Christmas Carol Page 4

  We eat dinner by candlelight: Mom's famous glazed goose, Hannah's pumpkin pie. Carol's in Danvers, celebrating the holiday with her own family tonight, but she sent along two dozen sugar cookies, white-frosted and cut into the shapes of angels.

  “Presents, presents, presents!” Holly chants after the adults clear the plates away, and her little sister Heather joins in: “Pwesens, pwesens, pwesens!”

  My parents started the tradition, back when I was still in diapers, that we would each open one extra-special gift on Christmas Eve—with the rest of the gifts to come from “Santa” in the morning. Hannah tears open a little box containing a locket, and inside are tiny pictures of her girls. Mom gets a new quilt, handmade by Hannah, and I give Dad an old autographed picture of Bing Crosby. I scored it on eBay and have been anxious to give it to him for weeks. He actually gets a little teary-eyed and starts singing his favorite Bing Crosby song, White Christmas.

  Holly and Heather squeeze their new Cabbage Patch Kid dolls, and when it's my turn to open a gift, Dad chooses a small silver-wrapped box from beneath the tree.

  “Who's it from?” I ask, as I loosen the paper and untie the bow. Mom and Dad exchange a smiling glance, but they shake their heads, urge me to lift the lid.

  And when I do, when I see the ring...

  “Merry Christmas, baby,” Carol says, appearing in the doorway to the living room. She's flushed, and she's wearing a green elf hat, and when she steps toward me, she smells cold and sweet, like snow. She falls down to one knee, and she exhales, beaming, “Will you marry me, Ebbie?”

  “Yes, yes,” I say, even though we can't get married, not really, not legally. But we don't care, and my family surrounds us, a laughing, multiarmed hugging being, and it's the best Christmas Eve, the best moment of my life—

  Now we're in the car: Mom, Dad and me.

  “Wasn't it sweet of Hannah to make me this quilt?” Mom, beside me in the passenger seat, spreads the stitched blanket over her lap.

  “She takes after you, honey, with those nimble fingers!”

  “Dad, gross!” I laugh and glance at him in the rear-view mirror. “Keep the comments G-rated, fella.”

  “Well, you weren't so G-rated with Carol tonight...” This comes from Mom; she smiles coyly, then warmly at me. “Oh, Ebbie, we're so happy to see you so happy.” She places her hand on my knee and squeezes. “And you know we love Carol.”

  “She loves you guys, too.” I flick another glance at my rear-view mirror and see Carol's car just behind us. A flood of warmth fills my chest; my eyes fall to the wheel, and to the sparkling diamond ring on my left hand. Engaged... We're engaged!

  “You know, Ebbie,” Dad begins, leaning forward so that his head is between the front seats. Despite constant urging from Mom and me, Dad refuses to wear a seat belt, insists that they're “yuppie contraptions.” And that they snag his vintage Santa suit.

  “What, Dad?” I ask him, as I merge onto the highway, mindful of the slush on the road. I drove my parents to Hannah's house tonight to celebrate Christmas Eve, and I'm going to sleep at their place—along with, unbeknownst to me until a few minutes ago, Carol. Apparently, she and Mom and Dad arranged this whole thing a couple of weeks ago. Carol's family is actually going to celebrate Christmas next weekend, so that she can be with us right now.

  “Since you're settling into a relationship, Ebbie, it's time for you to start thinking seriously about the future—”

  “Dad—”

  “No, no, hear me out. I know that you're studying art, want to make a career out of it, and I support you, will always support you. But wouldn't it be nice to have something reliable to fall back on?”

  “Dad, I've told you—”

  “Ebbie, let me be frank. Hannah's too busy with work and the kids to run the park, and if you don't take it over after me... Well, I'll have to sell it to someone outside of the Scrogg family. I'll have to break the tradition that your great-aunt Maura began. Couldn't you just consider—”

  “Ebbie, watch out!”

  Mom's warning comes too late. The wrong-way truck slams into us, skidding on the ice, and there's a flash, like Hannah's camera, but this time, the white sears my eyes; I can't see, can't hear, and everything hurts...

  …

  …

  …

  “Look at me, Ebbie.”

  “Dee...Deedee?”

