When We Were Sisters (30 page)

I opened my door, and by the time I went around the car, Nik was standing in front of the store, nose pressed to the glass.

Today I took a stand that will lower my status at work, but at this moment my status with my son is at an all-time high. And really? The relative importance suddenly seems clear.

For the first time since she walked out our door, I was grateful to my wife for taking her own stand. I just hope it's not too late to tell her.

35

Robin

I'm not sure where Cecilia is spending the holidays. In our telephone chats she's been purposely vague. Hayley will figure in somehow, and Donny? That's where the vague part comes in. As good an actress as she is—and as good a liar—there's a hitch in Cecilia's voice when the subject of Donny comes up. If she hadn't flown back to LA almost a week ago and I could look her in the eye, I wonder what I would see?

I'm afraid to hope.

I'm also afraid to go home, because I'm already worried about leaving again. Part of me is afraid if things go badly I might be compelled by my disintegrating marriage to head out for good. Another part is afraid if things go well I won't have the energy or desire to leave, and I'll fall right back into my old life. But it's too late to worry. The airport shuttle driver just pointed out that we've almost arrived. We're now officially in Meadow Branch.

I left northern Virginia six weeks ago when fall nipped the air. Winter is an iffier proposition. Almost anything can be considered normal in December. Today, according to the driver, the sun shone and temperatures reached the low fifties. Tomorrow rain will wash away patches of snow visible on hillsides and rooftops. If we're lucky it won't turn to sleet or ice. Ice storms can shut down everything for miles around.

Of course if that happens, Kris won't be able to go to work.

I was scheduled to come home tomorrow, but we finished filming earlier than anticipated, and everyone else caught flights last night. With the holidays looming planes are packed, but this morning I was able to change my ticket at the airport. I didn't warn my family.

I'll be an early Christmas present.

“Pretty community,” the driver said. I was his final passenger; the others had already been deposited at homes along the route.

Almost every house we passed was decorated for the holiday, and as darkness fell, outdoor light displays were beginning to twinkle. Fully decorated trees glittered in living rooms. As we turned onto my street I saw that our new neighbors had chosen fresh pine garlands and tastefully simple candles to adorn window ledges. In former years Talya decorated with a Happy Chanukah rope light across a front window and a lit Star of David on their front door. I smiled, remembering that Talya had faithfully removed them before her strictly observant in-laws came to visit.

I hope to persuade Michael and Channa to come for Christmas dinner, the way they always did when Talya was alive, but I'm afraid too short a time has passed for a return visit to Meadow Branch.

I told the driver to slow. “It is pretty, isn't it? This is beautiful country.”

“Yeah, you're lucky to live here.”

I thought about the places I lived in my childhood, one still to revisit. “Very lucky.”

I pointed out my house, and he pulled into our driveway. If Kris put up our lights—or more likely remembered to hire someone else to do it—no one had yet switched them on. Our curtains were drawn, and no wreath adorned our front door. Compared to other houses in the neighborhood, ours looked like the domicile of Ebenezer Scrooge.

I had hoped for a bright splash of joy, for obvious changes here, but if things really were different the exterior of our house offered no clues.

The driver got out to retrieve my suitcase, and I had to follow. This was my home, my family, but I felt like a stranger. The life I'd known here had been shaken and rearranged, and I wasn't sure where or how I fit.

I thanked and tipped him, then I slung my backpack and camera bag over my shoulders, grabbed the handle of my suitcase and started up the front walk. The door flew open.

“Mommy!” Pet launched herself at me and I just barely caught her. “You're here!”

The house might not look like Christmas, but my daughter, dressed in a green sweater and red leggings, looked like a Christmas angel. I kissed her hair. “I got an earlier flight.”

“You should have told us! We could have picked you up.”

“She's right. We could have.” Kris was now standing behind Pet, who stepped back to smile up at me.

“Merry Christmas.” I smiled, and better yet, so did my husband. At that exact moment the Christmas lights strung along our eaves flicked on. Anxiety unraveled and trailed away.

Kris held out his arms and we hugged, sandwiching our daughter between us. Nik arrived and squirmed into place. I wondered how many more years of this were ahead. When would Nik, then Pet, find this silly? I was grateful that they didn't tonight.

Kris stepped back. “You surprised us, so we'll surprise you.”

Pet's never been good at surprises and she couldn't wait. “Maminka and Táta are here!”

Kris's mother appeared in the hallway. “Cˇ
ervenka
is here?”

Kris and I had known each other for only a few months when he introduced me to his parents. From the beginning Ida called me by the Czech word for
robin
. Not as a reminder I wasn't Czech, but because she loved me on sight and decided I needed a Czech name before I joined her family.

The others stepped out of the way, and I went straight into her arms. “I can't believe you're here!” I hugged her hard. Ida is a little shorter than I am, and pillowy. Hugging her is like cuddling deep into a feather bed.

Her English is good, but her accent is strong. Gus, who spoke excellent English before emigrating, appeared behind her. “If the mountain won't come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain.”

