Christmas Carol Page 6

  The me in the mirror is sorting through mail, sitting on the edge of the bed with a wince: my joints are paining me. My shaky, feeble hands drop the envelopes, and I'm too tired to pick them up; I sigh and just leave them where they lie.

  There's a newspaper beside me, folded neatly on the bedspread. I grasp it with achy fingers, pick it up. I'm tired, too tired to read, but I begin to read the paper, anyway. My hooded eyes skim the headlines, the garish advertisements. I flip over page after page, unseeing, uncaring, yet my heart is starting to pound harder inside of my chest. I'm looking for something, something specific, something urgent, but I don't know what it is.

  I glance up, then, and the little girl is standing in the very center of the room, staring at me. Her dark eyes are cast in shadows; they look as black as pitch.

  I take a deep breath, and I glance down at the paper again.

  I've reached the Obituaries page. And I see her name. The name that I love most, the name that was—is—the most beautiful word that I know.

  Carol.

  I'm holding Carol's obituary.

  Tears brim and stream over my face as I read: She died unmarried, survived only by her adopted daughter Clarissa.

  Carol, my Carol, is gone. Dead.

  I crumple to the side, my bones creaking as I lie down, clutching the paper to my chest, as if some part of Carol might be salvaged from the words. I sob, breathing in the scent of paper and ink. My body caves in upon itself—and then I'm wiping my face, straightening up, because it's too real; all of this is too real.

  This can't be real.

  Can it?

  “Is this...is this true?” I ask the little girl, holding out the wrinkled page to her. “Carol... Carol's still alive, isn't she?”

  The little girl stares, says nothing.

  “She...she can't be dead. She can't be,” I hiss. “She... You don't understand!” And suddenly, I'm shouting, rising as quickly as my old bones allow. “She can't be dead,” I tell the little girl, dropping to my knees in front of her, clinging to her skirt. “Please...please...I'll do anything. Please,” I whisper.

  But the girl simply lifts her hand again, closing her fist around the clown doll's nose.

  The scene around us transforms. I stand up, staring into the mirror, and fresh tears spring to my eyes, because I'm staring at myself attending Carol's funeral.

  I know it's her funeral. There's nothing that indicates that—no signs, no photos—but I wouldn't weep like this at anyone else's memorial service. As a rule, I'm stoic; I carry myself with dignity, but there's nothing dignified about the way I'm bawling into my gloved hands as I stand on the edge of the open grave.

  I'm sobbing in an ugly way, a bone-deep, nothing-will-ever-fix-this kind of way. It's the kind of sobbing that makes people inch in the other direction, because they don't want that sadness to touch them.

  After the funeral, after we turn away and head back to our cars, I'm still crying, but I glance around now at the other mourners. Hannah, my sister, is here, and she's older, older than I am, but she's aged better. She has smile lines, no worry lines. And beside her are two beautiful women; I recognize their faces from the pictures on Hannah's mantle. These are my nieces.

  I lift my hand in greeting, and Hannah pauses, her arms slung around her daughters' shoulders.

  “Who's that, Mom?” asks the woman on the right, and Hannah regards her daughter sadly. I'm too far away to hear, but I can hear, nevertheless. I can hear everything: the sound of the dirt hitting the coffin lid, the sound of the air dragging through my lungs.

  “That's your aunt Ebbie,” says Hannah softly. Her daughters exchange a glance, and then the one on Hannah's left shakes her head.

  “I forgot we had an aunt,” she murmurs.

  She's not being sarcastic. The words are simple truth, and she's looking at me like you might regard a stranger. No spark of recognition in her eyes. No connection. No affection.

  Hannah moves off, her arms lowering to her daughters' waists. As one, they turn, walking down the cemetery path, aiming for the parked cars on the other side of the wrought-iron gate.

  The kids, now grown women, don't remember me. My own sister didn't bother to say hello.

  I'm alone—deeply, desperately alone.

  “This can't be happening,” I say—to myself, to the air, to the little girl, who appears at my elbow, glancing up at me with her sinister head cocked. Somehow, she looks even scarier in the autumn sunshine, the amber-hued light streaming through the bare-boned trees.

