Authors: Kristin Hannah
“I’m not kidding.” Lauren tried to be strong, but it felt as if she were crumbling. The pain in her heart was swift and sharp. As much as she knew it was crazy—impossible—she wanted her mother to open her arms right now, to hold her as she never had, and say,
It’s okay, honey.
“I couldn’t do it. I’m the one who needs to pay for my mistake, not …” She looked down at her stomach.
“Baby,” her mother said coldly. “You can’t even say the word.”
Lauren took a step forward. She was biting her lower lip and wringing her hands. “I’m scared, Mom. I thought—”
“You
should
be scared. Look at me. Look at this.” She stood up and made a sweeping gesture with her hands as she crossed the room. “Is this the life you want? Did you study like a fool for
this
? You’ll lose out on college this year—you know that, right? And if you don’t go now, you’ll never go.” She grabbed Lauren by the shoulders and shook her. “You’ll be
me.
After all your hard work. Is that what you want? Is it?”
Lauren pulled free, stumbled back. “No,” she said in a small voice.
Mom sighed heavily. “If you couldn’t make it through an abortion, how in God’s name do you think you can handle adoption? Or worse yet, motherhood? Go back to the clinic tomorrow. This time I’ll go with you. Give yourself a chance in life.” The anger seemed to slide out of her then. She pushed the hair from Lauren’s eyes, tucked a strand behind her ear. It was perhaps the gentlest her mother had ever been.
The tenderness was worse than being yelled at. “I can’t.”
Mom stared at her through eyes that were glazed with tears. “You break my heart.”
“Don’t say that.”
“What else can I say? You’ve made your decision. Fine. I tried.” She bent down and grabbed her purse. “I need a drink.”
“Don’t go. Please.”
Mom headed for the door. Halfway there, she turned back around.
Lauren stood there, crying. She knew the desperate plea to stay was in her eyes.
Mom almost started to cry again. “I’m sorry.” Then she left.
The next morning, after a sleepless night, Lauren woke to the sound of music bleeding through the walls. It was the Bruce Springsteen CD.
She came upright slowly, rubbing her swollen, gritty eyes.
Mom’s party had obviously turned into an all-nighter. It wasn’t surprising, she supposed. When your seventeen-year-old daughter got herself knocked up, there was nothing to do but party.
With a sigh, she climbed out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, where she took a long, hot shower. When she was finished, she stood on the frayed scrap of a towel that served as their bathmat and studied her naked body in the mirror.
Her breasts were definitely bigger. Maybe her nipples were, too; she couldn’t be sure about that, her nipples never having been high on her to-notice list.
She turned sideways.
Her stomach was as flat as ever. There was no sign there of the new life that grew within.
She wrapped a towel around her and returned to her bedroom. After making her bed, she dressed in her school uniform—red crew neck sweater, plaid skirt, white tights,
and black loafers. Then she turned off her bedroom light and walked down the hallway.
In the living room she stopped. Frowned.
Something was wrong.
The ashtrays on the coffee table were empty. No half filled glasses lined the kitchen counter. The ratty old purple afghan that usually draped over the back of the sofa was gone.
Gone.
No way. Even Mom wouldn’t—
She heard an engine start up outside; it was the throaty, unmistakable growl of a Harley Davidson motorcycle.
Lauren rushed to the window and whipped the flimsy curtain aside.
There, down on the street below, Mom sat behind Jake on the motorcycle. She was looking up at Lauren.
Lauren touched her fingertips to the glass. “No.”
Slowly, as if it hurt to move, her mother waved goodbye.
The motorcycle roared down the street, turned the corner, and disappeared from view.
Lauren stood there a long time, looking down at the empty street, waiting for them to come back.
When she finally turned away she saw the note on the coffee table.
That was when she knew.
She picked it up, opened it. A single word had been written in bold, blue ink.
There it was, the whole of their mother-daughter relationship reduced to a single word.
Sorry.
And the Boss sang on:
Baby, we were born to run …
Angie dialed Lauren’s home number for the third time.
“Still no answer?” Mama asked, coming out of the kitchen.
