The Snow Globe

by Sheila Roberts

  “I can’t help it if my business has grown,” she said. She shoved his feet off her lap and stood up. “I’m working really hard to give us a nice home, Guy, and you don’t seem to appreciate it.”

  “No,” he corrected her. “You’re working hard to give us a nice house, and I never said I wanted that.”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” she said, throwing up her hands.

  He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I understand that you want things nice, babe, but come on. You’ve turned into friggin’ Martha Stewart on steroids.”

  She was working her fingers to the bone and this was the thanks she got. “Well, thank you for your appreciation,” she snapped. “I guess next time I want to celebrate making a sale I’ll do it with someone at work,” she added, and left. There, chew on that.

  She took a bubble bath, and then went to bed with the latest issue of Better Homes and Gardens. She didn’t find out whether Guy had given any thought to what she said because she fell asleep before he came to bed, and by the time she woke up the next morning he had already left for work.

  That was just as well, she decided. There really was no sense in picking up the potentially explosive discussion. Better to let sleeping puppies lie.

  But as she got ready for her day a new concern niggled at her. She’d thought that Guy was as happy with their life as she was. Surely their happiness didn’t depend on whether or not they got a dog. And surely he didn’t really want her to scale back when she was doing so well with her career.

  Every marriage has issues, she reminded herself as she dropped Bryn off at day care.

  And every mother has parenting challenges, she added later, when Bryn pouted all the way home after Suzanne told her they couldn’t bring Happy with them.

  “We don’t have a bed for him,” Suzanne had pointed out. “He’d have nowhere to sleep.”

  Of course, Bryn had a solution for that. “He can sleep with me.”

  Now, there was a disgusting thought. “We don’t have a dog dish or dog food or a flea collar,” added Suzanne.

  “Let’s get them now,” Bryn suggested.

  “Bryn, we are not bringing Happy home,” Suzanne had finally said.

  Bryn had crossed her arms and scowled just the way Suzanne used to when she was a little girl. Then she’d added tears, and they were still rolling down her cheeks when they walked through the front door.

  “Whoa, what’s this?” Guy greeted them.

  He was already out of his suit and in his stocking feet, wearing his favorite ratty sweats in honor of fight night. Another hour and the bonus room would be a rocking place, with men shouting at the TV screen, punching the air with their fists, and spilling beer everywhere. The perfect ending to a perfect day.

  “Mommy won’t let me have Happy,” sobbed Bryn. “And now Santa won’t bring him.”

  Not if he doesn’t want to come down the chimney and get barbecued by a roaring fire.

  Guy frowned at Suzanne. It wasn’t your normal, garden-variety frown. It was something worse, tinged with an emotion Suzanne had rarely seen, at least not when he was looking at her: disgust.

  She realized she’d taken a step backward. She stopped and put up her chin. “There is more than one person living here, you know.”

  “Yes,” said Guy. “There is.” He picked up Bryn and carried her out to the kitchen. “Don’t worry, Brynnie, Santa will have something cool for you. Hey, how about some leftover spaghetti?”

  Suzanne slammed down her briefcase. Fine. Make her the bad guy just because she was trying to be practical. And, speaking of practical, Guy hadn’t even removed Bryn’s shoes, Suzanne fumed as she slipped off her heels. He’d done that deliberately, to irritate her, she was sure. She followed them to the kitchen where Guy was already heating spaghetti in the microwave—a small bowl for Bryn, nothing for his wife, the puppy hater. No wineglass sat on the counter, either.

  Fine. She could pour her own wine. She pulled a glass from the cupboard and a bottle of white wine from the fridge.

  “There you go, kidlet,” Guy said, setting the bowl in front of Bryn. “How about some milk?”

  Bryn was still sniffling. “I want Happy.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes Mrs. Claus makes it hard for Santa to come through,” Guy muttered.

  “Maybe that’s because Mrs. Claus knows who will wind up doing most of the work,” said Suzanne.

  “Mrs. Claus doesn’t know squat,” Guy said flatly. The doorbell rang. “That’s probably Clay. Looks like you’re on duty now,” he added, and left her alone with her sniffling daughter and a traitorous conscience that was turning guilty.

