Christmas karol, p.17
Christmas Karol, page 17
Alfie’s nanny was sitting in the rocking chair, watching Alfie push his truck around. She looked up when she saw Karol and smiled. Karol smiled back. Alfie turned to see what his nanny was looking at.
“Mommy!”
“Hi Alfie,” she said. She came a little ways into the room and crouched down awkwardly.
“Mommy pway! Mommy! Car!”
“I can’t play now, Alfie. Maybe later. I have to go to work.”
“Work,” Alfie repeated.
“Right.”
She kissed his curly blonde head and stood up again. He began zooming his cars along the rug, oblivious to her.
“Is Beau downstairs with Annabel?” she asked the nanny.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Great. Thanks so much. See you later.”
She left the room and went downstairs to the ground floor, checking her phone again as she went. As she’d predicted, she could hear Bing Crosby’s voice crooning about chestnuts from the den.
“Listen.” Beau’s voice filtered out into the hallway. “Hear how his voice kind of sounds like Christmas?”
Karol heard Annabel laugh. “That’s weird, Dad. Christmas isn’t a sound.”
“But something can sound like Christmas. Really, though. Listen.”
Annabel, at nearly seven, was a realist. Karol snorted in amusement and stood listening another moment.
“I’m listening, but all I hear is some man singing about . . . did he just say Mom’s name?”
“Carols—like Christmas carols. Not Karol, like your mom.”
“Oh. Hey! This is really pretty. Is this Auntie Fran’s angel?”
A perfect angel for my perfect angels. Karol lunged forward and catapulted herself into the room.
“That’s not supposed to be in there. Let’s just . . .” Beau and Annabel turned toward her, startled. They were sitting on the floor in front of an eight-foot tree. Boxes of ornaments were arrayed around them. Crumpled paper towels littered the floor, unwrapped from delicate ornaments put away the year before. Annabel was cradling the angel in her lap. Karol snatched at it but Beau put his hand out and stopped her.
“We’re doing the tree, Karol. We invited you, but you said you had to work. So we decide what goes on it.” He smiled at her, like he wasn’t contradicting her wishes.
“I thought I threw that thing away,” she said. She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe. Like Beau’s studio, this room was a little homier than the rest of the house. Beau had wanted at least one family space where he wouldn’t feel worried he was going to damage anything. They’d agreed on green curtains, a comfortable leather sofa and matching armchairs, a green and gold oriental rug.
“I took it out of the trash.” Beau winked at Annabel and she grinned.
“C’mon, Mom,” Annabel said. “It’s pretty. I like it.”
Karol sighed “Fine, okay. Whatever.” She checked her phone again then looked up at them. Annabel smiled and hugged the angel as if it were a doll. An ache opened in Karol’s chest and she turned away.
“I’m headed to work.”
Annabel had turned back to the ornaments. She rummaged in the nearest box and pulled out an ornament in the shape of a gingerbread man wearing a Santa hat. “It’s like a cookie wearing clothes!” She held it up to Beau, grinning. “Why would a cookie want a hat?”
“It’s in disguise,” Beau said.
“So no one will eat it!”
Karol stood there, forgotten—like they didn’t see her at all. A familiar sort of certainty settled around her. It was better this way—Karol at the office, Beau at home with the children. It worked. It made sense. The kids preferred it this way. They didn’t need her. Didn’t want her around. And if Beau sometimes guilted her, well, he just didn’t see it. She was no good at all this home stuff. Work made sense. At work she knew where she stood—she could measure her success. And work paid for the life they led. So it was good. It was fine.
She turned and went out into the hallway. She shrugged on her coat, grabbed her purse from a hook by the door, checked her phone one more time, then threw it into her purse. She had her hand on the doorknob when Beau came out into the hall.
“Hang on a sec,” he said. He came up beside her and reached for her. The smell of him—cinnamon and cloves, coffee and paint—filled her nostrils and she felt momentarily confused. Homesick for something she couldn’t quite name.
“I . . . I really have to go.”
His hand landed on her shoulder. “I just wanted to check on you. You know, since Marley . . .”
Karol shook her head dismissively. “I’m fine.” And she was fine. At least, she felt like she was fine. She’d known it was coming. Marley’d been sick for over a year. They’d worked together on how to keep the firm afloat without her. They’d been ready. She just didn’t want to talk about it.
“Are you though? I mean, you . . . you seem fine, I guess. It’s just . . . she was your best friend. And she . . . she died.”
“Right. It sucks, yeah. But . . .” She shrugged. “I gotta go. I’ll try to be home for dinner.”
Beau took his hand off her arm. His eyes, behind his glasses, were swimming with things he wasn’t saying. She could see them there but she didn’t prompt him.
“Stay and help us with the tree?”
“I don’t want to help with the tree,” Karol said. “Christmas doesn’t feel . . . like Christmas anymore.”
