Authors: Sheila Roberts
With all the pandemonium in the living room, I wasn’t even missed. I grabbed my cell—thank God I’d kept it charged—and called a cab. Then I hauled my suitcase out of the closet and threw it on the bed. Working at warp speed, I gathered my clothes and toiletries and shoved them in any which way. I knew I wouldn't be able to take my snow globe on the plane so I left it. The little angel looked so peaceful in there. I wished I could climb in with her.
My cell rang. I couldn’t imagine who on earth would call me on Christmas Day. If it was Santa, checking to see if I was being a good girl, he was too late.
Amazingly, it was Beryl. “Are you having a lovely Christmas, my poppet?” she sang.
Where did she get off being so merry, anyway? She was probably at some quiet, swank gathering, nibbling hors d’oeuvres and listening to chamber music.
“I’m done,” I said.
“Good,” she said crisply, “because I truly need you here day after tomorrow.”
“Not a problem,” I assured her. “I’m actually packing for the airport as we speak. What’s up?”
Why are you calling me on Christmas after squeezing me out on Christmas Eve?
“Our dear Mr. Margolin was feeling a little peaked yesterday, so we postponed our meeting until day after tomorrow. It will be him and his people and you, me, and Mr. Phelps.”
Me and my ideas in the same room with Mr. Big and Mr. Nutri Bread. Something was going right? I could hardly believe my ears. And the timing was perfect. Even if I couldn’t get a flight out until the next day, I’d still make it back in time.
“Of course, I’ve been singing your praises like a little canary,” Beryl continued, “and Mr. Margolin is dying to meet you, my poppet.”
“Me?”
“Your ideas, darling.”
Beryl wasn’t taking credit for everything? Could this really be possible? If it was, I’d sure misjudged her.
“I’ll be there,” I promised, and snapped my suitcase shut.
“Smashing.” Beryl said approvingly. “The meeting is at ten. Come to my office at nine and we’ll rally the forces.”
“Right-o,” I said, sounding like a Beryl Junior.
We said our good-byes, and I disconnected and put the phone in my purse. Then I did a quick visual check to make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything.
Only your manners
, whispered my conscience. I told it to shut up and started for the door.
Wait a minute. The last thing I wanted to do was go past my family. That left me only the emergency exit: the window. I threw up the sash, then tossed out my suitcase and my carry-on.
Okay, I’ll admit it was a chicken-livered thing to do, but I’d really had all the scenes I could stand.
I had one leg over the sill when Keira opened my door. “Mom needs . . . ” She broke off. “What are you doing?”
I felt suddenly stupid, and tried to cover it up with attitude. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“It looks like you’re running out on us.”
“Well, you won the final
Jeopardy
question. You can come back next show.” I swung my other leg out.
“I can’t believe you’re sneaking out. You started this mess.” She was right, of course, but I was up to my nostrils in anger and frustration, so there was no room left for humility.
“Don’t worry. You’ll find a way to make another one without any help from me,” I snarled. “I’ve got a plane to catch.”
Hopefully
.
Keira looked at me in disgust. “Fine. Stay around just long enough to act like you’re better than the rest of us, then, when we really need you, run out. You are such a complete hypocrite, I can’t believe it.”
“Well, we can’t all be perfect like you, can we?” Obviously, the truth hurt. At first she looked like she was going to cry. Then she glared at me and turned and slammed the door.
Have the last tantrum. What do I care?
I caught the branch of the nearby maple tree, climbed down, picked up my luggage, and marched across the lawn.
The cops were helping Ben, Mr. Winkler, and Gabe push the tree back through the window and into the house. I could see Dad and Spencer inside the house, each hauling a branch.
How many men does it take to put a Christmas tree back up?
Who cared?
The lights of the patrol cars were still flashing, turning the falling snow pastel blue. No one was yelling anymore, and the sounds of “Joy to the World” drifted out from the broken window.
I took my cell phone out of my purse for one final call. Of course, nobody answered.
I waited for the voicemail to click in, then said, “Mom, I just got a call and I have to get back to New York. You were, um, too busy to tell when I got the call about the big emergency, so . . . ” I stumbled to a stop and bit my lip. “Sorry,” I added. Then I pressed End, turned off the ringer, and put away my phone.
