“Whoa, Mom.” Will held up a hand to calm her. “Chill.”
“Don’t you dare say that to me! You know what? I’m going to leave now before I lose myself. And I’m going to think about why my children are so incredibly spoiled.”
There was a pause as Will took this in. “If we’re not going to Dr. Russell, can I go over to Dan’s house?”
Meg didn’t bother to answer. She returned to the kitchen and sat down heavily at the table.
That makes the second time today that my children got me so angry, I literally removed myself from their presence, she thought. Was this normal? Maybe she was too impatient or not understanding enough. They’d always been great kids. Lizzie had been the child with the summer lemonade stand, donating her proceeds to Save the Children, and using her free time to make braided bracelets out of yarn, which she sold to her classmates, again for charity. In middle school, she had been the rare kid who invited every girl in her class to her birthday parties, not wanting anyone to feel left out. Will, too, had a generous side that, just a couple of years ago, led him to organize weekly softball games for the younger kids on their street. Yet lately it was as if some soul-stealing virus had infected them. It left them selfish and utterly full of themselves. Maybe it was just adolescence. But maybe not.
Meg wondered if she should take some action to teach them not to take everything for granted. Maybe she should call off this week’s planned visit to the Festival of Lights in Winston-Salem. Every year they took the hayride through Tanglewood Park to marvel at what was reputed to be a million lights arranged in more than a hundred displays. It was an overwhelming sight that signified the start of the Christmas season to them. She sighed. Sam loved going so much; it wasn’t fair to punish him because of the older ones.
The phone rang, startling her. She picked it up. “Hello?”
“It’s me.” James’s voice was strained.
“Hi, sweetheart. You okay? Are you really staying at work late tonight?”
“Yes. I just remembered something. The trip in January—you need to cancel it.”
Meg tried to hide her disappointment. “Oh. You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” he snapped. “I have to go.”
She forced a cheerful good-bye and hung up. So much for their romantic getaway to the Cloister in Georgia. The four-day trip was James’s anniversary present for her, already postponed once from their actual anniversary in September because of his work. Just the two of them, alone at the most gorgeous, luxurious resort. Ever since the children were little, James had arranged a getaway for the two of them on their anniversary, even if they could manage it for only one night. This was the first time it had ever been put off—and, it occurred to her, he had said to cancel the trip. Not postpone or reschedule. She hoped that was all he was implying, but something told her “cancel” meant exactly what it said.
At any rate, she now had to make a slew of phone calls to deal with the various reservations and people booked for those four days to take care of the children and the house. With a sigh, she located the binder where she kept all her household-related notes and phone numbers. She would have to put off planning the big Thanksgiving gathering. Before she could stop herself, she wondered if she might wind up having to put it off until a different year altogether.
Chapter 3
The spectators made their way from the narrow bleachers through the exit doors. It was quiet in the gym, the grim silence that typically followed a loss for one of Meadow Middle School’s sports teams. The basketball team had a long-standing rivalry with Xavier Middle, but in the last several years, Xavier had won every game. That losing streak made Meadow’s 49–27 loss today particularly humiliating.
Meg and Sam said nothing as they walked toward the car. They both knew what kind of mood Will would be in when he finished changing out of his uniform and came through the gym’s side exit. Neither one of them was looking forward to it. Will wasn’t a great basketball player by any measure, but his height and speed helped make him one of the best on the team. He treasured that position. It made up for the fact that he wasn’t a good enough athlete to play football, which Meg knew was the sport that mattered most to the kids as they approached high school. It was the only sport that mattered to Will.
It had always been all about football for him. He and his father were rabid Carolina Panthers fans and owned a huge assortment of Panther paraphernalia. The football teams from Duke, UNC, or NC State provided additional hours of tension and jubilation. But Will had to make do with basketball, and he was determined to win at it. A victory made him happy for a week. A loss sent him spiraling into gloom. In most areas of his life, Will was a fairly easygoing child. When it came to this, he was irrational.
Sam got into the backseat and buckled the seat belt. Meg heard him sigh, no doubt anticipating the inevitable unpleasantness of the drive home. Will’s innate competitiveness was completely alien to Sam, though he did his best to support his older brother by attending the games and cheering as if he cared. Victories brought rewards for such loyalty—Will might invite Sam into his bedroom to talk or to play video games. Losses brought his older brother’s sulking.
Will was the first player to emerge from the locker room, throwing wide the heavy door. He yanked open the car door, slumped into the passenger seat, then reached out and slammed the door as hard as he could.
“Hi, honey,” Meg tried.
“Don’t even talk to me.” He folded his arms across his chest and glared out the window. “Just don’t.”
Meg turned the car around and drove toward the exit. Most of the crowd had already left, a fair number of them before the game was even over.
“UNBELIEVABLE!” The word exploded from Will. “THOSE JERKS CAN SAY THEY’VE BEATEN US FIVE YEARS IN A ROW! DO YOU KNOW HOW BAD THAT IS? DO YOU?”
