Christmas Carol Page 5

  Because...Hannah's words ring true. I haven't spent much time with my family since I took over Christmasland, even though I now live closer to them than I did when I was in college. I'm always working. Christmasland is an enormous entity, after all—“the North Pole of America”—so it has to be run by someone who takes its size and scope seriously.

  Admittedly, I may take Christmasland a little too seriously.

  God knows I hate working there, but the work distracts me, keeps my mind occupied. Keeps my mind here, now, and disconnected from the past.

  On the fireplace mantle, behind the stocking holders and nestled among the pine boughs, rest framed photographs of Hannah's daughters—some from their diaper days, some from school. I gaze at the pictures, shocked by how old the girls look in the last few. Almost like full-grown women. With their white-blonde hair, they resemble younger versions of Hannah and me.

  How have I allowed so much time to slip by?

  I don't know my nieces. I never made it a priority to spend an afternoon with them, to learn their quirks, figure out their likes and dislikes. I've always bought them presents for birthdays and Christmases, but they were generic presents, scented soaps and gift cards delivered through the mail. The same sorts of presents I send to my mother, my sister.

  Hannah's right: I don't even know my own sister anymore.

  I glance back at the dining room table, but I squint, bewildered: the table seems far away, as if it's positioned across a dark and distant parking lot. Bonkers sits down beside my left foot and glances up at me, thumping his tail.

  “What—” I begin.

  “Hold on tight!” he says brightly, and then he points his black nose straight ahead.

  After another thump of his tail, we're no longer standing in my sister's dining room. And within a single, thudding heartbeat, I realize where we are now. Because I've thought about this place a lot over the years. I couldn't forget it, no matter how hard I tried.

  Just like I could never forget her.

  Bonkers and I are standing in Carol's parents' front hallway.

  A rush of bittersweet memories nearly topples me, but I steady myself by gritting my teeth and drawing in a deep, shaky breath.

  Carol grew up in a mansion, but her parents aren't the sort of people that you'd expect to own a mansion. They just love history, and their house—with its leaded glass windows and hand-laid stonework—was involved in the Revolutionary War. Carol's dad, Richard, bought the place when he and his wife, Helen, were newlyweds.

  Heart hammering, I take in the scene before me. The annual Christmas party is in full swing, and the house looks festive with a stately, fresh-cut pine tree in the foyer decked out with large-bulbed lights (vintage lights, my well-trained Christmasland eye notes). The tree's boughs bear mercury glass ornaments, German glass glitter, and liberal puffs of cottony “snow.” The holiday decor is Martha Stewart-esque, rich with nostalgic charm.

  I'm impressed, just as I was every year that I stopped in to visit Carol's family's home during the holidays. The house sparkles; it's alive with holiday cheer. The party guests are laughing, holding holly leaf-stenciled wineglasses and eggnog cups. Unlike my family's get-togethers—where ugly Christmas sweaters and elf hats are the dress code—this party is a black-tie affair: the men wear tuxedos, and the women are sheathed in sequined gowns.

  I walk into the parlor and encounter Carol's mother, Helen, helping herself to some eggnog while she talks with an older gentlemen who, after a moment's consideration, I realize is Carol's father. I'm unsettled to note how much both of them have aged. The last time I saw Carol's parents, they were vibrant, full of life...

  One of the vintage sofas is pushed back against the wall, and Clarissa, Carol's adopted daughter, is fast asleep upon it, curled up on the cushion with a stuffed elephant clutched to her chest. She's wearing a red velvet dress, and her cherubic curls frame her sleeping face. I work with kids all day, every day, but, to be honest, I don't have an affinity for them; maybe I experience them too often at their worst. Nothing halts the maternal instinct faster than listening to children whine to their parents about food, about rides, about toys in the gift shops...and then proceed to assault Santa Claus with their dissertation-length wishlists.

  Still, this kid in particular looks pretty sweet.

  When she's asleep, anyway.

  I turn around, searching the rest of the crowd, but there's nobody else that I recognize here. I never met Carol's extended family, since Carol and I spent most of our time together at our apartment in New York.