My cab pulled up to the curb, and I got in. “To the airport, please. As quick as possible.”
Chapter Twenty
I was surprised at how few people were at the airport. Of course, I reminded myself, most travelers had reached their destinations by now and were snug by the fire with family and loved ones.
My stomach rumbled. I wondered if my family was eating dinner yet. Maybe they were still putting up plastic on the broken window. Maybe Dad and Mr. Winkler were fighting over who would be the one to put it up. For all I knew, things could have escalated from a broken window to broken furniture and broken heads. It certainly wouldn’t surprise me if they had.
The woman at the check-in counter assured me I could get on the red-eye to New York, for a price.
I paid it gladly.
Then I checked my luggage, bought a paperback mystery, and wandered to my gate. A smattering of people sat in the waiting area, anticipating boarding a flight to Denver that took off in an hour. A tired woman watched with glazed eyes as her two small kids ran in circles, while a grandmotherly type knitted and looked on benevolently. A woman who appeared to be in her forties was watching the kids too, with barely concealed distaste. She was pencil-thin, dressed in expensive casual, a Luis Vuitton bag by her feet. Successful career woman, traveling alone. I wondered if she was on her way to be with family or fleeing from them, like me. Would that be me someday, a middle-aged woman alone in the airport?
Hopefully, if my family was kind enough to disown me.
I opened my book and stared at the first page.
The body of poor Emily Emerson was found floating in the Thames this morning at 6 a.m
.
What if my plane crashed on the way home? I should have said good-bye. I should have taken the mashed painting. But then I’d have had to take the pink jacket too. Everyone would have known I was going, and they’d have taken me prisoner, never letting me escape.
The whole Christmas fiasco started playing again in my mind. Just thinking about it started my pulse racing, stressing me out. I directed my wandering attention back to the book.
The body of poor Emily Emerson was found floating in the Thames
. . .
I started free-associating.
Floating. Water. Tears
. Ugh. Poor Aunt Chloe was probably crying enough to fill a punch bowl. Mom probably had enough smoke coming out of her ears to set off every detector in the neighborhood. She would never speak to me again. I knew it. None of my family would ever speak to me again.
My sister wouldn’t for sure. Calling me a hypocrite. A hypocrite! Just because I ran away from my own family on Christmas Day.
Guilt swamped me. I tried to paddle my way out by telling myself that my family would try the patience of Mother Teresa herself.
One of the kids let out a squeal of delight. I looked up and saw it was because his mom was blowing kisses on his neck. That would probably be Keira someday, if she ever grew up. She’d be Mother of the Year. I’d be … I sneaked a look at the career woman. She was poking at her cell phone-, oblivious to the sweet scene in front of her. At the rate I was going, that would be me. Alone, no family.
And where was the problem with that?
Meanwhile, back at page one.
The body of poor Emily Emerson was found
…
Oh, who cared? I shut the book and went to the nearest Starbucks stand to get coffee.
“Merry Christmas,” said the barista as she handed over my double mocha.
Right. I had just lived through the remake of the National Lampoon’s Christmas movie, and now I was alone at the airport, waiting to fly home to an apartment full of strangers. There were many words you could use to describe my Christmas, but “merry” wasn’t one of them.
“Thanks,” I mumbled and dragged myself back to my gate. This was pitiful. I was pitiful. What was I doing?
I told myself to snap out of it. Anyone in my shoes would have done the same. I’d find a new family in New York to adopt me. Maybe Beryl would like a daughter. I was already her poppet. Poppet, puppet, hmmm. I’d never noticed the similarity between those two words before. Was poppet British for puppet?
I sighed and finished my mocha. I pulled out my non-ringing cell and checked messages. Two calls from the Hartwell house. I went back for another mocha.
By the time my plane left at 10:10, I’d downed three. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep. I wasn’t sure I would have, even without the caffeine, not the way I kept replaying my part in the Hartwell Christmas disaster over and over in my mind. By the time we landed at Kennedy, my eyes were gritty and my heart was heavy.
Hurried passengers jostled me as I retrieved my baggage. The taxi line stretched halfway to Texas. I sighed.