I moved forward and hugged him, too. Kris's father is tall and strong, and when Gus hugs you, deep breaths are impossible. “Tell me I'm not dreaming. You're supposed to be in Prague!”

“We'll go back after the holidays. There are planes between here and there.”

Kris had come up behind me, and now I felt his arm around my shoulder. “They've come for a week. Then Lucie has invited all of us to spend Christmas Eve and day with her family.”

Lucie and her husband live in Chicago, and their four children are still with them or in college nearby.

Gus answered the question I hadn't quite asked. “They canceled their trip when they learned we wouldn't all be together, so we decided we could come and surprise you here instead. There is hope you will come at Easter?”

Kris squeezed my shoulder. “It's on my calendar, Táta. Engraved in stone. Now if Robin can put it on hers?”

I looked up at my husband, and his eyes were warm. He hadn't simply assumed I could make the trip. He wanted me to know that.

When I answered I was still looking at him. “Nothing could stop me.”

Ida and Pet, arms around each other's waists, could barely contain their excitement. “We have been making Christmas for you,” Ida said. “We have made so much already, but there is more to make. And our Petra will show you the many cookies we plan.”

Pet was so excited her cheeks were flushed. “We're making beaded snowflakes for the tree. Maminka is teaching me, but we didn't decorate it yet. We waited for you.”

“Come see the train, Mom,” Nik said. “Dad and I put it around the tree. It used to be his.”

“A train, Kris?”

“From my childhood.” Kris looked embarrassed, and pinched his thumb and index finger together in emphasis. “With just a few small additions.”

Nik was already on his way into the living room. “We went into this store and bought the Polar Express, and lots more track and—”

Pet grabbed my hand. “And a little Christmas village with carolers and a snowman and Santa Claus.”

“Baby Jesus brings presents, not Santa,” Ida said. “And he will bring them to Chicago this year. On Christmas Eve.” She stopped. “Unless you don't want to go to Lucie's, Cˇ
ervenka
? Perhaps you are too tired and need to stay home with your family?”

Lucie prides herself on celebrating Christmas the way her ancestors did. I've seen photos, been given recipes, but we never celebrated the holiday with her family. It would be crowded, crazy, foreign to me and absolutely wonderful. I looked at Kris. “You can take those days off?”

“I have more time off than I expected to.”

I filed that away. “I would love to go.”

“We will bring the cookies,” Ida said. “Lucie will make carp and potato salad, and I will help with the dinner.”

Other Christmases flashed through my mind. Not the ones here, with Kris and my children, which have always been wonderfully memorable. But cold canned ham at my grandmother's table served with corrections of my many etiquette lapses. Christmas at one of my emergency foster homes, where the family's biological children sat with their parents in the dining room and I sat in the kitchen with the other foster child, who ate my slice of turkey. Christmas with the Davises, who always took us out for dinner at the local Chinese restaurant because we loved it so much. Christmas at the Osburns, where Betty and I spent most of the holiday roasting chickens to feed her visiting relatives, chickens that poor Cecilia had nurtured and then been forced to slaughter.

“I knew I married your son for a good reason,” I told Ida. “It was a package deal. I got all the rest of you in the bargain.”

“I told him that first day if he did not marry you, he was
zbláznený
!” She tapped the side of her skull in emphasis.

“A better interpretation? Infatuated.” Kris smiled at me. “Still holds true.”

I did my best to pronounce it. “A good word, then.”

Nik grabbed my hand. “You've got to see the tree and the train.”

“I absolutely do.” But first I stretched on tiptoe and quickly kissed my husband. “Merry Christmas, Kris Kringle,” I murmured.

So what if the mythical Kris Kringle was probably German not Czech? My own international Santa Claus had brought me what promised to be one of the best Christmas gifts of my life. This was my home, and no matter what had happened in the past weeks, I was truly welcome.

36

Kris

I love my parents, and having them here is both a surprise and a joy. I should never have canceled our trip to Prague, and I hope I'll be as understanding when my own adult children do something that hurts me. No one can say I don't have wonderful role models.

That said, I'm lying on the pullout couch in my study, staring up at the ceiling, because we don't have a guest room. Just above me Robin is sleeping in Pet's room. I insisted my parents take the master suite, which is most comfortable for them. Still, I am uncomfortably aware my wife and I have been separated for too long. I miss her warm body against my own.

The house has been quiet, but now someone is banging around in the kitchen, and I wonder if Robin, like me, is having problems sleeping. I debated warning her about my parents' surprise appearance, but I knew she would be delighted to see them. From the beginning they've treated my wife like a daughter, and without parents of her own, that's been particularly special. I sometimes think if Robin and I ever got divorced, she would get Maminka and Táta in the agreement, and I would be the orphan.

I got up and made my way to the kitchen, but it wasn't Robin rummaging in the refrigerator.

“Táta?”

My father, in striped blue pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt, turned and looked at me with surprise, as if I were the intruder. “Did I wake you?”

“I was already awake. Can I get you something?”

“I couldn't sleep. Jet lag? It takes longer to adjust to any change at my age. I thought I would try warm milk.”

“I bet you'd rather have
Slivovice
. If I'd known you were coming I would have scoured DC for a bottle.”

