If Only in My Dreams (16 page)

He can’t argue with that.

“Come on,” his sister cajoles. “Pop wouldn’t like it if we were the only house around without Christmas lights for three years in a row.”

Jed can’t argue with that, either.

“All right,” he tells his sister absently, his thoughts on the mysterious woman who crossed his path today.

It’s his patriotic duty to turn everything over to the government.…

Isn’t it?

Absolutely.

Just…

What if he’s mistaken?

As a teenager, he saw the movie about Mata Hari’s life, starring Greta Garbo. In the final scene, she was led away to be executed by a firing squad.

He cringes.

Loyal American citizen or no, he can’t bear the thought of any harm falling to Clara… if that’s even her real name.

“Jed, are you sure you’re okay?” Doris asks, still watching him from the doorway.

“No,” he snaps, “I’m not okay.”

She flinches. “What’s wrong?”

He hesitates.

He can’t possibly confide in his kid sister. He doesn’t dare confide in anyone. Not until he figures out what’s going on.

“Never mind,” Doris says softly. “I know what it is.”

“You do?”

She nods. “It’s December first. Nobody’s having a good day. Mother cried all afternoon into the clean laundry, and… well, that’s why I thought we should put up some Christmas lights. To cheer everybody up.”

“I think that’s a great idea, Doris.” Jed smiles despite his own heartache, and decides his patriotic duty can wait until tomorrow.

This time, at least, I have an umbrella
, Clara thinks as she climbs out of the subway at West Eighteenth Street and heads toward Sixth Avenue. An umbrella, and comfortable New Balance sneakers.

But her feet still ache from this morning’s hike downtown, and she can’t imagine how she’s going to squeeze them into those uncomfortable shoes again tomorrow morning.

She reaches Sixth Avenue and the brightly lit brick-and-terra-cotta facade of what was once Siegel-Cooper, the city’s largest department store. Now, continuing with the last decade’s suburbia-invades-Manhattan trend, it’s a Bed Bath & Beyond.

She and Jason had an ongoing argument about whether to register here when they got engaged.

He wanted to stick with Fortunoff, even after she pointed out that some of her entertainment industry friends weren’t as well-off as his Wall Street cronies and couldn’t afford to spend more on a place setting than a typical month’s rent.

When she called him stuffy and conventional, Jason at last grudgingly agreed to compromise: They would register at Fortunoff
and
Bed Bath & Beyond. For Clara, the victory was hollow. Jason grumbled the entire time they were browsing in Bed Bath & Beyond and refused to consider the fun green margarita glasses, the square striped throw pillows, the woven place mats, or the flannel duvet.

He wanted traditional.

Of course he did.

After they broke up, it only seemed fair that he take responsibility for returning the
traditional
engagement gifts that had come from his family and friends, and she the ones from hers. She hoped to find satisfaction when Jason had to haul all that fine china and crystal around town, while she dealt with the everyday linens, an electric coffee grinder, and a couple of muffin tins.

But there was no perverse satisfaction. Just… sadness. Sadness that he couldn’t be who she needed him to be. Nor could she, for him.

There was relief, too, when the last relics of their engagement had been safely returned to the stores.

She never wanted the muffin tins or grinder in the first place, but Jason insisted. “Wouldn’t it be great to wake up to freshly ground coffee and hot blueberry muffins on a cold winter morning?”

It didn’t occur to her until later that his role in that oh-so-traditional male fantasy was relegated to waking up; she was supposed to brave the cold winter morning for fresh blueberries and the imported Colombian coffee beans he loved, then do the baking and the grinding.

As if
.

Clara turns south toward her apartment and waits for the light to change, glad to put Bed Bath & Beyond—and the accompanying memories of her former fiancé—behind her.

The sidewalks of Greenwich Village are teeming with activity despite the cool, misty weather. It’s a Friday night; the bars and restaurants and stores are jammed with people.

Normally, Clara would be energized by the neighborhood scene. She might even stop into her favorite cafe for
an espresso and éclair. But tonight, nothing could energize her, not even caffeine and chocolate. She’s emotionally and physically drained.

Seeing Karen was more cathartic, even, than she anticipated. At least she was able to spill her strange tale to a professional.…

Yeah, one who thinks I’m certifiably nuts
, she thinks wryly.

Dissociative fugue?

She knows Karen told her what that meant, but it’s a blur now. She’ll have to look it up online later, when she’ll be able to retain information.

For now, it’s just good to know that there might be a reasonable explanation for what happened this morning.

Reasonable. But frightening, nonetheless. The prospect of having suffered some kind of psychiatric…
episode
… is about as comforting as having breast cancer.

Rounding the corner onto West Eleventh Street, Clara quickens her pace despite her sore feet, glad this grueling day is about to come to an end at last.

All she wants to do is fall into bed and sleep.

Maybe I’ll dream about Jed again
.

That would be good.

It would prove that she was also dreaming this morning—not having some kind of frightening fugue.

It would give her a chance to see Jed Landry again, too. Dream Jed.

Just as closure, of course. Because she didn’t really get to say good-bye, and she feels like she should have.

Even if it was just a dream.

“Ms. McCallum?”

About to climb the steps of her townhouse, she turns to see who called to her. Her eyes search the sidewalk, but there’s no pedestrian in the vicinity.

Puzzled, she turns back to her building, pulling her spare set of keys from her pocket.

“Ms. McCallum!”

Swiveling her head again, she realizes that the female voice came from a large black car parked at the curb. The driver’s side window is rolled down, and a white head is poking out into the rain.

“Would you mind… can I please talk to you for a moment?”

