of girl to mess with a marriage, I think you’d better start forgetting fast. Amnesia, if possible.”
“I made a mistake. Destiny doesn’t make me happy.”
“So find a therapist. And really, Bobby, why do men think the world owes them happiness?”
“I keep comparing her to you. To the way you made me feel.” He dropped the strands of hair and let his fingertips slide down the side of my neck. “We were good together. Don’t you ever think about me, about us?”
“Think about us?” I wanted to ask him where he was when I broke my ankle and needed a ride to physical therapy. Where was he when I had to hobble up icy stairs on my ass? When I had to close up my apartment and pay an arm and a leg to have things shipped? I’d been thinking about him a lot at that point, lots of toxic thoughts. Like why was he seeing Destiny behind my back, laughing in the warm California sun while I was dancing my butt off in the Christmas show? Where was his freakin’ brain when he should have at least called me and let me know he’d had a change of heart?
I wanted to make him regret his actions. And most of all, I wanted him to regret breaking up with me.
See what sanity you could have had if you’d stayed faithful to me? See how happy we’d be if you hadn’t slept with a producer’s daughter and pawned me off as the best TV pitch of your life?
“The thing is, Destiny and I have been on the rocks lately. We’ve discussed divorce. I know it’s a big if, but if things worked out that way, would you give us a chance, Liv?”
My pulse grew loud in my ear as his words took impact. This was my chance—my do-over! Bobby wanted me back. We could have our life together . . . an entertainment couple, our photo in People magazine, our mailbox full of invitations to red-carpet premieres and awards ceremonies . . .
We could have it all back, including our crappy, dysfunctional relationship in which I exhausted all my energies to nurse his delicate ego.
“I know, this is really sudden, and I don’t mean to overwhelm you.”
I blinked, suddenly realizing how weak his chin was without the beard and the way his upper lip curled into a constant half smile; once I’d found that smirk attractive, rebellious, and bold. Now, it just struck me as the smirk of a weenie.
“To be honest,” he lowered his voice to that dream tone, “I’ve been asking around to see if you’d hooked up with anyone. When I heard you were still on your own, I figured we might have a chance.”
“Really?” I smoothed the white fur jacket hem over my hips, wondering what sort of married man sniffed out the dating status of other chicks. How could Bobby have sunk so low? He’d become such a disappointment as a husband, even if he wasn’t my husband.
With a deep breath, I let him have it. “The truth is, we would never last together.”
Bobby cocked his head. “What?”
That sinking-heart feeling came over me as I realized the time and effort I had sunk into foolish dreaming. “You’re married, Bobby.”
“But maybe not for too long. And you’re not involved with anyone. We could hook up again, Liv. Just like old times.”
“It’s not going to happen,” I said, trying to bow out gracefully.
“And why the hell not?” His eyes flashed with anger, and I could see that once again it was about boosting Bobby’s ego, another exercise in face saving.
“Because she’s with me.” The scratchy voice came from behind me, and I turned as ZZ stepped forward and slid an arm over my shoulders. “Liv and I try to be discreet, but we hooked up a few weeks ago.”
Bobby cupped a hand over one eye, then lifted his forehead, as if peering through a scope at this new worldview. Or maybe he was getting a migraine, too. “Really?”
I flattened my palm against
ZZ’s back, glad for the support.
“We’ve got some plans,” he said, stroking his beard. “Looking forward to the end of this gig. We figure we’ll head south, tour the Florida Keys on my hog.”
“Love the hog,” I said, turning to ZZ, “but, honey, it’s not very practical here in Baltimore.”
“That’s why we’re out of here, Red.”
Squinting at me, Bobby shook his head. “You should’ve told me before I . . . Never mind. Okay, guys, I’d better get back to work now.”
As Bobby disappeared behind the hill of snow, ZZ still held on tight for effect. “No wonder your mother calls him Booby.”
“He’s an asshole, I know. Thing is, he used to be the asshole I loved.” I wasn’t sure how I felt. Disappointed at Bobby’s lack of morality? Pleased that he’d wanted me back? Relieved to be free of him?
