by Lisa Tucker
That afternoon, Amelia called to find out if he and Isabelle had gotten their presents. Danny said yes, Rosalie had put them under the tree. “Oh, good,” Amelia said. “At least you’ll have something to open on Christmas.”
“We each have two presents. One from you and one from Rosalie.”
“I knew Matthew wouldn’t get you anything. Don’t feel too bad about it. He’s always been a complete Scrooge about Christmas. When I knew him, he used to spend the day watching stupid music documentaries. And I mean the entire day, from morning to midnight.”
Danny wasn’t sure what a documentary was, but he laughed because Amelia was laughing and because he knew Matthew could be really weird.
After a moment she said, “I better go. Hope you have a great Christmas with your mom.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“I’ll miss you,” she said, and it sounded like she was trying not to cry. “I hope I can see you and Isabelle again someday.”
Danny said he hoped so, too. When they hung up, he wondered if their mom would like Amelia. He didn’t think so, though he wasn’t sure why.
By five o’clock, he was getting really anxious. Cassie had said his mom would take a cab from the airport, but what if his mom lost the address? What if she was too nervous to figure out how to get a cab? Of course she could call from a pay phone, unless she lost the number, too.
By eight-thirty Danny was desperate enough to call Cassie to find out what time the flight got in. When she didn’t answer, he figured she was out of town; too bad he didn’t have her cell phone number. Of course everybody went to see their family for Christmas if they had a family to go to. Even some of the addicts in their house went home for the holidays, and those who didn’t talked about their families: sometimes missing them, usually griping that their family had cut them off.
Danny knew he couldn’t call Matthew under any circumstances. Matthew had already told Rosalie that he was too busy to come over and she would have to deal with the arrival of Danny’s mom. He’d also sent Rosalie a text message on her cell phone to show Danny, which said that Matthew had decided that Danny’s mom could stay with them in the rental house until Christmas was over. Matthew even said he would consider helping Danny’s mom get a job, as long as they “handled” everything until after the holiday—and didn’t bother him in the meantime. He also added a P.S.: “Don’t let your mother steal anything from Rent-a-Crap.”
At nine, Rosalie gave Isabelle her bath and put her in bed. Then, around eleven, Rosalie herself said she was going to bed. “Tell your ma I’m sorry I couldn’t wait up.” Her voice sounded sure that his mom would be there soon. As she’d been saying all evening, lots of planes come in after midnight. And planes get delayed, too. There was obviously some explanation.
Danny sat on the couch, looking at the tiny lights blinking on the Christmas tree, willing that his mom would knock on the door in the next minute. The next five minutes at least. Every time he heard a noise down the street he ran to the window, looking for a yellow cab; every time, his disappointment was worse. At midnight he decided to turn on the TV to the news channel, just to make sure no planes had crashed. He muted the TV as quickly as he could, but not before the noise had woken up Isabelle.
She came down the stairs, slowly, quietly, with the biggest grin on her face, but when she saw it was only Danny, she started to cry.
He picked her up and carried her back to her room. When she was still crying, he lay down next to her and held her hand. He knew Isabelle was crying because she’d gotten confused about the date and thought Santa was coming tonight, not their mom, but still, he felt so sorry for his sister at that moment. The bed wasn’t really hers; the house wasn’t really hers; even the pajamas she was wearing weren’t really hers. She deserved a place she could stay for more than a month. She deserved to belong somewhere.
He closed his eyes, just for a minute, and then he was asleep and already dreaming that his mom was standing in the room, wearing the square skirt with the pink tulip. When he asked her where she found it, she said, “Trash is lucky.” She was smiling, but still, he knew she wasn’t happy. Before he could ask her why, she’d slipped away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Changing the Game
Ah, Christmas Eve morning in Philadelphia: sheets of rain and thick fog and way too many people on the road who didn’t know how to drive in bad weather. And why was Matthew out driving on this day, the first day in weeks, when his only plan was to sleep in and exercise and do as little about the Humpty problem as his nerves would allow? Because “his” kiddies were having a crisis—or, to put it more precisely, the kiddies who were never his responsibility and certainly not his responsibility now that their mother had finished rehab were having a crisis. Their nanny had called repeatedly, starting at seven-thirty in the morning and continuing nonstop until he gave up and answered. At least it was a real crisis. Their thieving mother had not returned.
