Christmas karol, p.10
Christmas Karol, page 10
She’d waited as long as she could before bringing Beau here. He’d wanted to come and offered, each time he drove her to the train station, to come along. And she loved him for it. But she hadn’t been able to shake the fear that it would change the way he thought about her. That the tininess of her apartment, the giant impersonal orange brick of the building, the grunginess of her neighborhood would all be too much. Too alien somehow. And then there was Alice. She hadn’t wanted him to have to deal with how sick her mother was. That wasn’t his burden to bear.
Alice had finally gone to the doctor—when it had gotten bad enough that she couldn’t ignore it anymore. It was cancer. Karol had known it would be. And she’d known too—though she hadn’t realized she’d known it until it happened—that the diagnosis would be the last straw for her father. Ed had packed his bags and snuck away while Karol, Fran, and Alice had been at a doctor’s appointment. He hadn’t left a note. Just some empty drawers and his keys on the kitchen table. And Karol wasn’t sure if she was glad or furious. She didn’t have time to really wonder about it. Between her schoolwork and visits home, calls to set up disability and doctor’s appointments for her mother, and the time she spent with Beau, all Karol could really do these days was move from one task to the next. Alternating between the joy of her new relationship and the stress and fear of the situation at home.
Alice had been on chemo for a few months now. Fran liked to say that the chemo was worse than the disease. And Karol agreed. She’d promised Fran she’d be home for Christmas. When she’d told Beau, he’d insisted he come along, refusing to take no for an answer. So, finally, here he was spending Christmas with them instead of in his parents’ cozy house and forgoing his childhood traditions—the Christmas Eve church service, the huge homemade brunch on Christmas morning. Because, he said, he wanted to be with Karol, and it was high time he met the people she loved.
Alice yawned. “I’m sorry everyone, I think I’m going to have to go to bed.” Her voice had a slight rasp to it—a sort of rattle that scared Karol. She glanced at Fran. Fran met her eyes for a moment then took a deep breath.
“I’ll walk you to bed, Mom.”
“Thank you, love,” Alice said, flicking the blanket down. She turned to Beau and Karol. “So sorry we don’t have a guest room. The sofa bed is probably a little small but it . . . there are sheets in the . . .”
“Mom, don’t worry about it,” Karol said. “Really. We’re fine.”
Beau stood up. “I’m so glad to be here,” he said. “I wanted so much to meet Karol’s family. And to get to be with you all for Christmas it’s . . . well, thank you so much for having me.”
Alice was standing now, one hand on Fran’s shoulder. She was wearing black sweatpants and a green sweatshirt that hung off her emaciated frame. But she smiled at Beau.
“We’re so glad to meet you. Karol talks nonstop about you.”
Karol felt her cheeks heat up. “Mom!”
“Well it’s true.”
“Seriously,” Fran said, grinning. “She won’t shut up about you! It’s like Beau this and Beau that and Beau’s so handsome and Beau . . .”
“Fran! Shut up!” Karol covered her face with her hands.
Beau laughed. “You’ll have to tell me more about that tomorrow.” Fran grinned.
“Goodnight you two,” Alice said.
Karol went to her mother and hugged her, trying to ignore the creeping fear at how thin she was. “Goodnight Mom,” she said, kissing her cheek.
“He’s a keeper,” Alice whispered into Karol’s hair.
Karol grinned. “I know.”
“Night guys,” Fran said. “I’ll be in my room playing my music really loud on my headphones so I don’t hear whatever you guys are gonna be doing on the . . .”
“Fran!”
“Night!”
Fran led Alice slowly out of the room. Karol turned to Beau, her cheeks still flaming.
“Sorry about her. She’s . . .”
“Fantastic,” Beau said, pulling her toward him and wrapping his arms around her. “They’re both fantastic. And you’re fantastic. And I’m so glad to be here.”