A nice-looking man with silver hair, wearing a business suit and carrying a briefcase, offered to share a cab with me.
“Thank you so much,” I said to him after we’d given the driver our directions. “I just got off a red-eye from the west coast, and I’m dying to get home and get some sleep.”
He nodded. “You looked like you could use a good turn.”
A polite way for saying I looked like a wreck. Well, I felt like a wreck too.
My companion, on the other hand, looked completely unmussed. And he smelled good. More men should buy whatever aftershave he was wearing. The fragrance was hard to identify, but it made me think of the wise men with their frankincense and myrrh. One wise man in a business suit. Another solitary Christmas traveler. Why was a together-looking guy like this all alone?
“A lot of people are in hurry to get back from their family holidays,” he observed. He had the most intense blue eyes, and the way he was looking at me, like he knew why I’d been flying home in such hurry, made me squirm. Of course, I was imagining things. It wasn’t like I had a big, scarlet D for
deserter
on my chest.
I looked out the cab window. The streets were gray. I caught a quick glance at my own face, reflected in the window. I looked haggard, like an escaped criminal on the run.
Okay, so I ran out. But my family honestly couldn’t have expected me to voluntarily remain in that madhouse.
Of course, they could have, because no one in my family realized they were crazy.
They’re not really crazy, I corrected myself, just eccentric. And, for the most part, lovable. Which would explain why, loving person that I am, I was now on the other side of the country instead of sitting at my mom’s kitchen table, laughing over the flying tree act. Probably nobody was laughing today about anything, not with the stink bomb I’d dropped when I left.
“So, you made a dash home for Christmas?” asked the stranger.
I nodded.
He nodded too. “Home. There’s a word with a lot of powerful associations.”
He could say that again.
“I’m on my way home to see my kids,” he confided. “Haven’t seen them in years.” He shook his head. “Funny how time slips away.”
In my case it couldn’t slip fast enough. The sooner I had distance from this day, the better. I nodded politely.
“One minute your kids are little, then they’re all grown up.” The man fell quiet a moment, obviously thinking about his children. Then he sighed. “Funny how you can let things get to you, stop you from connecting with the most important people in your life. Little stuff, really, but, somehow, you let it grow into big stuff. You stay away, you lose track of what you had together. Next thing you know, you’ve got nothing. No, worse than that, you’ve got these gigantic walls between you, and you’re a stranger, standing on the outside alone, wondering what happened.” He shook his head ruefully. “Wish I’d torn down those walls when they were small and not so sturdy, instead of waiting all these years. I’m going to have a hard time kicking them down.”
Now he looked a little embarrassed. “Well, you don’t want to listen to a stranger rambling on. How about your family? Are you close?”
“I’m afraid we live on different coasts.” Different coasts? Try different planets.
“The world’s become a small place.”
“Yes, it has,” I agreed. And talk about small places, with all the talk about family this cab was shrinking smaller by the minute, closing in on me.
The cab driver pulled up in front of my apartment. “Looks like you’re home,” said the businessman.
Home. I looked at my slightly run-down apartment building. It was just a building. When I thought of home, I thought of the house in Carol on the corner of First and Noel.
Guilt-induced sentiment, I told myself. I shook off the feeling and paid the cab driver, then waved at the stranger inside. As the cab swooshed off on wet streets, I realized I’d never even asked his name. Mr. Good Deed.
I gathered my bags and headed for my apartment.
Bed
, I thought,
just get me in bed
. After a good sleep everything would look better.
But I’d forgotten that people on vacation didn’t have to wake up early. There was no place for a good sleep. Two male bodies were laid out in the living room, one on the couch and one taking up what little floor space our Christmas tree and several piles of discarded wrapping paper didn’t occupy. Oh, yes. Wess and Morris. And I knew, like the three bears, I’d enter my bedroom to find someone sleeping in my bed: Tess.
Sure enough, there she was. Tears of self-pity sprang to my eyes. Home from the tortures of Job, and there was no place for me to lay my weary head. I retrieved a blanket from the closet and shuffled to the bathroom. Then I locked the door, took my blankie, and climbed into the tub.