A quick call to Changes revealed that the mother had been released yesterday morning and left for the airport around noon. According to Drossman’s assistant, she had to be in Philadelphia somewhere. Matthew suspected she’d gotten off the plane and gone straight to her drug dealer, but the assistant said this was very unlikely because Kim, Danny’s mom, had worked so hard to finish the program.
It sounded like rehab promotional BS to him, but all he cared about was finding the mother, wherever she was, and handing over her kids. Today. Several of Rosalie’s messages had included the depressing fact that this was the last day she could take care of Danny and Isabelle. Stupid Christmas Eve meant the nanny agency would be closed and social services would be, too. Even Cassie was out of town. If the mother couldn’t be found, he’d be stuck with the kids on Christmas—and that was out of the question.
Amelia used to call him Scrooge; more recent girlfriends called him the Grinch or just a selfish jerk, but it didn’t make any difference: he refused to interact with anyone on December 25. Since he was eighteen years old, he’d always spent Christmas the same way: watching rock documentaries. Just last night he’d gotten out his DVD collection, which included classics like The Last Waltz, Imagine, Sex Pistols: The Filth and the Fury , and, of course, This Is Spinal Tap . He’d also rented a half dozen crappier ones, most courtesy of VH1’s Behind the Music . He probably wouldn’t need all of this to get through the day, but what if one of the discs was scratched? Best to be on the safe side.
When he arrived at the Malvern house, he expected Danny to act like his mother’s no-show was somehow Matthew’s fault (wasn’t everything?), but he was still surprised when Danny didn’t move or speak when he came through the door. The kid was slumped on the corner of the monstrously ugly brown couch, staring at the Christmas tree. Isabelle was face down on the floor, kicking and crying, with the Irish nanny kneeling next to her, stroking her hair.
He put down his umbrella. “Oh Christ, it’s not that bad.” Nobody but Rosalie acknowledged his arrival. He walked over to Danny. “Look, we’re going to find your mother.” He swallowed, thinking about driving his Porsche through a bad neighborhood, but it couldn’t be helped. “We can leave right now if you want.”
“Really?” Danny said.
“Yes, of course. I know you need her back.” Not to mention that he needed to get back to the nineteen hours of music documentaries stacked on top of his DVD player.
Danny smiled and ran up the stairs. Seconds later, he was back with his shoes crammed on his feet and his coat in his hands. Unfortunately, Isabelle wasn’t ready to go.
“Ma-ew,” she’d cried when she finally looked up. But she walked in the other direction, toward the tree.
“We have to hurry,” he said. “We’re going on a trip.”
“Wait!” She leaned down and picked something up. When she turned around and started toward him, he realized it was an iPod.
“Now where did you get that?”
She handed it to him, still crying. “Broke.”
He knel
t down. “So this is what’s upsetting you? You broke it?”
“No!”
Rosalie said, “It came without any music on it. I told Isabelle that was normal, but I don’t think she understands.”
“It’s not broken,” Matthew said, picking up the sobbing little girl. Wishing he’d remembered to give her his iPod before he moved them here. No doubt Amelia had bought this new one for Isabelle, convinced that Matthew was a selfish ass for refusing to share with a three-year-old. The truth was he’d simply been too busy to think about it.
He tried to explain about downloading music, but the only thing Isabelle responded to was his promise to pick up his iPod on their way to look for her mom. “It will have all the music you like, all right?” She smiled and planted a wet kiss on his cheek.
When he put her down, she handed the iPod to Danny. “I sorry,” she said.
“The iPod’s mine,” Danny said. “Isabelle got that.” He pointed at a large stuffed bunny with floppy pink ears.
“Wrong holiday. Amelia must be slipping.”