He pulled back a little and Karol looked up at him. The embarrassment she’d felt and the worry and the nervousness about this whole situation drained out of her. Beau had that effect on her. She couldn’t explain it. But he made her feel calm, safe, whole. He was smiling at her now—a gentle sort of smile—his eyes crinkled up at the edges. She smiled back and he bent his head down to her. She kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She felt her heartbeat slow, her breathing even out. When she pulled away a little and opened her eyes she found Beau looking at her. He smiled his lopsided smile and reached out to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.
“Well,” she said, “should we make up the sofa bed? I can get the sheets and blankets if you want to pull out the . . .”
“Actually, before we do that . . .” Beau said. He turned to pull his backpack out from behind the armchair. “I . . . I wanted to give you your Christmas present.”
“What? Why? Christmas isn’t until tomorrow.”
“I know but I . . . well I wanted to give it to you when it was just the two of us.”
Karol wrinkled her nose. “It’s not, like, underwear or something is it? Or like one of those weird . . .”
Beau laughed. “No. It’s nothing like that. I promise. Although, I mean, if you want one of those . . .”
“No!” She swatted him on the arm.
Beau shrugged and unzipped his backpack. He pulled something out and then came to sit down on the couch. Karol came and sat next to him. She had no idea what he’d gotten her. She hadn’t asked him for anything, and she couldn’t imagine why he wanted to give it to her now instead of in the morning. But Beau had lots of funny ideas and she found that her life was immeasurably better when she just went with them. They usually led to something wonderful. So she smiled at Beau and waited.
He was cradling something in his palms, looking down at it, his curls falling onto his forehead so she couldn’t see his eyes. When he looked back at her, her breath hitched in her throat. She wasn’t sure why. Something about his eyes behind his glasses maybe. The intensity of them. Or the way his smile seemed somehow tinged with worry. He took a deep breath and held out his hand to her. He was holding a small square package. The wrapping paper was homemade—thick cream paper painted with silver stars and warm golden moons in Beau’s signature whimsical style. It fit neatly in the palm of his hand. Karol smiled.
“Okay, so not underwear then.” She reached out and took it. It was solid but not too heavy.
“No,” Beau said. “Not underwear.” But he wasn’t laughing. He was still smiling that same soft smile. “Open it, Karol. Please.”
Karol nodded, her own smile fading. She tucked her finger under one of the folds and carefully loosened the tape. She hated to rip Beau’s beautiful paper. She slid the paper off. Inside was a small black velvet box. Her heart did a little loop-de-loop in her chest and she took half a breath, which seemed to be all she could manage.
“Is this . . . ?” It was very obviously a jewelry box. It could have been earrings. Or a necklace all coiled up. But Karol was pretty sure it wasn’t either of those things. Until this moment, it hadn’t even occurred to her. That Beau would propose. Not that she hadn’t thought about it—dreamed about it, known it was exactly what she wanted more than anything else on earth. Only, she hadn’t really let herself believe that it would happen. Not now anyway. And certainly not here—in a place that Beau must find horribly depressing and dull.
“Just open it, Karol. Please.” He was staring at her with those eyes of his. A little line had appeared between his eyebrows.
Breathless, she flipped up the lid. There was a ring inside. A simple gold band set with a tiny diamond. “Beau?” she squeaked. She looked up at him.
Beau licked his lips and took a deep breath. Then he slid off the couch and knelt down on one knee in front of her. Tears pricked her eyes and she put her free hand up to cover her mouth. Her fingers trembled against her lips. The other hand still clutched the box. The wrapping paper lay forgotten in her lap.
“Karol,” Beau said. “I . . . I know this isn’t the most romantic way to do this but I wanted to ask you this here because I wanted you to know I . . . well I love you . . . all of you . . . everything about you . . . who you are and where you’re going and . . . and where you come from.”
Karol’s breath hitched in her throat and he reached out and took her hand away from her mouth, cradling it between his two hands.