  Oh, this is ridiculous, she thought. Sometimes kids need to learn to take no for an answer and now is one of those times.

  “I saw Happy in the snow globe,” Bryn said, and gave the table leg an angry kick.

  Suzanne removed her daughter’s shoes. “Finish your spaghetti, sweetie.”

  She went to the front hall and deposited the shoes in the basket. Guy had vanished upstairs with his buddy for a night of testosterone overload. That was fine with her. She hoped he knocked himself out shadowboxing. Frowning, she straightened the mess of keys and receipts Guy had dumped on the entryway table. Dogs. Bah, humbug. It would have been nice if the snow globe had produced something worthwhile, like her and Guy and Bryn all strolling along a downtown street window-shopping, or at the Sheraton enjoying the gingerbread village display. Or a glimpse of the living room all done up for Christmas as proof that the decorator would get to her before New Year’s Day.

  With everything in place once more she turned and started back for the kitchen. She’d give Bryn a bubble bath and then they’d read a story. That would distract her from her dog fixation.

  But Bryn was no longer in the kitchen. As Suzanne passed the living room door she spotted her daughter balancing on tiptoe on the arm of the wingback chair Suzanne had positioned by the fireplace, one hand on the mantel, the other on the snow globe. And the chair was just about to tip.

  “Bryn!”

  Of course, startling her daughter was the equivalent of trying to make one final addition to a teetering tower of blocks. Bryn gave a guilty start and the chair began to go.

  A shot of adrenaline gave Suzanne superhuman speed and strength and she leaped the rest of the way across the room. She managed to catch her daughter but she also caught the side of the glass-topped coffee table, lost her balance, and came down on a very twisted ankle before winding up splayed on the floor, Bryn on top of her. As all this happened she heard glass shatter and she felt a lightning bolt of pain flash up her leg. She saw stars, she saw the chair tumble away, saw the upended coffee table and her daughter’s startled expression, and the snow globe in Bryn’s hands churning up a white cloud.

  Hitting the floor knocked the breath out of Suzanne. Pain made it difficult to regain it. Good God, she’d thought labor pains were bad, but this—there were no waves to peak and subside. This pain kept relentlessly pounding up her ankle.

  “Get Daddy,” she finally gasped.

  With a wail of terror, Bryn set down the snow globe and ran off.

  Suzanne closed her eyes against both the pain and the scene emerging as the snow settled inside the glass globe.

  Nooooo.

  Twelve

  Bryn ran from the room, crying, “Daddy, Daddy!”

  Suzanne gritted her teeth and sat up. The sight of her ankle was enough to make her light-headed and sick and she lay back down with a cry. No human ankle was meant to look like that.

  Bryn had barely left before Suzanne heard the pounding of feet. Guy’s friend Clay stopped at the door and gawked.

  Guy rushed past him and knelt by her. “Suz, my God. What happened?”

  “Bryn was climbing on the chair and fell. I think I’m going to be sick.” On the carpet. Noooo. Suzanne clutched her stomach and willed the nausea back.

  Bryn hovered in the doorway next to Clay. “I just wanted to see Happy,” she said, a
nd burst into fresh tears.

  “It’s okay, Brynnie,” said Guy. “Suz, baby, we’d better get you to the emergency room.”

  “Yeah, that looks bad,” Clay said as he picked up the crying Bryn.

  “That damned snow globe,” Suzanne growled, brushing tears from her cheek. “I wish Kiley had never brought it.” The thing had been like Pandora’s box, loosing all kinds of troubles on them. If they’d never seen it Bryn would have dropped her puppy fixation, Guy wouldn’t have been mad, and Suzanne wouldn’t have wound up with a foot that looked like it belonged on an elephant. And her coffee table would be in one piece.

  “Let’s get you to the car,” Guy said to her.

  “Bryn needs to go to bed,” she protested.

  “I can handle it, huh?” said Clay, giving Bryn a toss and making her smile for the first time since the accident. “Want Uncle Clay to put you to bed?”