What Meg and Sam did know was that it was smarter not to answer. They remained quiet as Will continued his tirade. Meg could see Sam in the rearview mirror, fidgeting in his seat. Abruptly, he interrupted. “It’s a bunch of guys with a ball. Not exactly worth dying over.”
Uh-oh, Meg thought, even as she admired her younger son’s willingness to put his head in the lion’s mouth. Will whipped around in his seat to face Sam, only too glad to be able to target his wrath.
“What would you know about it, you little pus bag? You don’t play anything. You’re too scared—”
“STOP RIGHT THERE!”
Meg’s voice was so loud, it startled even her. Will was about to escalate the personal insults to a point she wasn’t going to allow.
“Oh yeah, of course, defend him, like you always do,” Will spat out as he turned to face forward again.
No one said another word. Meg was glad when their house finally came into view. As soon as she had parked in the garage, both boys disappeared, headed to their rooms. Meg entered the kitchen to find Lizzie standing at the counter, her eyes red and puffy, sniffling as she spread peanut butter on a banana.
“Sweetheart, have you been crying?” Alarmed, Meg went over to her, putting a hand on Lizzie’s arm.
“No!” Lizzie snatched her arm away.
“You want to tell me what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.” Lizzie looked up at her mother’s face, and her resolve crumbled. “It’s Emily and Maya. I could just kill them!”
“What happened?”
“It’s Facebook stuff. They’re on some kind of campaign to get everyone to hate me.”
Meg bristled. “Are you serious?”
Lizzie paused, jabbing the knife into the nearly full peanut butter jar so that it stood straight up. “Okay, not hate me, maybe, but they’re saying a bunch of stuff that makes me look bad. I thought we were good friends, and now it seems like they never considered me a friend. It was all in my mind. I’m nothing to them.”
Meg put her arms around Lizzie, and the girl rested her head against her mother’s shoulder. She began to cry in earnest. “Why is everybody
so mean?” she got out between sobs. “I used to have so many friends, but now it’s like everyone’s changed.”
Meg rubbed Lizzie’s back. “Oh, honey, the kids are going through their own stuff. It’s not about you, it’s about them.”
Her daughter pulled away. “You always say stuff like that, Mom. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It’s really true, if you could just—”
Lizzie grabbed the peanut butter–covered banana and turned to go. “Never mind. I’m sorry I said anything.”
“Sweetie—”
“Forget it.”
She was gone.
Meg pulled the knife out of the peanut butter, shaking her head. The backbiting among Lizzie’s friends had started around seventh grade and now seemed to be constant. Sometimes Lizzie was the target of the gossip, but by the time she got into high school, Meg suspected, her daughter sometimes did a bit of the gossiping herself. It drove Meg crazy, especially since computers and cell phones seemed to have brought the speed of gossip up to the speed of light. Like the news cycle on television, Meg reflected, the popularity cycle seemed to turn over every twenty-four hours.
Upstairs, Will must have emerged from his room as Lizzie was going down the hall, because Meg heard the two of them shouting, something about hogging a DVD. LizzieandWillfighting, just one word, was how Meg thought of these frequent confrontations. She glanced at the clock on the microwave. Two-twelve. There was a lot more of this day to get through.
I will be cool and calm, she resolved, turning to look at the magnet on the refrigerator. It was a small one she had picked up years ago at a local fair, featuring North Carolina’s state motto in Latin and English: Esse quam videri. To be, rather than to seem. Meg found it comforting, inspiring her not only to try and appear calm or wise or whatever she wished she could be at any given moment but actually to feel that way. She’d been looking at that magnet a lot lately.
She hurried upstairs to change into her workout clothes, then spent forty minutes on the treadmill in their basement gym. The room had been James’s idea, a small area outfitted with the treadmill, a stationary bike, and some free weights, plus a large-screen television. He wound up using it only infrequently, on a Saturday or Sunday morning. Meg tried to put in four days a week, although she hated every minute of it. When she was finished with her workout, luxuriating under the cool stream of the shower, she was surprised to see James enter the bathroom. He didn’t say anything but went directly to the sink to wash his hands.
“Hi,” she said loudly over the noise of the water. “I thought you were playing golf all afternoon.”
“We quit after nine holes.”
“Oh, that’s a shame—”
He left the room before she could complete her sentence. Meg dragged the washcloth up and down one arm. When it came to whatever it was that was troubling her husband, she was at a total loss. James was clearly going through some problem, but he refused to answer any of her questions. Initially, he had tried distracting her or jollying her along with humor, but he had given that up entirely; he had simply withdrawn. He came home early from the office, or ridiculously late, with no explanations. In the past few weeks, even the children commented on his irritability. She tried to gloss over it with meaningless phrases about how hard he was working.
Meg had repeatedly asked, cajoled, and demanded an explanation. Was he in love with someone else? Having problems at work? Was he sick or addicted to drugs or alcohol? She reminded him that he could tell her anything and she would do anything to help him. She got no response to her entreaties. In fact, he no longer turned to her in bed or showed her any affection at all. It was as if he wanted to be totally alone with his misery. At a loss by this point, Meg decided she would wait it out. Either he would manage whatever was bothering him, or, eventually, she would force him to confide in someone—if not her, then a professional of some kind. She was giving it until New Year’s.