Angie went to the window and stared out. “No. It’s not like her to miss work. I’m worried.”
“Girls of that age screw up sometimes. I’m sure it is nothing.”
“Maybe I should stop by her house …”
“A boss doesn’t just show up. She missed a night of work. So what? Probably she’s out drinking beers with her boyfriend.”
“You are hardly comforting me, Mama.”
Mama came up beside her. “She’ll be at work tomorrow. You’ll see. Why don’t you come home with me? We’ll have wine.”
“I’ll take a rain check, Mama. I want to get a Christmas tree.” She leaned against her mother. “In fact, I’m going to leave early, if that’s okay.”
“Papa … would be happy to see his cottage decorated again.”
Angie heard the crack in her mother’s voice and she understood. Mama was facing her first Christmas without Papa. She put her arm around her mother’s narrow
waist, drew her close. “I’ll tell you what, Mama. On Wednesday, let’s make a day of it. We can go shopping and have lunch, then come home and decorate the tree. You can teach me how to make tortellini.”
“Tortellini is too difficult for you. We begin slowly. With tapenade, maybe. You can use a blender, yes?”
“Very funny.”
Mama’s smile softened. “Thank you,” she said.
They stood there a moment longer, holding each other as they stared out at the night. Finally, Angie said goodbye, grabbed her coat and left the restaurant.
The town square was a beehive of activity on this cold and cloudy night. Dozens of die-hard tourists milled about, oohing and aahing over the thousands of white lights strung throughout the town. At the end of the street a group of carolers in red and green velvet Victorian clothing sang “Silent Night.” More tourists and a few locals huddled around them, listening. You could recognize the locals by their lack of shopping bags. A horse-drawn carriage rumbled down the brick-paved street, bells jangling. The first tree lighting ceremony of the year had obviously been a success; next Saturday’s would be even bigger. Tourists would arrive by the bus-load; the locals would grumble that their town had turned into Disneyland and they would stay away at all costs. The restaurant would be packed all week.
By the time she reached the Christmas Shoppe, it had begun to snow. She flipped her hood up and hurried across the street, ducking into the store.
It was a Christmas wonderland, with trees and ornaments and lights everywhere. Angie came to a stop. Directly in front of her was a thin, noble fir tree, spangled with silver and gold ornaments. Each one was stunningly unique. Angels and Santas and multicolored glass balls.
It reminded her of the collection Conlan had started for her, all those years ago, with a tiny ornament from Holland that read:
Our First Christmas.
Every year since, he’d given her a new one.
“Hey, Angie,” said a lilting female voice.
Angie looked up, wiped her eyes, just as the shop’s owner, Tillie, came out from behind the cash register. She was dressed as Mrs. Claus in a red dress that had been old when Angie was a kid.
“I hear you’ve shaken it up at DeSaria’s,” Tillie said. “Rumor is your mom is so proud, she’s about to bust.”
Angie tried to smile. Life in West End had always been like this. No bit of business was ever too small to keep track of—especially if it was someone else’s. “She’s having fun with the new recipes, that’s for sure.”
“Who would have thought? I’d best get over there. Maybe after the holidays. So. What can I help you find?”
Angie looked around. “I need a few ornaments.”
Tillie nodded. “I heard about your divorce. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you come back in ten minutes? I’ll have a treeful for you. At cost.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“You’ll give me and Bill dinner in exchange.”
Angie nodded. This was how her papa had done business in West End. “I’ll go get my tree and be back in a flash.”
An hour later, Angie was on her way home with a tree strapped to the roof of her car, a box of ornaments in the backseat, and a stack of white tree lights on the passenger seat. It took her longer than usual; the roads were slick and icy. “Jingle Bell Rock” blared from the speakers, putting her in the mood.
She needed to be coaxed into the mood, to be honest.
The thought of a Christmas tree chosen by her, put up by her, decorated by her, and enjoyed by her was a bit depressing.
She parked in front of the cottage and killed the engine. Then she stood beside the tree, staring at it while snow fell like kisses on her face.
The tree looked bigger than it had in the lot.