“When I . . . when I think of my life . . . my ambitions and my dreams and my joys and all my sorrows, you’re there, Karol. There is no one—there will never be anyone—I want to share them with more than you. And the thought that you would live your life without me—that I wouldn’t get to be there, cheering you on, holding you close . . . well it cuts me up inside. When you call out in the night, I want to be the one who answers. Like the . . .”
“Like the moon talking to the stars,” Karol whispered, her tears falling freely now.
Beau nodded. “Marry me, Karol. Please. Will you?”
Karol let out a little sob and slid down off the couch to kneel on the ratty old rug with Beau. She threw her arms around his neck and nodded against his cheek. For a moment, she couldn’t find her voice. It had deserted her, gone off to celebrate with all her hopes and dreams and secret thoughts.
Beau pulled away. He held her at arm’s length and looked searchingly into her eyes.
She nodded vigorously. “Yes!” she finally said. “Are you crazy?! Yes!”
Beau laughed. He held her to him again, crushing her against his chest and pressing her head into his shoulder.
“Oh!” Karol said, pulling away again. “The ring!” She scrabbled around on the floor and found the box where it had rolled under the couch. She took the ring out and looked at it.
“I know it’s only a small diamond,” Beau said. “It was all I could . . .”
“It’s perfect,” Karol said. “I love it.”
Beau took the ring from her gently. He reached for her hand and slid it onto her finger. Karol looked at him, stricken.
“What is it?” Beau asked, concern smoothing out his smile.
“I . . . well, I only got you new paintbrushes!”
Beau burst out laughing and wrapped her in his arms.
The floor at Karol’s feet was littered with tissues. She sat, unmoving, staring at the screen. A tap of some kind had opened in her and she didn’t know how to turn it off. The tears were just streaming out of her eyes. She could taste the salt of them on her lips. She pulled another tissue from the box—like the popcorn bowl, it seemed to never go empty—and wiped her nose. He had said he would always love her. That he wanted to be there—to watch her life unfold. That he loved who she was and where she was going and where she came from. But in her mind, she saw his side of the bed, empty each morning before she woke up. She saw the closed door of his studio, his easel turned to the wall. She saw his eyes—those once-magnetic, captivating eyes—turn distant and cold when they looked into hers. And she heard his voice, tinged with disappointment, chastising her for living her life—the life he’d sworn to be a part of.
Anger welled up in her suddenly and she tossed the latest tissue into the pile with more force than was strictly necessary.
“You okay?” the little girl said. “I mean, clearly you’re not okay. But, do you want to talk about it?” Karol turned to her. And there it was again. Just for a moment—that sense that this little girl wasn’t really so little. That other, older face superimposed over the little one. Those knowing eyes. But at the same time she was all My Little Pony T-shirt and pigtails and pink and purple. It was becoming incereasingly clear that this little girl wasn’t exactly little. At least, not in the usual sense. And she was the only one there. The only one Karol could say any of this to. And she had to say something or she would burst.
“He . . . he lied to me.”
“When?”
“He said he wanted to be a part of my life. Where I was going. But he . . . he isn’t. He . . . he doesn’t . . . he never . . .” She trailed off, blowing her nose again.
“Did you make him the same promise?”
“What?”
“Did you promise to be a part of his life? You know, like, to be partners or whatever?”
“I . . . what does that have to do with it?”
The girl shrugged. “Just asking.”
“I’m part of his life!” The anger was back, tingling in her fingertips and under her cheekbones.
The girl shrugged again. “Okay great.”
The screen flickered suddenly to life and Karol turned away. “I am part of his life,” she muttered. “I am.” But the thought had gotten stuck in her brain. She turned to glare at the girl. Little brat.