  “Come on,” says Bonkers, wagging his tail and gazing up at me hopefully. “I've got something to show you.”

  “Can't wait.”

  Reluctant but curious, I follow the little white pup outside. The temperature has dropped, but a fire rages in the big brick fireplace on the patio, blasting my face with red-hot warmth.

  And then my world shakes; all of the air evacuates my lungs.

  Because Carol is sitting in front of the fire, her large, wide eyes fixed on the flames.

  Fat flakes of snow are sifting down from the hushed, black sky. But Carol doesn't seem to notice the cold; she's not even wearing a coat, but is, instead, sheathed in a tight black velvet dress. It looks vintage, fifties-style, with a wide A-line skirt over a black crinoline. The top of the dress has a scalloped neckline that hugs her curves as if it were custom-made for her shape. Maybe it was.

  The mere sight of her, as always, steals my breath.

  She's barefoot—her black high heels lie on the ground beneath her oversized chair—and her legs are curled up beneath her, her arms wrapped around her ribs, her head ducked low as she watches the fire eat away at the logs. She looks sad, and after a moment, a tear slips down her cheek.

  I stand—still, silent, breathless—as I gaze at Carol, this woman I loved with my whole being. She weeps soundlessly while the snow falls; the flakes melt at contact with her skin.

  Suddenly, heels click on the brick patio floor, and Helen, wearing a look of concern, moves right past me. I should have felt her long sleeve brush against my arm, but I didn't, because I'm not really here, am I?

  The thought rattles me—for more reasons than one.

  Within moments, Helen is crouching elegantly beside Carol's chair. “Dear, we're about to do the toast,” she murmurs to her daughter, squeezing her shoulder.

  “Thanks, Mom.” Carol nods and wipes her face, avoiding her mother's gaze. “I'll be right in.” Her voice is as hushed as the snowfall.

  Troubled, Helen rises, seating herself in the chair next to Carol's. “You've been crying.”

  “No.” Carol shakes her head, draws in a deep breath, and attempts to smile. “I'm fine. Some smoke got in my eyes. That's all.” But her voice catches on the words, and her mother's brows rise. Helen, I remember, was always astute.

  “You were crying. What's going on?”

  Carol holds her tongue for a long, weighted moment. The fire crackles, and I can hear muted voices from the party indoors.

  Finally, hesitantly, Carol murmurs, “I...ran into Ebbie today. At Christmasland.”

  Helen is visibly shocked, but her voice remains steady when she asks, “You went to Christmasland?”

  Carol smooths the lap of her velvet skirt. A stray wisp of golden hair comes out of her updo and caresses the back of her neck, and my knees weaken at sight of that perfect curl touching her skin where I used to kiss her...

  “Well,” Carol says, tears standing in her eyes, “Clarissa wanted to go. Or... Okay, maybe I made the place sound really awesome so that she'd want to go. But I didn't intend to talk to Ebbie,” she says quickly. “I just wanted to see her. Just one last time.”

  Carol's mother lifts her chin. “But you did talk to her?”

  “Not much. And she...hasn't changed.” Tears well in the corners of her eyes, and Carol leans forward, placing her face in her hands. Her shoulders shake gently, and I cross to her, kneel beside her. My insides tangle. My heartbeat spi
kes with a sharp pain as, helpless, I watch her weep. She can't hear me, can't feel me. I can't comfort her.

  And I caused this. I hurt her. Again.

  “I think,” Carol whispers into her hands, “it's time for me to move on.”

  Helen leans forward and pats Carol's back tenderly. “Oh, honey, I've been telling you that for years.”

  Carol moves away, imprinting the light dusting of snow with her bare feet. She takes another step, and she shivers as she comes closer to the fire, holding her hands out to the blaze. Glimmering light reflects on her face, but her eyes are distant, as if she doesn't see the flames.

  “I know you have, Mom,” she says softly, and then she's turning to look at her mother, pain etched in every line of her face.

  Her eyes are dark, rimmed with red.

  I can't bear this...

  My own face crumples; I feel as if I've been punched in the stomach.