  “This isn't really happening, is it?” I beg.

  But the little girl says nothing. She squeezes the clown doll's nose once more.

  I'm in bed. And though I'm looking down at myself lying on the bed, I also feel what the woman on the bed is feeling.

  And I know that the woman on the bed, this woman, me, is dying. I'm in a nursing home, hooked up to some awful machines, and it's dark outside. There's no one else here. I'm clutching a photograph of Carol to my chest, my favorite photo of her.

  This is the Carol that I used to know, the vibrant, smiling Carol who stole my heart. I took the picture of her when we hiked part of the Appalachian Trail together. We only lasted five miles, but we still felt like champions.

  She's beaming, sitting down on a boulder on the side of the trail, a goofy grin on her face as she holds up a bottle of water to me. She was commanding me to sit down, to drink with her. “Hydrate, Ebbie!”

  Right after I snapped the picture, I pocketed the disposable camera in my backpack, and I took Carol in my arms. I peppered her face with kisses, even though she laughed and pushed me away, complaining that she was too sweaty. I kept kissing her, anyway, and then she kissed me, too. And we held onto each other as if we would never let go.

  I'm dying, and all I have to hold onto now is a picture from the past.

  Outside the nursing home window, snow falls as I gasp, as tears leak from my eyes. The hand grasping the photo loosens. I summon all of my strength and curl my fingers into fists. I lift my head, I raise my chin, and I call out one single word: “Enough!”

  Startled by the sound of my voice, I realize that I'm no longer lying in the bed, no longer watching a dying woman lying there. I'm staring at my reflection, my reflection, with only faint frown lines edging the sides of my mouth.

  “Enough!” I yell again, this time at myself.

  And the mirror cracks, splintering like a spider web, breaking into tiny shards.

  I turn, glance around my bedroom. The little girl isn't here.

  Beyond the window, snow still falls, just as it did outside the nursing home. But the sky is lightening, a bright blue blended with purples.

  It's nearly morning. Christmas morning.

  I collapse onto the edge of the bed, and I run my fingers through my messy hair. I stare up at the ceiling, thinking, trying to sooth my erratic heartbeat.

  It's over. Whatever last night was, it's over.

  I'm not out of time. Not yet.

  I lie there, just breathing.

  I'm not out of time.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, and I know what I have to do.

  Part Five: Christmas Day

  I rise out of bed and dash into the bathroom, still wearing the foul Christmasland Santa suit, beard still glued to my chin. I'm probably going to have to soak my face in hot towels to remove the beard, but I don't care about that right now.

  I feel jubilant. Light as air. Lighter than I've felt in years. A decade.

  My insides clench when I remember the sight of Carol weeping in front of the fire, but I think I can fix things. Maybe. Possibly.

  Well, I have to try.

  Right now, there's hope. And that's enough. Hope is all you need to start over.

  So I throw my hands into the air—who cares if I'm dressed like Santa? It's Christmas, after all!—and I run out of my apartment, leaving the door wide open. My neighbor Millie is toddling along with her walker, dressed up in a tailored coat, her hair curled tightly under
a plastic kerchief. I dash back to shut my door, and Millie stops, peering at me through her glasses. She smiles.

  “Hello, Ebbie,” she says warmly.

  “Hello, Millie!” And then—impetuously—I dart forward, and I hug her. She smells like Werther's candy and mothballs, a sweet scent that reminds me of my own grandmother. I grin as she hugs me back, her arms surprisingly strong.

  “Merry Christmas!” she says when I step back. She regards me with a wide smile. “I'm going home to my family.” She tilts her head to one side. “I hope you've had second thoughts about spending Christmas at the office.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I have.” My smile is broad, genuine, shockingly effortless. “I'm going to see my family, too.”

  “Good for you!” She picks up her walker, shaking it. “Eat a whole pumpkin pie! And a dozen cookies! Cookies are good for Santa!” she chuckles, winking.