~ ~ ~
The Karol on the screen was hugely pregnant. She was wearing a black maternity dress under a red cardigan, her long hair pulled up in an alligator clip at the back of her head. She came bustling into the room holding a manilla folder in one hand and a packet of photocopied papers in the other. She stood for a moment on the thick beige carpet, between the elegant loveseat and the straight-backed armchair with the curved wooden legs. By the glass door, a small Christmas tree sat on a round wooden table, decked out in tiny ornaments and topped with a little silver star. She skirted the coffee table, nudging a large book of glossy photos of New York City back into place, and went to the large dark wood bookshelf against the wall and pulled down a thick leatherbound book. She carried it and her papers to a desk by the window and opened to the index, bending over to scan the page. Outside, nine floors down, the streetlights were just beginning to turn on. In the high-rise opposite, people were coming home from work—throwing down their briefcases and backpacks, ready for a few days off for Christmas. On the street, a doorman whistled loudly for a cab.
The baby kicked and Karol smiled. She put a hand to her belly, still reading the page in front of her. She rubbed the spot where she had felt the baby’s foot and laughed when she felt an answering pressure.
“Hello there, you,” she said aloud. “Mommy’s right here.”
Her smile widened. It seemed preposterous to her—in a wonderful sort of way—that she could be anyone’s mother. And yet the baby was in there. A new little person, part her part Beau. Conceived on their honeymoon. It was amazing.
She found what she was looking for in the book and flipped to the page. Yes! It was exactly what she’d been hoping to find. She lugged the book into the next room—a small antechamber, connecting the judge’s waiting room to the clerks’ office—and flipped up the lid of the photocopier there. She copied the page, highlighted something, then took up a stapler and stapled it to the top of the sheaf of papers. She deposited them neatly into the folder then went through to the clerks’ office and put the folder on one of the desks.
Technically, this internship was already over. She’d said goodbye to the clerks and the judge—a jovial heavy-set man in his eighties who had taken the time to speak to her about her ambitions and her studies even though she was only a lowly intern. But she’d had an hour to kill before her train back to New Haven and she’d wanted to see if she could finish up a project one of the clerks had given her. She stood there a moment, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction at a job well done.
She turned, went back out into the waiting room, and pulled her giant maternity coat out of the closet by the front door. She had enjoyed this internship. She’d liked the clerks, and the judge had been kind and helpful. But she knew, too, that this wasn’t the kind of thing she wanted to use her law degree for. And she was glad to be done with this additional work on top of her studies. When she had found out she was pregnant, with the baby due in February, she’d arranged to take all her third-year classes in one semester. That, plus the internship, and the pregnancy, and checking in on Fran and Alice . . . it had been a rough few months. But now—she smiled to herself, pressing a hand to her belly where she could still feel a foot, or maybe an elbow or a knee. Now she was basically done. And all she wanted to do was get home to Beau so they could spend a little time together before Christmas.
She spun around, startled, as the front door to the judge’s chambers flew open.
“Karol!” Beau came rushing into the room, all crisp winter air and wild curls and glasses fogged up from the warmer air inside.
“Beau? What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”
Karol could think of no earthly reason to explain what Beau was doing in the city. The little apartment they rented near campus was just blocks away from the studio where he painted during his free time and the Yale admissions office where he worked to help pay the bills. He hardly ever came into Manhattan on a week day.
Beau ran to her and flung his arms around her. Her belly stopped him from pressing her too close, but he was making a very good effort.
“Are you . . . what . . . what’s happening?” Karol asked, breathless.
Beau pulled away. He put his hands on her shoulders and bent a little so he could look her right in the eye. His curls were sticking out at all kinds of strange angles. It seemed he had forgotten his hat.
“I sold a painting.”
“What?!”
“A painting. I . . . I sold a painting.”
“Are you serious?!” Karol’s heart leapt and the baby leapt too, in solidarity.
“Dead serious,” Beau said. He was grinning now. His wide, giddy, lopsided grin.
“Oh my God that’s . . . that’s fantastic, Beau! Congratulations! I’m so so proud of you!”
She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him, hard. She had always known Beau’s paintings were going to be a success. They were beautiful, whimsical things—an owl taking flight over a moonlit field, light reflected in puddles on a city street, a single warm glowing light in a window in the snow. It had killed her to wait for what she knew would inevitably come, watching Beau worry that he would never be successful as a painter.