  Bryn sniffled and nodded. “Is my mommy going to be okay?”

  “Of course, she is,” said Guy. “Okay, babe. Up we go.”

  Suzanne tried not to groan as Guy carried her out and settled her in the car, but the pain was excruciating. No one ever died of a sprained ankle, she told herself, though it just felt like her injury was going to kill her. If she didn’t get something for the pain soon she was going to gnaw off her leg.

  The ride to Group Health Ballard took only minutes but it felt like hours, and the examination and X-rays were nearly unbearable. She had obviously angered the patron saint of dogs.

  The final verdict was worse than anticipated. She hadn’t simply sprained her ankle; she’d managed to break it. As soon as the swelling went down she’d be in a big, ugly cast. How was she supposed to drive with a broken ankle? How could she show houses? How could she do anything? Why the heck, if something had to get broken, couldn’t it have been the snow globe?

  When she finally came home it was with crutches and a splint. And, thank God, pain pills. Those not only took away the pain, they made it feel like not such a big deal that she suddenly had no life. Who cared, she decided as she floated away on clouds of drug-induced comfort and joy.

  The next morning Suzanne awoke to the smell of coffee and an urgent message from her ankle that it was time for more painkillers. She spotted the bottle on her nightstand and raided it, then lay back against the pillows with a groan. While waiting for the meds to take effect she occupied her time listing the many ways she would destroy the snow globe once she was up and moving again: throw it off the Aurora Bridge, donate it to some gun club to use for target practice, beat it to smithereens with her crutches. That last one appealed the most. The enjoyment would last longer.

  The pills kicked in and she decided it was safe to try and get up. A glance at the clock told her it was almost nine. Sheesh. She should be on her way to the office. Instead she was only on her way to the bathroom. It wasn’t an easy trip with one working leg and, once there, she managed to drop one of her crutches and knock her fancy soap bottle off the counter. Of course it broke, sending a puddle of soap across the floor. Great. The way her luck had been going she’d slip on it and break her other ankle.

  She managed to escape slipping on the soap and had just gotten back in bed when Guy arrived, bearing a mug of coffee. “I thought I heard you.”

  She frowned. “It was probably hard not to. I’m sure I sounded like a rhino.”

  “But a small one,” he assured her, handing over the mug.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, then nodded to the clock on her nightstand. “You didn’t go to work?”

  “I took the day off.”

  Both of them missing work. Great. “Sorry. By the way, I managed to knock over the soap.”

  He shrugged. “Not a problem. I’ll take care of it.”

  “What a mess everything is,” she said miserably.

  “It could be worse,” he said. “Bryn could have been hurt. That was some rescue you managed, Supermom, leaping over the coffee table in a single bound.”

  “Not much of a leap considering the fact that I knocked it over,” she said with a frown. “How on earth am I going to do anything?” Right before Christmas—could she have picked a worse time for this?

  “Don’t worry. Help is on the way,” Guy said from the bathroom.

  She could hear the sounds of glass scraping on the floor. What was he using to clean that up? One of her good towels, of course.

  “You hired someone?” she called. Where had he found somebody so quickly?

  He reappeared in the doorway bearing a towel full of mess. “This help is free.”

  She got a sudden uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Free? Who?”

  “Your mother. She’s already on her way up from Portland.”

  “My…? Oh, no.”

  Suzanne knew what that meant. Corny movies on TV every night, including a command screening of It’s a Wonderful Life, the dreaded tacky home-crafted decorations, and, of course, a lecture on what a great blessing in disguise Suzanne’s broken ankle was. Now she could take time to savor the joys of the season. As if Suzanne didn’t already.

  But she didn’t savor the season the way her mother did, which meant she didn’t do it right. Like all daughters since the dawn of time, she didn’t measure up to her mother’s expectations.

  She could hear her mother now. “You don’t need a decorator, dear, not when we can cut out snowflakes and paint Santas on the windows.” Just the thought of what the house would look like under her mother’s reign was enough to make Suzanne shudder.

  “Why did you have to call her?” Suzanne groaned.