ZZ shrugged. “Consider yourself liberated.”
“Or something like that.”
21
“Love and joy come to you, and to you your wassail, too, and God bless you and send you a happy new year . . .”
Christmas Eve, the strolling carolers swung through our Christmas Village a few extra times, probably because the rest of the store was so crowded with shoppers they welcomed the comfortable space of Santaland.
It had been a quiet day for the Santa Squad, the lines short and our clientele mostly older kids who came shopping with their parents and decided to do the Santa thing for fun.
“It’s ending, Regis,” I said as the train swept past us. The knot of stress inside me had grown thorny and large, now hitting the walls of my chest. “It’s over for us.”
“Chipper up, Mrs. Claus. We’re not goin’ down with the Titanic, are we? It’s just the end of a holiday job.”
“I know, but I’m going to miss this job.” More than I wanted to admit. Although Lanessa called the job glorified baby-sitting, I had enjoyed connecting with the little kids, hopping around to keep them distracted, and the staff had become like an extended family. ZZ was spending Christmas with Mom and me, and Regis and I had made plans to hook up after the holidays. The line fizzled down, the carolers swept by again, and Charley came around to give us our personnel debriefing.
“What, you going to remove the Christmas spirit microchip from behind our ears?” Regis teased him.
I’m not sure that Charley got the joke, but he motioned us into the tiny little break room behind Santaland, where people were singing along with the carols on the loudspeakers. Archie mopped his brow under his Santa cap and bet Chet that we would get a Christmas bonus. Shayna slipped off her curly elf shoes and rubbed her feet. Carlos lifted up his pant leg to show us the socks his girlfriend had bought him, patterned with flying Santas in biplanes. I slid off one boot and showed them the socks I’d found, with martini olives capped by Santa hats. “No way!” Carlos grinned.
Familiar exchanges, though it struck me that this was the last time I’d be part of this easy banter.
With entertaining pomp and circumstance, ZZ distributed our final paychecks, along with bonus gift certificates for Rossman’s, which were met with oohs and aahs. Declaring himself unofficial Santa mouthpiece, Archie stood up and tipped his hat to ZZ, thanking him for making the Santaland experience “a true holiday blessing.”
ZZ’s eyes twinkled as he surveyed the group, paused, then swiped at his eyes with the back of one hand. “It’s been real, ladies and gents, and I thank you for sharing the best part of yourself with these children. Now, if you’ll follow me to the hearth, there’s one more thing for each of you—a stocking hung over the fireplace for you to keep. And don’t forget to look inside.”
Two collegiate elves raced to the fireplace and pretended to madly tear at the stockings. Instead, they took them down one by one and distributed them.
Although no one but ZZ knew what each person had wished for, the gifts hinted at their desires. Carlos received a free driver’s training class, Maisie a corked glass bottle filled with glitter and labeled Christmas Magic. Skinny Stu received a voucher for a free pound of fudge in the gourmet department, and Archie received two CDs of blues music.
Regis, who told me he’d asked for a “slice of home,” received two free dinners at the Outback Steakhouse. “Blooming perfect! My folks are arriving from Australia this evening, and they’ll get a real charge out of this.”
I was slow to open mine, knowing it was a final gesture that would close this period of my life. Inside the Mrs. Claus stocking, in place of the wish I had tucked in six weeks ago, was a small silver Rossman’s box. The lid opened to a bed of velvet where a tiny gold charm nestled—a dancing shoe. “Sweet.” I touched the shoe and noticed engraving on the bottom that read, Do Over.
“Very clever.” I smiled up at ZZ, who had joined us with a proprietary look, and reached under the fur neckline of my Mrs. Claus suit, fishing for my gold chain. “I think these would work well together.” I handed Regis the gift box while I reached back to undo the clasp.
“It’s for a charm bracelet,” Regis insisted. “It would be totally vamp to wear it around your neck. A Cosmo don’t!”
“Oh, don’t be so in-the-box.” ZZ threaded the chain through the charm’s loop, then laced it around my neck like a bridesmaid. “Perfect.” My fingers pressed against the charm, and I liked the security of having it hang near my heart. “Thank you,” I told ZZ.