“But it does for the kids. For me.” He’d been looking down at the ground. But his eyes suddenly flicked back to hers. It felt like a jolt, that sudden connection. But she couldn’t stay. It hurt too much to decorate the tree, to put that angel up there, to listen to the music. Bing Crosby didn’t sound like Christmas. He sounded like Alice, and Fran, and now Marley too. He sounded like loss.
“One other thing.” Beau reached into his back pocket and pulled out a crumpled cream envelope—thick like a party invitation or an alumni reunion notice.
“Is that a reunion thing?” she said. “I thought those were in the summer. Anyway, I’m too busy.”
She pulled the door open. Cold air and a few stray snowflakes swirled into the entranceway. Two kids on scooters zoomed past on the sidewalk, a mother with a stroller rushing behind them—all on their way to Prospect Park across the street. The mother lifted her eyes skyward as she passed. Beau lifted a hand in greeting.
“Do we know them?” asked Karol.
“They live down the block. The girl’s in Annabel’s class.”
Karol grunted. “Okay, well, see you . . .”
Beau held up the envelope again. “It’s not from Yale. It’s . . . it’s from Fran.”
Karol’s cheeks went hot despite the cold. “Beau!” she hissed. “I don’t want . . .”
“She’s getting married.”
“What?!” A couple walking hand-in-hand down the sidewalk glanced up at them and Karol turned away. She stepped back into the house and closed the door. “Married? She’s only twenty-one!”
Beau shrugged. “She met someone. Last year. In Connecticut.”
“What was she doing in . . . never mind.”
Beau kept in touch with Fran. Karol didn’t like it but he’d been adamant. She could cut Fran out of her life if she wanted to, but he was at least going to keep in touch. It was hard not to ask him about her. Hard to know that he knew about her life. Because she wanted to know. She wanted to know so badly the wanting felt like an entity unto itself. But she didn’t ask. She refused. And the fact that he had gone against her wishes in this—kept in touch with Fran though she’d told him in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want him to—that felt like a betrayal. More proof that he wasn’t on her side anymore.
“So she’s getting married,” Karol said, mastering herself. “Good for her.”
“She’s inviting us. To the wedding.” Beau held out the envelope again but Karol didn’t take it.
“And we respectfully decline.”
“Karol!”
“I’m serious, Beau. She made her choice.”
“But . . .”
“I’m going to work.” She wrenched open the door and walked out into the cold. The door slammed behind her and the screen went blank.
~ ~ ~
“So here’s the thing.” The little girl stood up. She put one chubby hand on her hip and tilted her head to the side. In her My Little Pony shirt and her pigtails she looked like a child model from an ’80s catalogue. But that strange duality was still there, shimmering beneath the surface. She was a child and also not a child. “I can’t stay here forever.” She scrunched up her nose. “Well, actually, I guess technically it’s you. You can’t stay here forever. But even I have other places to be, you know. Other people to help. So . . .” She widened her eyes at Karol.
Karol’s mouth came open. She was still thinking about Beau. Beau squeezing her hand, reaching for her, trying to get her to stay and help decorate the tree, showing her that wedding invitation, willing to risk making her mad. This hadn’t been that long ago. Just a couple years. Beau had been there, reaching for her, asking her to come back to him. And she’d blown right by him. Again and again and again he’d reached out, and again and again and again she’d turned away. He was her husband—her only love. The man she’d found behind a green velvet curtain, musing about snowflakes and plying her with cookies. Who spoke of beauty and sorrow and joy as if these were the things that mattered. Who stopped, midsentence, to listen to the sound of the wind in the trees, to owls hooting in the night. Who, from literally the moment she’d met him, filled her with a sense of calm—a sense of home. She loved him—she’d always known that. But now she remembered what it was to be in love with him. And it burned in her like hope and hurt like loss.
“Is he still there?” she whispered. “Will he still have me?”
“Um, hello? What are you muttering? Did you hear me at all?”
Karol looked at the girl, startled. “Sorry. What? I was . . .” The girl was actually tapping her pink and purple sneaker on the linoleum now. It seemed ridiculous to ask this tiny person. This kid Annabel’s age. But then, she didn’t really seem like a kid. Or, at least, not all the time anyway. And she had to know.
“Is it . . .” She took a deep breath. Squared her shoulders and tugged the neckline of her hospital gown back into place. “Is it too late?”
The girl’s foot stopped tapping. “Too late for what?” She said it gently. Softly. Like maybe now they were getting somewhere.
“For . . . for me? For me and Beau?”
“He’s still there, right? He hasn’t left you? Hasn’t run off with someone else?”
“I . . . I don’t . . .” It had never occurred to her that he might find someone else. Only that he would pull so far away that she might never get him back. Jealousy seeped—viscous and stealthy—into the back of her throat.
“I’d say you’ve still got a shot.” The girl shrugged and sat back down on the futon. “Your kids . . .” She scrunched her lips to the side and lifted her hands. “Well . . .”
“My kids? What do you mean my kids? They’re kids. I’m their mom. They’re not gonna leave me.”
“Isn’t that kind of what kids do? Leave?”