“We didn’t open Amelia’s presents.” Danny pointed under the tree, where Matthew could see two gifts with Amelia’s trademark perfectly tied bow. “The bunny and the iPod came in the mail this morning. From my mom.” The kid blinked at Matthew. “That’s how I know where she is.”
“I don’t follow.” How could their mother afford an iPod? Why would she send presents rather than bring them here?
“She gave me her new address. In the letter.”
After a few minutes of frustrating discussion, Matthew realized that Danny thought Rosalie had told Matthew about this letter in one of her phone messages, and Rosalie thought that Danny had left his own message for Matthew about it. Isabelle was saying “wetter” over and over, like even she knew what the thing said.
“Let me see it.” When Danny hesitated, Matthew said, “You’re trying my patience.”
The boy reached in his pocket and handed Matthew a crumpled-up piece of paper. Matthew read it quickly, but the meaning was all too clear. Danny’s mother was still in Florida. She’d moved in with a “friend” she met in rehab, to get healthy and stay clean. She claimed she would always be there for Danny and his sister, but she obviously had no intention of coming back here for them. And her reason? “I know Dr. Connelly will take better care of you and Belle than I ever could. Trust me, baby, this is for the best.”
He was so surprised he was sputtering. “She can’t be serious.”
Danny smiled. “I knew you wouldn’t let this happen.”
“You’re damn right, I won’t. I’m going to have her arrested.” But even as he said it, he wondered if abandoning children was illegal. Fathers did it all the time. Even mothers could do it if they gave their children to social services. It wasn’t illegal to desert your kids if they were safe, as opposed to, say, in a dumpster.
He remembered Danny’s mother’s misgivings about leaving her kids with him—the infamous “trash” discussion—and he wondered why she’d done such a complete turnaround. Danny was begging him not to put his mom in jail when Matthew interrupted. “Why does she think this is such a great environment for you?” When the kid didn’t answer, Matthew knew that Danny himself had told her this, probably many times. Maybe he was trying to reassure her, or maybe he really believed it. At least it was obvious that Danny hadn’t wanted this outcome.
He thought about calling Drossman’s assistant, but what could she do? What could anyone do about the run of shit luck he was having? His boss was dying; his job was screwed; he was having a hell of a time forgetting about a disturbing encounter he’d had with a strange woman earlier in the week; and to top it off, he still hadn’t gotten Phyllis Francis rehired. But dammit, he was watching his DVDs tomorrow. It was an exceedingly simple desire, and he would see it realized. No matter what it took.
Unfortunately, Danny’s mom hadn’t provided a phone number, but even if he could do a reverse lookup from the address, calling now could give her a chance to escape before he could return the kids. There was no choice. He told Rosalie to get Isabelle ready. Then he told Danny to pack a bag of things for him and his sister. “Take anything you really care about. The iPod. Whatever toys Isabelle loves. A few outfits.”
“We don’t have a bag.”
“Improvise,” he said, looking out the window.
He thanked Rosalie for her work and told her to lock up when she left. They were walking out the door, Danny holding a cardboard box, Matthew holding Isabelle, when Danny thought to grab the presents from under the tree. Two from Amelia; two from Rosalie; and one for the last person on earth who deserved a gift: their thieving, irresponsible mother.
Ah, Christmas Eve afternoon on a crowded airplane to Miami. First class sold out, business class nonexistent. Coach completely full, except for the miserable last row, where Matthew had to sit with his knees against his chest as soon as the people in the row in front of them put their seats back. The seats in the last row, he discovered, didn’t go back. Moreover, even the aisle seat didn’t afford any leg movement because the last row was right in front of the restroom, where a steady stream of travelers stood in line. They were unusually patient and friendly with one another, no doubt filled with Christmas cheer, but Matthew still detested them because whenever the restroom door opened he was hit with yet another blast of putrid air. He felt like he was in hell and he told Isabelle so, repeatedly, when she complained that she wanted “out.” “Of course you do,” he explained. “But there is no way out in hell.”