  “Yeah, sweetlips. Told you I'd stay by your side. C'mon, it's okay. Open your eyes.”

  I do, and, subconsciously, I realize that I'm sitting on the couch in the “in-between” place again. But part of me is still in that car, will always be in that car—

  “It wasn't your fault, you know.”

  I level Deedee with a cold, slit-eyed glare. “I was driving. I should have swerved. I should have done something—”

  “Listen, kid, I'm a ghost, and I know things, and I'm telling you, it wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could do to change it. Nothing. So you've gotta stop beating yourself up—”

  “Take me home.”

  “No can do, toodle-oo. We've got one more stop to make before this ghost train pulls back into the ghost station.” Deedee scoots closer to me on the sofa and places her fingertips beneath my chin, forcing me to look at her. I scowl as she says, “One last trip down Memory Lane...”

  The old apartment again.

  Carol...

  Carol's crying.

  “But, Ebbie, I think you've got it all mixed up. Your father would've wanted you to be happy. I understand that you're hurting—”

  “You don't understand anything!” I shout, slamming my clothes into the blue hard-backed suitcase. “Carol, my father is dead because of me. And he died thinking that I was going to let his dream die, too. I can't let that happen. I can't—”

  “Then take me with you.”

  I pause; a pair of jeans slips through my fingers, folding to the floor. “Take you...” I gaze into Carol's sad, watery blue eyes. I've made her sad. I'll make her sad perpetually if I say yes, if I agree to let her throw her life away for my sake. “No, Carol. No.”

  “But why? Ebbie, we're engaged. I love you. Let me help you. We're in this together—”

  “No.” My voice is sharp, slicing. Carol recoils, crossing her arms over her chest. She looks pale, thin, small.

  I exhale heavily through my nose. “I've made up my mind. I'll leave school, go back home, take over Christmasland... And you'll stay here, finish up your dissertation, teach overseas, like you always planned to—”

  “Ebbie, don't you get it? None of that means anything to me without you.”

  “Carol, don't you get it? I don't deserve you.” I drop the diamond ring into the palm of her hand.

  “Ebbie—”

  I'm sobbing, boiling-hot tears streaking my cheeks, blinding my eyes. I drag my suitcase out the door, and I don't say goodbye. I don't look back.

  I don't ever look back again.

  Part Three: Christmas Present

  “Knock, knock.”

  “Who's...there?” I sit up abruptly; then I leap to my feet—or try to. My leg is caught beneath me, and I bang my chin against the corner of the coffee table.

  Ouch.

  Cursing, I rise, rubbing the bloody gash on my still-bearded cheek.

  Where am I? I squint, taking in the messy table in front of me, piled with stained coffee mugs and wrinkled magazines addressed to Elizabeth Scrogg.

  Home.

  Home.

  I'm in my apartment.

  My current, real-life, present-day apartment. And... I stumble around in circles, searching for signs of Deedee the ghost, but there isn't a swish of hot pink tulle in sight.

  I think I'm alone now.

  Marvelously, blissfully, properly alone.

  Relieved, I rake a hand back through my tangled hair and breathe out a heavy, ragged sigh.

  Oh, my God, what an awful nightmare.

  I must have fallen asleep on the sofa after I drove home from work. I was pretty wiped out,
and, let's face it, Christmas is a dismal time, chock-full of bad memories and regrets. If only I could sleep straight through tomorrow—

  I tilt my head, then, muscles tensing. Because I thought I heard—but, no, that's ridiculous. Why would I hear a dog panting in my living room? I don't have a dog, or any pets at all. In fact, this whole apartment building is a pet-free zone.

  But—wait. There it is again. Heavy, doggie panting.

  I ball my hands, wincing. Haven't I dealt with enough weirdness tonight?

  On tiptoe, I round the corner of the couch, hoping to find nothing—well, aside from some tossed-off socks, maybe, or the missing remote control—but there, squatting quite serenely on the hardwood floor, is a small white dog, fluffy, disheveled...and panting. It looks like a Christmas present: around its neck is a shiny red bow.

  The dog wags its tail at me.

  Then it says, “Hello!”

  “Hello.”

  Eyes wide as saucers, I turn on my heel and fall flat onto the couch, face buried deep in the cushions.