It’s the woman who was here earlier
, Clara realizes.
The one Mr. Kobayashi told me about. It has to be
.

“How can I help you?” Clara asks, keeping a safe distance.

Instinctively, she arranges her keys in her hand like a weapon, the way she was taught in an urban self-defense course she once took. The key ring is clenched in her palm; a jagged-edged key protrudes from the space between each of her fingers. If need be, she can rake her fist like a claw across the face of an assailant.

“I just need to talk to you, dear,” the would-be assailant warbles. “If you’ll just come over here, please.… I can’t get out.… It takes me so long to move around and it’s so raw out there I don’t want to catch my death.”

Clara contemplates the situation.

The woman might just be a harmless elderly
One Life to Live
fan seeking a brush with celebrity and an autograph.

Yes, or she might be a lunatic stalker with a gun.

Like Mr. Kobayashi said earlier, you can’t be too careful these days in New York.

“Please, Ms. McCallum. I’ve been waiting such a long time… and I’ve been trying all day to catch you.”

Catch me?

All right, Clara definitely doesn’t like the sound of that.

She turns away abruptly and mounts the stairs two at a time.

Moments later, she’s safely inside her building, feeling partly foolish for her frantic escape from a little old lady and partly as though she’s had a close call.

But after all she’s been through today, she’s not about to dwell on this. Every actress has her share of odd fans.

Clara climbs the second long flight of stairs to her apartment, yawning. As she covers the last few steps to her door, she spots something propped on the knob.

It’s… a CD?

A Christmas CD.

Bing Crosby smiles up at her, wearing a Santa hat.

There’s a note, too, written in red Sharpie on a plain white sheet of paper:
I thought this might cheer you up! Love, Santa

She smiles.

Mr. Kobayashi. Trying to help her get over her terrible day. He did say he would check on her later.

How sweet of him. She’ll be sure to thank him tomorrow.

Tomorrow
.

Yes, and she’ll return to the set and put all of this behind her.

Tomorrow will be a better day, definitely.

Yawning again, she dials into her voice mail.

You have three… new… messages
, an automated voice informs her.

“Hi, Clara, just wanted to let you know I’m thinking about you.…” It’s Jason. And he sounds uncharacteristically nervous. “I wanted to talk to you about something and it’s pretty important, so I was thinking it would be nice to get together for coffee or dinner. Oh, and I saw an article about the movie in
Entertainment Weekly
, and I’ve been wondering how it’s going. So give me a call and we’ll hook up, okay? I really need to talk to you,” he repeated in conclusion before hanging up with a quick “Bye.”

Entertainment Weekly?
Jason has never read that magazine.
Forbes
and
Business Week,
yes. But until this moment, she’d have doubted he’d pick up an issue of
EW
even if she was smiling out from the cover.

I wish
, she thinks, and presses
DELETE
.

She’ll decide later what to do about Jason. She hasn’t the energy to even think about him tonight, let alone make plans to see him.

Next message…

“Clara! It’s me, Rachel!” her cousin announces in her thick Lawn Guyland accent. “Rebecca and I were wondering if you have Bubbe’s brisket recipe somewhere. She wrote it out for us the other day but it has grape jelly in it. I think she’s losing her marbles. Give me a call even if you don’t have it. Maybe we can do lunch. If not we’ll see you at Hanukkah in two weeks, right? I can’t wait to hear all about the movie. I told everyone at work that you get to kiss Michael Marshall. Okay, bye.”

Clara smiles and shakes her head, realizing she really misses her cousins—lovable self-proclaimed Jewish-American Princesses. She’ll have to call Rachel back and tell her that she clearly remembers Bubbe preparing her famous brisket
… and spreading a mixture of grape jelly and ketchup over the meat. She can just imagine Rachel’s reaction.…

But once she gets over the grape jelly, she’ll want to do lunch. And she’ll want to know how Clara has been.…

And I can’t tell her
, Clara thinks, her hand drifting up to gingerly touch her sweater above the biopsy site.
So I’d better not call her back. Not yet, anyway. Not until I know I can talk to her without breaking down and telling her what’s going on
.

Nor does she dare, yet, to speak to her mother—and of course, the next message is from her.

“Clara, it’s me, Mom.” She always starts out that way. As if Clara doesn’t know her voice by now. “I’m just calling to talk to you about Christmas, honey. I know your shooting schedule—is that what you call it?—is crazy, but Stan and I were thinking maybe you could just fly down for Christmas Day. You know—catch a flight in the morning and be back by that night. They can’t be filming on that day, can they? We would pay for your ticket as part of your present, and… well, I just want to see you. I miss you. Give me a call back, okay? I know you’re busy but… just call me. I love you. Bye.”

Clara sits holding the phone, guilt trickling in. She can’t just avoid her mother forever.
Maybe I should tell her
, she thinks.
Maybe it would be good to share this burden with somebody
.…

Somebody who loves her, that is.

She can’t help but long to be nurtured. To cry in somebody’s arms. To be held and comforted and promised everything is going to be all right.…

But Mom isn’t that person
, she reminds herself. She can just imagine the look on her mother’s face. It wouldn’t be filled with hope.

And right now, what I need is hope
.

Hope, and strength, and courage
.

She just wishes she knew exactly how to find—and cling to—those precious commodities.

CHAPTER 8

T
oday is going to be a better day all around.

Clara has been telling herself that ever since her feet hit the floor after the alarm went off in the wee hours this Saturday morning.

Determined to keep grim thoughts about the breast cancer and the looming surgery at bay today, she intends to prove that she’s the most responsible actress since the venerable Meryl Streep.

She’s off to a good start, on the set before sunup, a full fifteen minutes before her call time.