Oh, well.
She got a pair of her father’s old work gloves from the garage and set about freeing the tree. By the time she was finished, she’d fallen twice, been smacked in the nose by an obviously vengeful branch, and scratched the car’s paint.
Tightening her hold on the trunk, she heaved the tree toward the house, one step at a time. She was almost to the door when a car drove up the driveway.
Headlights came at her; snow drifted lazily in the beams of light.
She dropped the tree and straightened. It was Mira. She’d come to help with the tree.
Sisters.
“Hey, you,” Angie said, squinting into the too-bright light. “You’re blinding me.”
The lights didn’t snap off. Instead, the driver’s door opened. Mick Jagger’s voice pulsed into the night. Someone stepped out.
“Mira?” Angie frowned, took a step backward. It struck her all at once how isolated she was out here.…
Someone walked toward her, boots soundless in the fresh snow.
When she saw his face, she gasped. “Conlan.”
He came closer, so much so that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. “Hey, Ange.”
She had no idea what to say to him. Once, years ago now, conversations had flowed like water between them.
In recent times that river had gone dry. She remembered Diane’s words.
Twice I came into his office and found him crying.
When you’d missed something like that as a wife, what could you say later?
“It’s good to see you—”
“Beautiful night—”
They spoke at exactly the same time, then laughed awkwardly and fell to silence again. She waited for him to speak but he didn’t. “I was just going to put up the tree.”
“I can see that.”
“Do you have a tree this year?”
“No.”
At the look on his face, so sad, she wished she hadn’t asked. “I don’t suppose you want to help me carry it inside?”
“I think I’d rather watch you wrestle with it.”
“You’re six foot two; I’m five foot six. Get the tree inside.”
He laughed, then bent down and picked up the tree.
She raced ahead to open the door for him.
Together, they put the tree in the stand.
“A little to the left,” she said, pushing the tree to a straighter position.
He grunted and went back under the tree again.
She battled a sudden bout of sadness. Memories came at her hard. As soon as the tree was upright and locked into place in the stand, she said, “I’ll get us some wine,” and ran for the kitchen.
When she was out of the room, she let her breath out in a rush.
It hurt just looking at him.
She poured two glasses of red wine—his favorite—and went back into the living room. He stood by the
fireplace, staring at her. In his black sweater and faded Levis, with his black hair that needed to be cut, he looked more like an aging rock star than an ace reporter.
“So,” he said after she’d given him the wine and sat down on the sofa, “I could tell you I was out this way on a story and just stopped by.”
“I could tell you I don’t care why you’re here.”
They sat on opposite sides of the room, making cautious conversation, talking about nothing. Angie was finishing her third glass of wine by the time he got around to asking a question that mattered.
“Why did you come by the office?”
There were so many ways to answer that. The question was: How far out on the ledge did she want to go? She’d spent a lot of years telling Conlan half-truths. She’d started out protecting him from bad news, but deceit was an icy road that spun you around. She’d ended up protecting herself. The more her heart had been broken, the more she’d turned inward. Until one day, she’d realized that she was alone. “I missed you,” she said at last.
“What does that mean?”
“Did you miss me?”
“I can’t believe you can ask me that.”
She got up, moved toward him. “Did you?”
She knelt in front of him. Their faces were so close she could see herself in his blue eyes. She’d forgotten how that felt, to see herself in him. “It made me crazy,” she said, echoing the words she’d said to him in the nursery all those months ago.
“And you’re sane now?”
She felt his breath on her lips; it brought back so many memories. “
Sane
’s such a grown-up word. But I’m definitely better. Mostly, I’ve accepted it.”
“You scare me, Angie,” he said quietly.
“Why?”
“You broke my heart.”
She leaned the tiniest bit toward him. “Don’t be afraid,” she whispered, reaching for him.
Angie had forgotten how it felt to be really kissed. It made her feel young again; better than young, in fact, because there was none of the angst or fear or desperation that came with youth. There was just this feeling moving through her, electrifying her body, making her feel alive again. A tiny moan escaped her lips, disappeared.