“I'm not so fond of what's available in this country.”

When I was a boy, the moment plums came into season in Ohio Gus made plum brandy. As a special treat I was always given a sip once the batch was properly fermented. No commercial version I've had in the years since comes close, but sadly Gus stopped making his own a decade ago.

“I have Irish whiskey to put in the milk,” I offered.

“I drink little these days. I'll take it straight.”

He stepped aside and I found the milk, took it out and poured two mugs, adding a dollop of honey before putting both in the microwave to warm.

“We have evicted you from your bed,” Gus said. “And your wife newly arrived.”

This was as close as we had ever come to discussing sex. My mother worked as a pediatric nurse in Czechoslovakia; sex was her domain, possibly because of her medical background, but more likely because Gus avoids talking about anything personal.

I stood with my back to the stove and crossed my arms. “We're happy to let you have our room.”

“Cˇ
ervenka
looks well.”

I wondered where this was going. “She does look great, doesn't she?”

“Her leaving the family? Was this difficult for you?”

I measured my words. “It's taken some getting used to.”

“It's good she has her own life. You certainly have yours.”

“As you had yours.” The microwave dinged and I opened the door and took out both mugs, setting them on the counter so my father could take his.

“I had too much of a life,” Gus said, and followed the words with a sigh. “So much to say and do, so little time for either. And in the end, not that much worthwhile came from it.”

I leaned against the counter. Because this was so out of character, I knew more was coming. “Aren't you getting the recognition you sought? Would they have invited you to teach at the Academy of Fine Arts if you weren't respected?”

“‘For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?'”

I stared at him. “You? Quoting the New Testament?” Even though I was sent to a Catholic school, my father is a freethinker who refuses to attend church unless his presence at a baptism or First Communion is absolutely required.

“I was raised on the New Testament. Some things are not forgotten even when not all are believed.”

“Táta, are you ill? Is that why you came back?”

My father has a wonderful smile that I'm just vain enough to hope I've inherited. “If I were ill, Kristoff, would I be here having fun with your family? Wouldn't I be on a ward somewhere letting doctors pump poison into my body?”

“I have no idea, but I'll ask Maminka in the morning. She's much less likely to squirm away from the truth.”

“So if I talk about regrets, I must be dying?”

I didn't know what to say. He nodded. “I am as well as a man my age ever is. Little aches, little pains, the occasional upset stomach, and sadly only a little wine and
Slivovice
agree with it these days. But who knows how many years are left?”

I thought of Robin, whose own years nearly ended in October. “None of us knows that.”

“I have had a good life. Difficult at times, but that is always to be expected. And for the record, recognition was never my goal. My world needed to be fixed, and I tried with the only talent I had.”

“I don't think fixing the world and losing your soul are synonymous. Don't people who try to fix the world find a special place in heaven?”

He gave a snort of disbelief. “Who could believe in a God who picks and chooses? I want no part of heaven. I just want to know I did my best. And my art? It was always the best I could do. But taking care of my family? Never quite.”

I was stunned. I sipped my warm milk and stared at this stranger. “We survived,” I said at last. “We ate. We had a roof over our heads.”

“You think I'm talking about money?” He sounded honestly curious.

“
I'm
talking about money. Not having it was a fixture of my childhood.”

“It never seemed important.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Is that why you work so hard? To give the family things?” He gestured around the kitchen.

I dodged the question. “If we aren't talking about money, what
are
we talking about?”

“Time. Attention. I was always thinking of the next painting, the next subject. It is true of creative people, but that's not an excuse. I missed much. I should have tried harder.”

I'm not creative. If the seed exists, I chose not to water or feed it. But more likely, in this way, I'm my mother's child. She worried about paying bills, and she worked tirelessly to be sure she could, even when rudimentary English forced her to do the lowliest jobs in American hospitals.

“It's not just creative people,” I said. “It's easy to get obsessed with other things and forget the people around you.”

“I never forgot you. I just forgot you might need more from me.”

I considered that, considered it long enough that I finished my milk before I spoke.

“Táta, I had regrets, like any son, but whatever I had of you was worth more than three fathers put together. I was lucky even when you weren't paying attention.”

Tears filled his eyes, something I had only rarely seen. “I am afraid I taught you poorly. Now
you
are too busy, Kristoff. I worry.”

“I think I'm on a different path these days.”

“You need to spend time with your wife.”

I wondered if I was asleep and this entire exchange was a dream. My father had apologized for a lifetime of perpetual distraction, and now he was giving me marital advice. This in a family where feelings are never discussed.

I shook my head, as much to see if it needed to be cleared as to disagree. “Robin would be furious if you left to give us more time alone.”

“No, I have given this some thought.
You
should leave. Here's what I have in mind.”

He outlined his plan, and I listened, nodding. “You clearly haven't forgotten me tonight,” I said at last. “I'll take your advice.”

“You have been the best of sons. And you are a good man, if a distracted one.”

“I had a great teacher on all counts.”

He smiled, then the evening ended in an extraordinary way. He embraced me, and I know it was a moment I will remember on my deathbed.