Even the pretty stewardess who kept smiling at him didn’t make him feel better. True, the sight of her great legs gave him a momentary physical reminder that he could still have sex, but that only depressed him more because he knew he couldn’t actually have sex until he managed to stop thinking about what had happened on Monday night, when he’d picked up a crazy woman in a hotel bar.
He’d been desperate to distract himself from the horrible day he’d had with the layoffs and losing Phyllis and discovering his own company could turn against him. He wasn’t up to wining and dining a woman he already knew and, admittedly, he was afraid of a repeat of the Rachel disaster. So he went to a hotel in Center City, hoping to find someone who wanted what he wanted: a little harmless fun, nothing more. Two club sodas later, she appeared. Hot body, tight dress, black hair, brown eyes. A guest at the hotel, meaning he wouldn’t have to get a room. He never found out her name, and she didn’t want to know his, either. She was fascinated by the What If questions he used to flirt with her—already odd, as he hadn’t used that technique in years—but before long, she managed to twist the game around, insisting on playing her own version instead. “What if we weren’t strangers?” she said. “What if we were in love?”
It crossed his mind to run, but then she was kissing him and whispering, “I love you, Harry.” She said Harry was her boyfriend or her husband; he couldn’t remember. At first he’d said, “I love you, Margarita,” since she was drinking margaritas, but that hadn’t satisfied her. None of the names he tried satisfied her because she claimed he wasn’t convincing. They were in a relatively dark corner. Her hand was moving up and down his crotch. He said they should go up to her room, but she said no. “You have to use the name of a woman you really love,” she said. “That’s the game. Take it or leave it.”
He told her that he didn’t love anyone. She called him a liar, but his eyes were closed and he was a little distracted by her amazingly dexterous fingers. When he felt like he couldn’t stand it anymore, he finally said, “I love you, Amelia.”
She grabbed his hand and took him to the elevator, and he didn’t hesitate, convinced that all of it had been some kind of weird foreplay and was now, thankfully, over. But it was just beginning. He was up in her room for over two hours; she insisted on being in control; she didn’t even want him to kiss her or reach for her or move from lying on his back. He went along because everything she was doing to him was so freaking incredible, but he still found i
t disturbing that every fifteen minutes or so she punctuated the pleasure by saying “I love you, Harry,” and demanding his reply: “I love you, Amelia.” It was hardly the kinkiest thing he’d ever heard of (or done), but nevertheless, it did feel creepy to keep saying Amelia’s name while staring into the eyes of this stranger. And even in the throes of passion, he couldn’t entirely ignore the sense that this woman wasn’t just turned on, she was angry, as if she was determined to punish him (Harry?) for some unforgivable crime.
When it was over, she pointed to the door and rolled onto her stomach. No good-bye, good luck, thanks for this, or even fuck off. He dressed as quickly as possible, feeling embarrassed and even cheap, like he’d do anything to get laid. He took a cab back to his apartment and told himself he would forget about this by morning, but it hadn’t happened. If anything, as the days went by he found himself struggling not to conclude that his years of meaningless sex were over, destroyed in a single night by this nameless woman for reasons he would never understand.
Isabelle was crawling all over him but he was lost in thought, wondering what had happened to his reasonably content, if oblivious, life. Even What If had been changed into something he no longer understood and definitely wanted to avoid. The game used to be all about possibilities; it was innocent; it was fun; it was like Matthew himself, eternally optimistic. But now no amount of Ativan (well, no PDR -approved amount) could stop his brain from assaulting him with What If questions about all the bad choices he’d made: from lying to Ben in Paris to naming Amelia in his speech, which had not only hurt her and Ben, but had handed Knolton the ammunition to ruin him.
He might have been able to trace all this back to the night he’d become entangled with the bummed-out boy sitting in the window seat and the little girl kneeing Matthew’s stomach while she bashed him over the head with the airline magazine—except, unfortunately, he was no longer sure about the past, either. Why had he agreed to the creation of Pain Matters, to give only one example? What if marketing Galvenar wasn’t as important as he’d always thought? Money still mattered, of course—please, he was sitting in coach for the first time in over a decade, and it was even worse than he remembered—but money couldn’t excuse every decision he’d made.