  I laugh, and then I wave at her and trot down the hallway, aiming for the parking garage and my car. A hundred thoughts churn in my head. I can't believe the ghosts did all of this in one night! But if they did do it in one night, surely I can change the course of my life in a single day.

  And what better day to start than Christmas?

  I'd forgotten how magical this day used to feel to me. As I drive, I turn on the radio. And this time, I'm not searching for the one station that isn't playing holiday music. I'm looking for a station that does.

  I drive the rest of the way to Christmasland, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of Jingle Bell Rock.

  When I pull into the packed parking lot, I shut the car door and bury my hands in my coat pockets. I considered my next move on the way here, and it's going to be messy...but some of the hardest choices in life end up being the best courses of action to take. I've been a coward for far too long.

  The thing is, my father always closed Christmasland on Christmas Day. The park was open on Christmas Eve, but Christmas Day itself was sacred, reserved for family, he'd told me. I started opening on Christmas Day when advisers suggested that we could make a hefty profit.

  And that's rotten.

  Today, I'm determined to set things right.

  “Hey, folks!” I call to some people getting out of their cars. “I'm sorry, but Christmasland is closed today!”

  “Closed!” snorts a woman close by. She puts her hands on her hips, the collar of her coat ringing her neck like the ruff of a poisonous lizard. “I drove here from Gloucester!”

  “I'm sorry,” I croon brightly. “You can get free hot chocolate from The Stirring Mouse, but we believe that our employees deserve the spend the day with their families. I'm so sorry for the inconvenience, folks!” I say, raising my voice as I walk toward the entrance, “but Christmasland is closed for Christmas!”

  The crowd murmurs unhappily, and I can't blame them for feeling disappointed. Next year, I'll make it crystal clear that Christmasland will be closed on the twenty-fifth. Hell, maybe I'll even rent a billboard to announce it! I've been doing wrong by my employees for too many years now, and I have to turn things around—starting now.

  Even if that means the park will likely receive a slew of naughty—not nice—reviews on Yelp.

  “Hey, Bobbie Jean!” I pluck at the elbow of the timid elf rushing past me.

  “Ebbie?!” Her voice is incredulous. “Where have you been? There's chaos at the Frosty Building Contest, and—”

  I shake my head. “We're shutting down today, Bobbie Jean.”

  She stares at me as if I just said that Christmas was canceled.

  “Ebbie, are you feeling okay?”

  I laugh, throwing my head back and ho-ho-ho-ing in a way that would have made my father proud. Huh. Guess I did inherit the jolly-ness gene, after all.

  “I've never felt better,” I tell her, which is the absolute truth. “Hey, could you do me a favor? I need the guests to know that we're closed. And that we're going to refund admission, of course. Can you make sure that happens? Offer them free hot chocolate if they ask for it. And inform the staff that they'll receive triple-time in their paychecks. Can I count on you?” I ask with a smile.

  “Yes, ma'am!” She salutes, wide-eyed and grinning. “Everyone, Christmasland is closing!” she shouts, taking off through the “streets” of Christmasland as if she's bearing glad tidings of great joy. “And we get triple-time!” she trills with delight.

  I race through the revolving doors of the Christmasland Emporium, and I tell the employees there to close up shop, too. They're thrilled, racing to finish up, though I'm pleased to note that the employees are still being polite to lingering customers.

  Before the mall closes completely, I pile my arms high with gifts that remind me of my nieces, my sister, my mother. I get them wrapped quickly, and within moments, I'm in my car again, this time headed for Hannah's house, where everyone gathers on Christmas morning.

  When I burst into my sister's house with the presents, Hannah hurries toward the door—probably afraid that she'd just been invaded, since all of her guests have arrived.

  She freezes in place with a dishtowel in her hands and stares at me with an open mouth, speechless.

  “Oh! It's me, Hannah—Ebbie,” I tell her, realizing that I'm still dressed as Santa Claus, a costume that she would never expect to see me wear.

  “Oh, my God, seriously?” With a bewildered smile, my sister gathers me into her arms; most of the gifts clatter to the floor.

  “Hannah, who's that?” calls my mother from the living room.

