Authors: Joy Fielding
“We’ll do another spa day.”
“Now
that
sounds like fun,” Lance said. “Can I come?”
“Only if you let us paint your toes with Mango Madness,” I told him.
“Lady, you can paint whatever part of my anatomy your little heart desires.” Lance flopped over the sofa and joined us on the floor. “Anything for me under there?”
Alison made a prolonged show of searching under the
tree. “No, I’m afraid it doesn’t look like there’s anything for you. Oh, wait. Here’s something.” She extended an oblong box wrapped in gold. “It’s a golf shirt,” she announced before the package was half-unwrapped. “It’s an extra-large because the salesman said they fit small. What do you think? Do you think it’ll fit?”
Lance held the beige-and-black golf shirt against the navy one he was wearing. “Looks good. What do you think, Terry?”
“I think your sister has very good taste.”
Lance laughed. “First time she’s ever been accused of that.”
“Very funny.” Alison pointed at the design that crisscrossed the lightweight fabric. “Those are golf tees, in case you didn’t know.”
“Looks like I’ll have to stick around,” Lance said casually. “Take up golf.”
Alison dropped her eyes to the floor. “Here’s something for Terry.” She read the sticker, glanced warily at her brother. “From Lance,” she said with obvious surprise. “You didn’t tell me you were buying Terry a present.”
“What? You think I was raised in a barn?”
I opened the gift, my hands trembling with the knowledge I hadn’t bought anything for him. Inside was a long, lilac-colored nightgown, its lace bodice scooped provocatively low.
“Oh, my,” Alison said.
“It’s silk.”
“It’s lovely. But I really can’t accept something like this,” I said in my mother’s voice.
Totally inappropriate
, I heard her agree.
“What are you talking about? Of course you can. Why don’t you try it on right now, model it for us.” Lance’s fingers slipped under the long slit that ran up the side of the nightgown. I shivered, as if his hand were on my leg.
“I think you should save it for when Josh comes home,” Alison said, eyes still on her brother.
“Josh?” Lance sat up straight, his interest clearly piqued. “First I’m hearing of any Josh.”
“He’s a friend of Terry’s.”
“Sounds like more than a friend.”
“His mother is one of my patients,” I qualified, not really wanting to discuss Josh with Alison’s brother, wondering what Josh was doing at that moment. It was three hours earlier in California. Probably he was attending some big family dinner, or maybe he was out doing some last-minute shopping. Did he miss me? Had he thought about me at all?
“What’s the matter with his mother?”
I pictured Myra Wylie asleep in her narrow hospital bed. “Everything,” I said sadly.
Lance shrugged. “She exceeded her expiration date, did she?”
“What?”
“Lance thinks people should be stamped with a ‘best before’ date. You know, like dairy products.”
I laughed in spite of myself.
“You ever consider pulling the plug on some of these people?”
“What!”
“I think you’d be doing most of them a favor. And yourself too, come to think of it.”
“Now you’ve really lost me.”
“Well, I’m just thinking out loud here, but I bet you get pretty close to some of these lonely old biddies. Am I right?”
I nodded, not sure where this conversation was going.
“And a few of them probably have a little something stashed away,” Lance continued. “I bet it wouldn’t be that difficult to get them to include you in their wills, have them sign over the bulk of their estates to you, their humble caregiver. Then after a suitable period of time, enough so as not to arouse undue suspicion, you just give nature a little push. You know, a stray air bubble in their IV; an extra dose of something to help them sleep. Hell, I don’t have to tell you. You’re the nurse. You’d know exactly how to do it. Wouldn’t you?”
I looked for the familiar mischievous twinkle in his eyes, but he stared back at me with eyes as cold and humorless as a corpse’s. Was he serious?
“What do you think, Terry?” he pressed. “Sounds like a plan to me.”
“I think plans like that are the reason our jails are so overcrowded.”
“Lance is just kidding,” Alison said.
“Am I?”
“Is money really so important to you?”
“It’s pretty important.”
“So important you’d actually consider taking someone’s life?”
“Guess that would depend.”
“Lance is just joking,” Alison interrupted again. “Enough, Lance. Terry doesn’t understand your sense of humor.”