When Thanksgiving Day arrived, James’s mood hadn’t improved, but Meg had pushed ahead with her annual dinner for the neighbors. Eighteen people would be coming over at four o’clock to share in the feast. She had started cooking the previous Sunday, and today she was right on schedule. At noon she began setting the table, which consisted of their dining room table with all four leaves in it, plus two rented tables extending out from either side. Under duress, Lizzie and Will helped spread out the white tablecloths and napkins and carried in chairs from other parts of the house. Sam retrieved all the sterling silver flatware and ornate serving pieces from the basement closet.
Meg liked to do the final setting of the places herself. She enjoyed arranging the silver, china, and crystal, everything sparkling and gleaming. Next she had huge bouquets of flowers in water-filled buckets to arrange and two dozen candles to set out.
“Mom, no one does this anymore, you know.” Lizzie paused on her way past the dining room, observing her mother adjusting the positions of multiple sets of salt and pepper shakers. “You don’t have to make such a fuss.”
Meg laughed. “C’mon, Lizzie, you know I do.”
Her daughter smiled. “Yeah, I guess you do. Some people never learn.”
Meg hastened back to the kitchen to baste the turkey, which had been roasting in the oven for hours. The juggling act would come later, when she was trying to heat up the enormous quantities of sweet potato pie, plus the peas and mushrooms, and extra stuffing beyond what the bird held. At the same time she needed to mash the cooked potatoes. She consulted her list for the meal. Hors d’oeuvres, spiked punch for adults, soda for children, cranberry sauce, whipped cream for the pies—all ready.
She decided she had earned a break. Pouring a glass of water, she moved to look out the window. The backyard always provided her with a feeling of serenity, its flat expanse of greenery surrounded by tall, shade-providing trees. The family had spent countless evenings grilling and eating dinner on the patio, and those times were among her favorites. She had also put many contented hours into nurturing the flower beds behind the house and along the lawn’s perimeter. It gave her tremendous satisfaction to do something with her hands that created so much beauty virtually out of thin air. Try as she might, she couldn’t interest any of her children in gardening, and James never had the time or inclination. It didn’t bother her, though; she liked having something that was exclusively hers.
She took a long drink of water. Peering out more intently, she saw that the four Adirondack chairs on the far end of the lawn needed a fresh coat of white paint. She made a mental note to add that to the general to-do list.
Unbidden, the thought came to her that she was sick and tired of that list. Of all her lists. Truth be told, she never wanted to lay eyes on her stupid pink leather book with all those idiotic color-coded errands again.
Startled, she turned away from the window. Where had that come from? she asked herself. Was she tired of doing what was required to keep the family running smoothly? No, that wasn’t it. She had no intention of abandoning any of her family commitments. But she needed to do something different, something more. Her life might be busy, but it wasn’t full. Maybe it was because the kids were getting older. They still required her time and attention, but it was a different kind of need than when they were little. Something was missing, though. Meg closed her eyes momentarily, willing her thoughts to take a different turn. She sensed that, just by having this conversation with herself, she was letting some kind of genie out of its bottle.
She brought her musings to an abrupt end by reminding herself that, given James’s problems, this was hardly the time to be shaking things up. Anything having to do with her was going to have to wait. The color-coded calendar would remain.
At three o’clock, Meg went upstairs to change, trading the yoga stretch clothes she wore to clean and cook for black pants, black ballet flats, and a cream silk blouse. Quickly, she pinned up her hair and applied makeup.
It was already three-thirty when she came downstairs. It occurred to her that she
hadn’t seen James since she asked him to take care of the wine selection for dinner. That had to be nearly two hours ago, she thought, frowning. She hadn’t expected any help from him on this dinner—although he hadn’t insisted, his attitude had made it clear that he didn’t want her to do it this year—but she figured he would handle this one small piece. By now he should have brought into the kitchen whatever wine he wanted her to serve.
No doubt he was in his study. She paused outside the door, listening. “James?”
There was no answer. She opened the door. “Are you in here?”
Her husband was seated at his desk with his arms and head down, like a child taking a nap in school. Papers surrounded him. He made no movement at the sound of her entrance.
“James, are you okay?”
Still nothing. Fear rose in Meg.
“James! Talk to me!” She started toward him, thinking she could grab the phone on the desk to call 911.
He raised his head.
“Oh, you nearly gave me—” Meg stopped short.
His face was red and wet with tears, and his expression was wild-eyed. Meg noticed a glass and a nearly empty bottle of Scotch on the desk beside him.
“It’s all over.” His voice was low but harsh.
“What’s all over? Why are you getting drunk in here? You’re not even dressed yet. We’re having people—”
His voice rose. “Forget that. It’s all gone, Meg. Our money. Everything.”
Meg stared at him, uncomprehending. “What?”
His face crumpled. “I’m so sorry.”
The slightest sensation of fear sneaked up Meg’s spine. “What on earth are you talking about?”
An Amish Christmas: A Novel Page 3