“Well, yeah, but not until they’re grown up!”
“Which will be when exactly? And what will you be doing when it happens?”
“What are you . . .”
“Me? I’m not saying anything. You’re the one all freaked out your husband is going to leave you and sad cuz your daughter’s not a baby anymore or whatever.”
“So, what . . . what am I supposed to do? That’s what this is all about right? This whole trip down memory lane? I’m supposed to figure something out. Change my ways? Well . . . I want to change. Okay? I see there’s a problem. I want my husband back. I want my kids back. What am I . . .”
“They never left.”
“What?”
“Your husband. Your kids. Even Fran. They haven’t gone anywhere.”
“But they . . .”
“They’re where they always are. Where they’ve always been.” Karol started to argue but the girl cut her off. “I can’t explain this to you. Your life is a choice. It always has been. But there’s a right choice, here. And . . .” She reached out and put a hand on Karol’s arm. Karol looked at her in surprise. The girl’s eyes, behind her glasses, were different again. Older. “And I hope you make it. They’re really great, your family. Really.”
“I know,” Karol whispered.
They sat like that a moment, looking at each other. The girl broke the connection first. She snatched up the remote from the futon beside her.
“Well!” she said, all business again. “Let’s watch another.”
~ ~ ~
“It’s no big deal.”
This was just last year. The Annabel on the screen was nearly nine. She was dressed in her school uniform. Her green plaid skirt and white button-down shirt had been neatly ironed—by the nanny, probably. Her tights matched her dark blue cardigan, her black patent leather shoes shone. Her straight blonde hair—so much like Fran’s—reached her shoulder blades and was held back from her face by a blue plush velvet headband. She was sitting on the stool to Karol’s vanity, just outside her bathroom. Karol was in the bathroom, straightening her hair.
“I really thought your concert was tomorrow,” Karol said. She ran the straightening iron over the same lock again then switched to another chunk of hair. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Oh, I assumed you weren’t coming.” Annabel tossed her head so her hair flipped back over her shoulder.
“Did you want me to come?” Karol stepped back, examining her appearance.
Annabel shrugged. “You don’t have to. Melanie’s mom will be there.”
“Who’s . . .” Karol trailed off, looking around for her lipstick. Annabel was holding it out to her. “Thanks.” She applied two coats of lipstick and came into the bedroom just as the door opened.
Beau came into the room. He was wearing a sport coat over a brown plaid button-down shirt and a pair of khakis. He ran a hand over his curls, pushed his glasses a little further up his nose.
“Are we ready?” he asked, smiling.
“I am.” Annabel hopped down off the stool. “Mom’s not coming.”
Beau turned to look at Karol. His smile faltered. “Sure she is.”
“No, sorry,” Karol said. “I could’ve sworn it was tomorrow. Today I’m meeting with those clients I was telling you about. I can’t postpone. Also, Annabel says she’s fine without me.” She switched off the bathroom light.
“Karol.” His voice was flat. Like someone had just stuck a pin in it.
“What?” Karol found that she was clenching her teeth together and willed herself to relax her jaw. She eyed the door, wishing she could fast-forward herself out of this conversation.
“Why don’t you go downstairs, Annabel?” Beau said. “See if Alfie’s ready.”
Annabel nodded. “Bye Mom,” she said and skipped out of the room. Her voice filtered up to them as she went downstairs. “Hey Alfie! It’s time to get ready to go! Can you find your shoes? I’m getting your coat!”
“Good luck,” Karol said to the empty doorway.
Beau rounded on her. She breathed in deeply through her nose. She didn’t want a fight. Not now.
“Karol. This is really important to Annabel. You said you’d be there.” He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, then pushed his glasses up again and looked at her.
“I’ll watch the video. Beau, come on, it’s fine. She just said she doesn’t even want me there! Also, which one is Melanie’s mom?”
“Of course she wants you there. She says that because she’s so used to being disappointed.”
Anger unfurled and gripped her chest. “That is so not . . .”
“Do you know what Annabel loves to do more than anything else on earth?”
Karol turned away, collecting her earrings from the vanity and bending over the mirror to put them on. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“Sing. She loves to sing, Karol. And, by the way, she’s really good at it.”
“She’s eight, Beau.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
Karol huffed and stood back up. She looked at Beau. “I don’t want to argue. I’m sorry I got the day wrong. I’ll watch the video with her tonight if she wants to. And I’ll double check my calendar the next time she has a concert. Okay?”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” Beau said quietly.
“What?”
“Her next concert. She’s singing. At church. On Christmas Eve.”
Karol looked away. “I don’t go to church. You know that.”
“Well, that’s her next concert.”
“The one after that, then.”
“When are you going to stop, Karol? When are you going to come back to us?”
She huffed. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m here. I haven’t gone away.”
“Annabel’s almost nine. Alfie’s three-and-a-half. You’re . . . you’re missing it.”
“What am I missing?”
Beau threw his arms out wide. “Everything!”
“Dad!” Annabel called from downstairs. “We’d better go, right?”