“I think she understands me very well.”
“It’s my turn to open another present,” Alison said, pulling a gift from under the tree with such force she almost knocked the whole thing over. “Look. It’s from Denise.”
“Where
is
Denise these days?” I asked, as eager as Alison to move on.
“She’s spending Christmas with her folks up north. But she’ll be back in time for New Year’s. Speaking of which, I guess we should start making plans for New Year’s Eve.”
“I’m working New Year’s Eve,” I told her.
“You’re not!”
“I’m afraid so.”
“But it’s the start of a whole new year. I can’t believe you’re working. It’s not fair!”
I laughed. “Open your present.”
Alison quietly unwrapped her gift and held out a pair of pink, heart-shaped earrings. I couldn’t help but wonder if Denise had paid for them or simply helped herself to more of her aunt’s inventory. Alison said nothing. She closed the small cardboard box and lowered it to the floor.
“Don’t you like them?”
“They’re very nice.”
“Poor Alison’s all upset because you won’t be celebrating New Year’s Eve with us.”
“I’m just disappointed.”
“Don’t be. It’s just another night,” I said, although I didn’t really believe it. Hadn’t I been equally disappointed when Josh had announced he’d be out of town. “I just
realized I forgot to put Lance’s present under the tree.” I scrambled to my feet, ran into the kitchen, retrieved the bag with the ballpoint pen I’d originally intended for Josh—what the hell? I’d buy him something better, something more personal—then headed back to the living room.
“What’s the matter with you?” I heard Alison hiss as I approached.
“Lighten up,” Lance said.
“What are you trying to pull?”
“I’m just having fun with her.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Relax.”
“I’m warning you …”
“Is that an ultimatum? Because we both know how much I love ultimatums.”
“Here it is,” I said, announcing my presence before I walked back into the room.
Lance reached across the top of the sofa to take the small bag dangling from my fingers. “Just what I wanted,” he said without a trace of irony as he extricated the thick, black pen from its layers of tissue. “Thank you, Terry. I’m touched.” He stood up, walked around the sofa, and extended his hand.
I took it, expecting a small handshake of gratitude, but instead he pulled me toward him, bringing his face so close to mine I tasted his breath in my mouth. I turned my cheek, but it was almost as if he’d anticipated my reaction, and he turned with me, catching me fully on the lips. “What are you doing?” I asked, attempting a smile but breaking away, the taste of him lingering.
He looked surprised, as if he had no idea what I was talking about. Had he thought I wouldn’t notice? “It’s a great pen,” he said.
“Okay, you guys,” Alison called. “There’s still lots to go here. My turn.”
“It’s always your turn.” Lance resumed his place on the sofa.
Alison pulled a baseball cap with a logo from the Houston Astros out of a bag without examining the card. “Look. It’s from K.C. Isn’t that sweet?” She put the hat on her head. “He dropped by this afternoon,” she explained before I had time to ask. “He told me he came over the other night to give it to me, but I wasn’t home,” she continued unprompted. “That’s why he was here.”
I nodded, although I couldn’t recall any gift in K.C.’s hands. “What do you know about him?” I asked, straining to sound casual.
“Not much. Why?”
“Just curious.”
“He thinks you don’t like him.”
“He’s right.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t trust him, I guess.”
“Seemed like a nice enough guy to me,” Lance interjected.
“I think he’s nice too,” Alison agreed.
“Name three things you like about him,” I challenged.
Alison smiled. “Let’s see. I like his accent.”
K.C.’s gentle Texas twang slammed against my ears.
“I like his eyes.”
I hated K.C.’s eyes, I thought, seeing them laughing at me through the darkness of the other night.
“I like that he bought me a present.”
“What three things do you like about
me?”
Lance asked suddenly, turning to me.
“I’m not sure I like anything about you at all.”
He laughed, although it was the truth, and I think he knew that. “Sure you do,” he insisted anyway. “Think.”
“I can’t.”
“No more presents till you come up with something.”
“Okay,” I said, giving up. “I like that you threw dog poop at Bettye McCoy.”
He laughed. “Are you saying you like my spunk?”