Regis conceded, “Actually, it looks okay.”
“You know . . .” ZZ folded his arms, assessing. “When people ask for do-overs, they usually envision going back to a certain place in time to fix one thing. A very limited vision, one of my pet peeves as a therapist. If you want a do-over, then I say rewrite a part of your history that will really make a difference. Don’t just win back an old boyfriend or buy a different car. Take yourself way back. Fix your life at the first fork where you went wrong, the first bad turn, which ended up blossoming into a series of wrong turns.”
I nodded, pretending to hear his advice, but mostly trying not to look back at all, not to worry about the things I was leaving behind but to look ahead to that audition with Mrs. Atwater. If I could just get back with the Rockettes, back on the line, back in my apartment, back on tour with the girls . . .
Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine being back onstage again, the glare of the lights, the sizzling excitement that filled the auditorium of Radio City as the curtain rose. I was happy on that stage once, though it was hard to recapture that feeling in my mind, that period of my life.
I could go back there, couldn’t I? I could fix my life, right?
All around me people were talking about their plans for Christmas, their last-minute stress over getting Christmas shopping done, picking up the roast from the butcher, baking cookies, or preparing that favorite family dish. They shared the anticipation of seeing family and having their children or grandchildren visit. I had planned a quiet Christmas with Mom, though she couldn’t resist inviting neighborhood stragglers over for dinner. Not that it mattered. With the momentum of my life lately, tomorrow was just the stepping stone between now and the day I would leave.
Tonight, at Mom’s request, ZZ and I were going with her to midnight Mass at St. Stannie’s. I thought it was a good thing that Mom wanted to get out of the house. ZZ agreed but he reminded me not to push, to let Mom move at her own pace, in her own comfort zone.
“Ladies and gents, please fold your costumes neatly so they can ride unwrinkled to the cleaners to be stored for next year’s staff,” ZZ was saying as he circulated, shaking hands and exchanging a few personal good-byes. “We’ll be turning them over to Personnel outside the employee locker rooms, so I suggest we get downstairs and change so we can all get home to celebrate Christmas with our families.”
We gathered our things and streamed through the emptying store, an odd assortment of men and women in red velvet suits, in green-striped lederhosen with curled-toe gold booties.
Inside the locker room, taking off the Mrs. Claus suit for the very last
time, I became so overwhelmed with emotion that it took all my willpower to keep from moving at all. In slow motion I ran a hand down the white fur trim for the last time, slipped out of the graceful skirt, and folded it neatly into the silver box. The jacket, its beadwork beaming as brilliantly as it had weeks ago, seemed to wink a good-bye as I folded it squarely and let it rest on top of the skirt. How many years ago had this suit been made? It had to be at least fifty years old, and yet it had held up, its color unfaded, its fabric plush and shiny.
Maisie called out a good-bye, then ducked out the door, the last woman to go. I waved back, sitting there in my black camisole and cotton boxers.
And then I couldn’t help myself. Tears stung my eyes and quickly spilled over, running down my cheeks. It was so silly, so sentimental, but I didn’t want to let this time go, wasn’t sure how to move from the era of Mrs. Claus to the next phase of my life. The thought of taking that train to New York the day after Christmas made me feel cold inside, but I hadn’t left myself another choice. No clear Plan B. Olivia’s lament, without a second choice.
As I leaned over to touch the velveteen fabric one last time, a teardrop slipped from my eye and splashed on the suit.
“You big dummy-head . . .”
I quickly rubbed it dry with my fingertips, then leaned back against the locker and tried to calm myself. It was just a costume. Just a role I’d played. Temporary.
Well, maybe for me, but someone else would probably use this costume next year. I fished a pen and tiny notepad out of my purse, deciding to leave the next Mrs. Claus a message. After some thought, I wrote:
This suit brings luck. Go with it.
—Mrs. C.
Maybe it was corny, but if I found a note like this, I’d get a kick out of it. Like finding a poignant prediction in a fortune cookie. And at least writing the note gave me enough of a boost to pull on my jeans and sweater and get the hell out of there before they closed the store around me.
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