  “I've gone crazy,” I mutter into the tightly woven tweed. “Mad. Bonkers.”

  “No, I'm Bonkers,” comes a cheerful, doggish-sounding voice. “That's my name!”

  I shift slightly and regard the small animal, its paws poised on the edge of the sofa, its pink tongue lolling out of its shaggy mouth. “Ha! Right. Bonkers the Talking Dog. Of course. Of course! Nice to meet you. I'm Ebbie. Pretty bow; is it silk?”

  “Satin, actually.”

  “Satin. Yeah, satin's nice, too. Um, could you excuse me? Don't mean to be rude, but I've just got to go back to sleep—or, no, I've got to try to wake up, because I'm clearly still trapped in a nightmare here...”

  “I'm afraid you aren't dreaming. Didn't Deedee explain all of this to you? Now, now, don't cry.”

  “I'm not crying.”

  Oh.

  Huh.

  I am crying.

  Why am I crying?

  Suddenly angry, I sit upright, swipe a hand over my face, and narrow my brows at—God, really?—Bonkers. “Are you another ghost?” I ask him, shoving my hands into the pockets of the Santa Claus coat.

  “I,” he announces proudly, scratching at the couch, “am the Ghost of Christmas Present.”

  “Okay. But...why are you a dog?”

  Bonkers tilts his head, considering this. “Why are you a person?”

  I can't help it; I smile. Well, the little guy is pretty cute. Though he could use a bath and a brushing. “Touche. All right. So...what emotional maelstrom have you got in store for me?”

  He wags his tail excitedly. “We're going to a party! Well, two parties!”

  I shake my head, leaning back against the couch. “Oh, no, I don't really do parties.”

  Bonkers gazes at me with big brown eyes while his fluffy tail thumps against the floor. Then he stands up on his back legs, placing his paws on my knees.

  And he licks my chin with his wet, pink tongue.

  Bonkers' warm body is pressed against my legs, the long fur of his wagging tail fanning out like the fronds of a feather. I ruffle the soft place behind his ears, and then I chuckle, because you can't help but chuckle when a dog—especially a talking ghost dog—is licking your chin. He starts to lick my cheeks, then, and when I close my eyes for just a second...

  The air changes.

  The floor feels as if it tilts slightly beneath me.

  And I open my eyes to someplace...else.

  With a satisfied huff, Bonkers pushes off from my legs to rest stolidly on the floor at my feet, his tail stilled as we, side by side, take in the space before us. I'm no longer sitting on the couch in my apartment; the fabric of this chair is worn brown leather, and the floor is covered in nubby beige carpeting. The carpet is stained here and there, as if to present evidence of years of use, years of kids, of parties. Years of laughter and love.

  From somewhere in the house, Bing Crosby's voice croons softly—a nostalgic Christmas carol that makes my stomach muscles tighten.

  Fists clenched, I stand up, blinking and confused, though I am beginning to recognize my surroundings. I can hear laughter and singing and talking from the other room, and when my wobbly legs round the corner, I allow myself to acknowledge where I am.

  It's been a long time since my last visit, but I recognize the lived-in, earth-colored comfort of my sister Hannah's home.

  Growing up, my family held our late-night Christmas Eve parties at my parents' house—until Hannah bought her own large two-story in the suburbs. Then the parties moved to her place, with its wide-open rooms and big bow window for the tree.

  But after Dad died, I never went to a Christmas Eve party again. Or, hell, any parties at all. It just doesn't feel right. You know—having fun.

  Granted, Dad was a pretty traditional guy, straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting: jolly smile, red suspenders, pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. I know he would be happy that Hannah kept up with the family holiday tradition.

  But I can't imagine going to a Christmas Eve party, knowing that he won't—and can't, not ever again—be there, too.

  Here and now, I watch my sister and my mother sit together at the tall dining room table, the same table that I helped Hannah pick out of an IKEA catalog a dozen years ago. I raise a brow, surprised that the particleboard thing is still in one piece, though its surface is scratched, and one of the legs curves out awkwardly.

  It's late, so Hannah's daughters, Holly and Heather, are probably in bed, while Hannah and Mom work industriously to fill up the girls' stockings. Hmm. How old are Holly and Heather now? Are they teenagers? Must be. Well, it doesn't matter. In the Scrogg family, you get a stocking full of treats whether you're two or ninety-two.