“I think she’s saying you’re full of you know what,” Alison corrected.
“What else do you like?” Lance asked, ignoring his sister.
“I like your taste in nightgowns,” I admitted, watching my mother shake her head in the reflection from the front window.
“You like the way I taste,” Lance translated, blue eyes dancing.
I shook my head, declined comment. “I like your belt,” I said finally.
“You like my belt?”
“It’s a very nice belt.”
Lance Palmay glanced down at the black leather belt that was secured around his slender waist by a large silver buckle. “You like my belt,” he repeated wondrously. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a very strange woman, Terry Painter?”
We opened the remainder of the gifts in relative silence. A T-shirt from me to Alison, a photograph album from Alison to me. Some movie tickets, a box of shortbread cookies, a travel alarm clock, a pair of fluffy pink slippers. “Last one,” I said, reaching under the tree and extricating a small package with a large white bow.
“What is it?” Alison looked almost afraid to open it.
“I hope you like it.” I watched as she gently lifted off the bow and discarded the paper, removing the lid from the top of the box. “I thought it was time for you to have a necklace of your own,” I said as she held up the thin gold necklace that spelled out her name.
Tears formed in Alison’s eyes, fell freely down her face. Silently, she reached up and removed the heart necklace, replacing it with the new one. “It’s beautiful. I’ll never take it off.”
I laughed, but tears were in my own eyes as well.
Alison suddenly got up and reached to the very back of the tree, pulling out a long, thin, rectangular present wrapped in dark green paper. “It’s for you,” she said, laying it across my lap.
Even before I unwrapped it, I knew what it was. “This is too much,” I whispered, staring at the painting of a woman in a large-brimmed hat relaxing on a beach of pink sand. “This is way too much.”
“You like it, don’t you?”
“Of course I like it. I
love
it. But it’s way too expensive.”
“I got my employee discount. This was before I got canned, of course.”
We both laughed, although we were crying too.
“Even so …”
“Even so, nothing. It belongs here. Right here.” Alison pointed to the blank space on the wall behind the sofa. “Lance’ll help you hang it. He’s good at hanging stuff.”
“Are you suggesting I’m well hung?” Lance asked as he pushed himself to his feet.
“Lance!”
But I barely heard them. “Nobody’s ever done anything like this for me before,” I whispered. Whatever reservations I harbored, whatever questions remained unanswered, whatever doubts still lingered, they vanished in that instant.
“Me neither,” Alison said, stroking the gold at her neck, then extending her arms toward me
“Careful, you two,” Lance said. “I might get jealous.”
Alison ignored him, wrapping me in an almost suffocating embrace. I felt the wetness of her tears on my cheeks, the pounding of her heart against my own. At that moment it was impossible to tell where I left off and she began.
“Merry Christmas, Terry,” she cried softly.
“Merry Christmas, Alison.”
“M
erry Christmas,” I called as I pushed open the door to Myra Wylie’s hospital room.
It was just past eight o’clock in the morning, and Myra Wylie was lying in her bed, her head turned toward the window. She made no move to turn around, even as I closed the door behind me and cautiously approached, holding my breath. I’d been through this routine already twice this morning, and both times had found Myra Wylie sleeping soundly. I hadn’t disturbed her. How often did the poor woman get a good night’s sleep anymore?
I remembered that my mother’s last months had been marked by extreme restlessness. She’d tossed and turned in her bed all night, hardly closing her eyes at all. If Christmas had managed to bring a measure of peace to Myra Wylie’s tortured existence, then who was I to disturb her?
Except that there was something different about her
posture this morning, something worrisome about the way her shoulders slumped against their covers, something unsettling in the angle of her head. “Myra?” I reached for the skeletal hand beneath the sheet, praying for a pulse.
“It’s all right,” she said, her voice clear but dull, as if it had been stripped of its natural shine by a harsh abrasive. “I’m not dead yet.”
Lance thinks people should be stamped with a “best before” date,
I heard Alison say
.
Immediately I rushed around to the other side of the bed, positioned myself directly in front of her, and realized instantly that she’d been crying. “Myra, what’s the matter? Has something happened? Are you in pain? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Something’s obviously upset you.”