  “But I loved her so much, and I thought she loved me—”

  “She did.” Helen stands, reaching for her daughter. “Of course she did, honey. How couldn't she love you?”

  Helen hugs Carol, then—or tries to, but Carol takes a step backward, evading her mother's outstretched arms.

  “No,” Carol says. Firmly. Bleakly. “If she loved me, she would've realized that she'd made a mistake.” Her voice is wispy, choked. Tears stream down her face, and her hands are curled into fists. “She would've come back, or called me, or, hell, emailed me...” Her shoulders curve forward as she wraps her arms around herself. “But she didn't do any of those things,” she says in a broken whisper. “She never tried. She never...cared.”

  I'm frozen in place, still kneeling beside the seat Carol left, and my blood runs cold, even as I feel hot tears course over my cheeks.

  What Carol said isn't true: I cared too much.

  That's why I set her free.

  Bonkers clears his throat—wait, can dogs clear their throats?—and I glance down at him in surprise. He's seated beside me on the snowy patio floor, and his head is, adorably, tilted to one side. “Is that really the reason, though?” he asks me.

  I stare down at him as I wipe away my tears. “You can read my thoughts?”

  He nods, his large brown eyes wide.

  “That's a little creepy, you know.”

  He nods again, and I marvel over the fact that he looks like any normal dog—aside from the talking and the nodding, of course.

  I sigh, raking a hand back through my hair. “I don't know. I thought that was the reason, that I was leaving for Carol's own good, leaving her because, to be with me...” I cringe. “I wasn't what she deserved. She deserved better than I could offer her.” I frown for a long moment. “But maybe... Maybe I was just afraid.”

  Bonkers cocks his head and lifts up his front left paw. “Afraid of what?” he asks quietly.

  I stare down at my open palms on my thighs, at the way that the snow falls right through me, as if I'm not even real. Then I close my eyes and hunch over, cowed by the weight of this pain. “I was afraid of losing her, like I lost Dad.” The truth. “I loved her with all of my heart,” I whisper. “That scared me. And if I broke up with her, there would be no possibility of losing her in the future. She couldn't suddenly leave me, or hate me, or decide that she'd never loved me, after all.” The words spill out of my mouth involuntarily; they startle me with their honesty.

  “I took control,” I finish hoarsely. “That was the only thing I could control.”

  For a few seconds, the ghost dog is silent. Finally, he clears his throat again and asks, “And what do you think about that decision now?”

  I glance up at Carol, my eyes following the slump of her shoulders. Helen is speaking softly to her, guiding her into the house. Carol carries her shoes in one hand, and this time, the sight of her bare feet on the snow cuts me to the quick.

  She's too sad, too lost; she can't even acknowledge the cold, can't pause to slip on her shoes.

  I choke on the lump in my throat.

  Since Carol? I haven't been in any serious relationships. Sure, I've dated here and there, but I never committed to anyone, and, truth be told...I was a coward. If a relationship started to get intense, I ran—fast—in the opposite direction.

  It's been ten years, and I haven't allowed myself to fall in love.

  I couldn't.

  I'm still in love with Carol.

  Helen begins to pull the French doors closed, and, frantic, I steal one last glance. Carol's turned back, her eyes wet and wide, and she's staring into the curtain of falling snow.

  A thin dusting of snowflakes sparkles upon her black-clad shoulders, haloing her golden hair. The chandelier from inside of the house causes the snow crystals to glisten atop her head like a diadem of stars.

  The doors shut with a click.

  I stare at Carol's dark, receding shape through the rectangular panes of glass.

  Giving her up was the greatest mistake of my life. I've always known that, but I refused to face it—until now.

  “I was an idiot,” I whisper numbly, closing my eyes. Tears seep beneath my lids, falling from my cheeks as I bend my head, my body folding in half. “I...miss her.”

  Part Four: Christmas Future

  When I open my eyes, the snow, the fire, Carol's house—it's all gone. I'm in the dark, in my apartment, and a quick inspection of the place reveals that I'm alone. Bonkers, like Deedee, has disappeared.