  I take a step closer, my heart softening at the cozy sight of Hannah and my mother, lamplit, heads bent, picking out foil-wrapped, snowman-shaped chocolates from a bag and jamming them into the overstuffed, hand-knit stockings. When Holly and Heather were little, I helped fill the stockings, too.

  My throat constricts.

  I don't like this.

  I'm remembering other Christmases.

  The Christmases that happened before my world fell apart.

  Bing Crosby sings about the little town of Bethlehem as Hannah sighs, pressing her hands into the small of her back. She chuckles a little and turns toward our mother.

  “Hey. Remember how Dad always used to put lumps of coal in our stockings, with a note attached that said, 'Just kidding'? Corniest joke ever, but it made us laugh—every time.”

  It seems that Mom and Hannah are remembering other Christmases, too.

  Mom smiles, unwrapping one of the chocolates with a gnarled but smooth-skinned hand. She pops the chocolate into her mouth and closes her eyes, savoring the sweetness. “He had a terrible sense of humor,” she says, smile widening. “Awful. And that was one of the reasons I fell in love with him.”

  For a long moment, neither of them speaks. And then Heather, eyes half-closed, murmurs, “Christmas just isn't what it used to be, you know? Dad's gone. No one plays Santa at our parties. And Ebbie—”

  I stiffen at the sound of my name. Then I startle when I feel a dog body leaning against my leg. I glance down at Bonkers, who's pressing on my calf with his side and wagging his fluffy white tail. “It's okay,” he tells me, his voice oddly soothing. “It's important that you hear this. Don't be afraid.”

  Grimacing, I swallow the lump in my throat and listen.

  “Oh, Hannah.” My mother crumples the foil from the chocolate into a ball. “Ebbie has never forgiven herself for the accident.” Her voice, normally lively, is low and rough with emotion.

  Hannah exhales; then she pushes her chair back from the table and stands up, waving her hands in agitation. “But that's what it was—an accident!”

  Mom shrugs elegantly, leaning back in her chair, placing one sweater-sheathed arm over the back of it. “We know that, but she can't see it. She's punishing herself.” She gestures around her
at the quiet house, at the third chair pulled out from the table—empty. The chair that I should be sitting in. “And, by her absence, she's punishing everyone who loves her.” Her jaw tightens. “Or...loved her.”

  My heart trembles.

  Hannah crosses her arms over her chest. Then she rakes a hand through her white-gold hair, sighing. “Poor Carol. I ran into her today, actually.”

  My mother's brows raise, and Hannah sits back down in her chair uncomfortably, putting her hands between her knees. “It was the weirdest thing! I haven't seen her since...that night, but there she was, standing in the middle of Market Basket, with a little girl beside her. Told me she's staying with her folks in Danvers for the holidays. I never knew she had family up here.”

  My mother leans forward, pats my sister's thigh. “You should have invited her to stop by.”

  “I did, but she said her family was having a party tonight, too.” Her voice trails off, and she shakes her head, picking up the stockings. She slides off of the chair and carries the stockings to the mantle, which is strewn with greenery and family photographs. “It's just odd, isn't it? She was almost my sister-in-law, and now she's a stranger.”

  My mother takes a sip from her almost-empty glass of white wine before answering. “Odd, yes.” She nods slowly. “And very sad.”

  Hannah loops each stocking over its iron stocking hook: one holder is in the shape of a reindeer, and the other is a star. There are three other stockings already dangling from the mantle—for Hannah, Mom...and me. Mom will probably drop my stocking off at my apartment later this week, along with a big box of gifts, like she always does.

  Hannah turns back to my mother, her face cast in shadows. “You know what's even sadder, Mom?”

  Silent, my mother watches her, still gripping her glass of wine.

  There are tears in my sister's eyes as she says, “Sometimes I feel as if my own sister has become a stranger, too.”

  Oof.

  My heart was sore, bruised, after my time-traveling adventures with Deedee. But when Hannah speaks, I feel gutted. Hollowed out. I place my hand over my chest, curling forward, and I pant against the pain radiating through my nervous system.