  “I didn’t,” Guy said. “She happened to call last night and Clay told her what happened. She called again after you were in bed and insisted on coming. What could I do?”

  “You could have told her we’re fine,” Suzanne said irritably.

  “Yeah? You’re on pain pills and crutches. Just how fine are we?”

  “Perfectly,” Suzanne insisted, even though she knew it was a lie.

  “You’ll be better if you get some help and some rest,” Guy said. He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “The more you rest the faster you’ll heal.”

  “What’s Bryn doing?” she asked.

  “Watching a Disney princess movie. So I’m going to check on my e-mail and make some calls,” he said, heading for the door. “Do you want breakfast before I start?”

  The last thing she wanted was food. She shook her head.

  “Okay. Call or bang on the floor with your crutch if you need something,” he said, and left.

  What she needed he couldn’t bring her. She glared at her useless foot. This was grossly unfair.

  The phone rang. She snapped it open and said a pissy, “Hello.”

  “It’s nine-thirty. Are you on your way?” asked Julie, her partner. Julie was the office’s other top seller. She and Suzanne had dreamed up the holiday home tour the year before, and with their combined flair and drive it had been a huge success. This year they anticipated twice the turnout and twice the business.

  Of course Suzanne was supposed to have been in the office by now and they should have been working on the home tour. “I broke my ankle,” she said bitterly. But the cursed snow globe was just fine.

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes. Right now I’m in bed getting high on painkillers,” said Suzanne, smoothing the comforter over her legs.

  “Gosh, I’m sorry. Do you need anything?”

  “Only a new foot.”

  There was a moment’s silence on the other end of the line, followed by a tentative, “Um, how long are you going to be in bed?”

  “Just a couple of days,” Suzanne promised. “I’ll be up and around by the tour. Don’t worry.”

  “Well, okay,” said Julie, sounding doubtful. “But if you’re not I can pull in Maria. We can handle it.”

  And the sales that went along with it. “I’ll be fine,” Suzanne assured both Julie and herself.

  Or not. It seemed all she
was good for was sleeping, and when the painkillers started to wear off she wanted to scream. The crutches were instruments of torture and the thought of going downstairs made her shudder. She could just see herself falling and breaking her neck. Ugh.

  Bryn was restless and alternated between wanting to play Candy Land and wanting to know why Happy couldn’t come live with them. “Because that’s how it is,” Suzanne finally said wearily.

  Her mother arrived early that afternoon. She floated into the bedroom in a cloud of cheap gardenia perfume, wearing her latest discount store bargains. She was still living on a teacher’s salary, but she was an empty-nester now and could afford better clothes. Still, she insisted on dressing like she hadn’t a penny to her name no matter how many gift cards her daughter sent her.

  “Who do I need to impress?” she always said.

  No one, obviously. Certainly not a man. Mary Madison had been a widow way too long to ever think about adding a new man to her life. Although maybe she should. Then she’d have someone besides her children to drive crazy.

  She took one look at Suzanne and her face filled with pity. “Oh, my poor girl.” She perched on the edge of the bed and laid a gentle hand on Suzanne’s brow as if Suzanne were dying of a fever.

  All right. Maybe it hadn’t been such a bad idea to call her.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “Rotten,” said Suzanne. Frustrated. Grumpy.

  “Well, I’m going to make you some good, old-fashioned vegetable soup. You used to love that when you were sick.”

  Her mother’s vegetable soup—the finest restaurant in Seattle couldn’t touch it. “That would be great,” said Suzanne.

  Now Bryn was in the room, squealing, “Grammy!” and running pell-mell toward her grandmother.

  Mom intercepted her just before she could crash onto the bed. “Hello, my littlest angel,” she cooed, and gave Bryn a big kiss. “Would you like to come help Grammy make soup for your mommy?”

  Bryn jumped up and down and clapped her hands. “Yes!”

  Suzanne searched her memory for a time Bryn had been that excited over doing something with her and came up empty. That was because her brain was fuddled with pain pills. Later she’d remember something. Wouldn’t she?