  “Mom, it's Ebbie!” Hannah cries joyfully, and within the blink of an eye, my mother joins us in the hallway, tears welling in her eyes as she draws me into a hug.

  “Ebbie...you came.”

  I laugh as I maneuver past them both, picking up the presents and placing them beneath the Christmas tree.

  “And you brought...gifts?” Hannah shakes her head at the mound of presents. “But you always—”

  “Yeah, I normally give gifts cards.” I shrug, removing my Santa hat and gripping it in front of me. I rake a hand back through my hair. “I wanted to do something different this year. Something...better.”

  “Okay. But I thought you had to work.”

  I place my Santa hat on Hannah's head. The pompom flops down over her nose, and she blows at it, laughing.

  “Some things are more important than work. Hey, let's get together sometime next week. Catch up.” She's staring at me again, but a smile gradually steals across her face. “I could cook for you—”

  “No, no—I've had your cooking. And, luckily, lived to tell the tale.” Hannah's eyes sparkle. “How's about I cook for you? Tuesday night?”

  I grin. “Sounds like a plan.”

  My mother dabs a tissue at her eyes; then she fingers the fuzzy lapel of my coat. “You know, your father would be so happy to see you in that Santa suit.”

  I glance down at myself with a rueful smile. “Not sure I pull it off as well as he did.”

  “Well,” my mother says, cocking her head to the side as she considers me. “You could smile a little more.”

  I stretch my mouth into a zany, cheek-to-cheek grin, which makes my mother laugh. “That's a good start.”

  “I'll work on it, promise,” I tell her, and I sling my arm around Hannah's shoulder, following her as she aims for the kitchen, where I hear my nieces chatting about some kids from school.

  But my mother stalls me, slipping her hand into her apron pocket. “You know, honey, it's funny that you should show up this morning. I have something for you.”

  I feel a little chill, turning back toward her with a brow raised. “What is it?”

  “This card,” she tells me, holding it out upon her open palm. “It appeared in the mailbox just this morning.”

  I blink. “Mail on Christmas Day?”

  My mother shakes her head. “It's for you. Why don't you read it?”

  I stare down at the envelope: no address, no stamp, no return address. There's only one word, written in a shak
y hand in black ink.

  Ebbie.

  I know that handwriting.

  Heart hammering, I pick up the envelope, and I open it.

  It's a card.

  From Carol.

  It says, “I'm a little drunk and will probably regret this in the morning, but...here's to second chances. I'd like to see you before I go back to the city.” Her parents' address is scrawled in the bottom right-hand corner of the note.

  I think about everything I witnessed last night—scenes from the past, the present, the future. From a future that I can still change, if I'm not too afraid to try. This is the second chance that I was hoping for. But am I ready for it?

  Now, holding the card in my hand, I remember, with an acute stab of pain, how Carol wept in her mother's arms.

  How many tears have I caused her to shed over the years? My old worries rear their ugly heads; I'm wracked with indecision, my feet rooted to the floor.

  “It's from Carol, isn't it?”

  I glance at my mother, surprised.

  “I just had a hunch,” she says with a smile. “Well, what does it say, dear?”

  “I don't know what to do, Mom.” I draw in a deep breath, showing her the note.

  “Mm.” She raises a brow, looking, somehow, wise and mischievous at the same time. “We don't often get second chances in life, sweetheart.” She pats my hand, then squeezes it gently. “Well, Christmas is a time for miracles. Even Santa gets a miracle now and then.” Her eyes twinkle as she tugs at my beard. “You go to that girl, and you talk to her,” she tells me sternly. “Like you should have done a long time ago.”

  “But—”

  “It's Christmas Day, Ebbie, and Carol wants to see you. Go to her,” she murmurs into my ear. “Don't worry—we'll save you some pie!”

  I fist my hands. I lick my lips. I swallow.

  Okay.

  I can do this.

  I drive to Carol's parents' house in a dizzying state of half-shock, half-hope. My hands grip the steering wheel tightly as I pull into the snow-covered driveway. I turn off the engine and watch Clarissa—dressed in a pink snowsuit with matching pink boots—play in the front yard while I work up the courage to climb out of the car.