  I roll my shoulders back; I'm achy, exhausted. I stumble toward my bedroom, rubbing at my itchy, tear-stained face, too tired to think, to remember, to feel—

  And then I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror above the dresser.

  My mouth falls open as I stare at the woman staring back at me.

  That's...not me.

  Or, I mean, I guess it is me...but not the me I know, not the me I recognize.

  This woman—my reflection—is old, haggard, with deep creases around her mouth, her eyes, her nose. In shock, I touch my face, and my reflection mimics the motion. But my fingertips feel smooth skin, while my reflection is tracing wrinkles.

  I gape at myself, decades older, and a chill courses along my spine.

  Then my eyes flick away from my reflected face, taking in, instead, the room behind my back...because I thought I saw something move. There it is again! A shadow detaches itself from the darkness and, with loping steps, comes forward. It's closer now, closer still... The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end: someone is standing right behind me.

  I hold my breath as I stare, motionless, into the mirror.

  The last thing you want to see in a mirror—aside from your prematurely aged face—is a silent, unsmiling little girl, unaccountably standing in your bedroom. Classic horror movie moment, but it's happening here, now, in my apartment. She's pale, grim, and she's watching me. The streetlights outside illuminate her petite shape: she has long black braids, and she's wearing a black dress with a gray pinafore.

  In her bare white arms, she's hugging a doll.

  A clown doll.

  I've been petrified of clowns ever since my parents took me to the circus when I was five years old; a red-nosed, red-mouthed clown in the show swooped me out of my seat and asked me to pull a handkerchief out of his pocket—one of those super-long, trick handkerchiefs that never seems to come to an end. But I refused; I screamed myself hoarse, beating my fists against his polka-dotted shirt until he handed me back down to my mother.

  Ever since that day, anything clownish sets my teeth on edge and makes my blood run cold.

  And now I have a creepy little kid clutching a creepy little clown doll in my bedroom.

  This night keeps getting better and better.

  And by better, of course, I mean immeasurably worse.

  I'm in full fight-or-flight mode.

  The anger wins out. I whirl around, fully prepared to order this girl—or ghost, more likely—to get out, to evaporate...but there's no one there.

  There's no one standing behind
me, no girl, no clown.

  My bedroom's empty. I'm alone.

  Damn. I've watched enough scary movies to know what's coming next.

  Drawing in a deep breath, hands shaking, I confront the mirror again. And, sure enough, there's the girl again, reflected behind that disturbing, older version of me in the glass. Her eyes are wide, and her head is tilted to one side, as if she's expecting me to speak.

  Frankly, I'm too tired to resist. Best to play along, get this nightmare sideshow over with.

  “Right. So I've been visited by Christmas Past,” I say, swallowing; my throat feels raw, jagged. “And I've been visited by Christmas Present.”

  The little girl turns her head slowly—so slowly—and then cocks it, abruptly, to the other side.

  I wince, and go on: “So you,” I whisper, lifting my chin, “must be Christmas Future.”

  She says nothing in response.

  I risk a glance at myself in the mirror. My reflection is still that of an elderly woman. I look distinguished, handsome, even...but I had thought, by this age—seventies, eighties?—I'd have laugh lines around my mouth. There are no laugh lines, though, only frown lines, as if my mouth is caught in a permanent scowl. As if I'm no longer capable of smiling.

  “You are, aren't you?” I press her, my voice high, tight. “The Ghost of Christmas Future? Why...why won't you say anything?”

  I turn around to face her, and this time, she's really there, projected out of the mirror and into my bedroom. She stands before me, her head as high as my waist. She's little, waifish, but there's age lurking within her dark eyes. Not just age: an eternity.

  I swallow again, taking a step back, but there's nowhere for me to go. I bump into my dresser as the little girl remains still, watchful.

  Finally, she reaches up, her little fingers closing around the clown doll's nose. Very purposefully, she squeezes. And everything around us changes.

  Instinctually, I turn to glance back at the mirror, and my reflection—the gray hair, the wrinkles, the joyless eyes—fades away. Now I see a scene rather than a reflection, as if I'm watching a video. I see...my elderly self, gray-haired and stooped, and still living in this apartment.