Merry Ex-Mas (2 page)

From the moment I got the call from my father this morning, I knew exactly what he wanted. This was our annual pre-Christmas caucus. This was when he'd beg me to come to Christmas dinner, and I'd have to tell him what I'd told him for the last six years: No!

I sighed as I peeked through the windshield at my Compton childhood home. Why did my father put himself through this? By now, he should have gotten the message; I was never going to change my mind. I wished that he would just stop asking. For him and for me. Because every time my father called right before Christmas, he reminded me. And I was taken back to the day when this started all those years ago
…

I couldn't wait to get home. Anthony and I had been so off-kilter for the last few months, and I wanted to do something about that. Especially with the way I'd left for San Francisco yesterday morning. I still felt bad about the special night that Anthony had prepared for me
—
a celebration the night before I left for this business trip. But the thing was, I didn't know about his plans. And once he'd told me, it was too late for me to change mine. I had planned another long, long night at the office. This meeting with the Ozark people in San Fran was too important for me not to be totally prepared. I really wanted their specialty products in our spa, and I needed to put the final touches on my presentation.

Of course, because I wouldn't change my plans, it had turned into just another one of the thousands of blowups I had with my husband. Anthony accused me of always putting work ahead of him, and I told him that I thought I'd married a grown man and not a whiny boy.

The look in his eyes when I said that made me want to snatch those words back. Made me try a different approach.

"This is all for our future," I tried to convince him.

But though my approach was different, his wasn't. "If you keep this up, we may never have a future."

His words had shocked me. "What does that mean?"

He didn't answer, just stomped away.

It felt like a tantrum to me, and I didn't have time to handle it then, but I planned on handling it now. Tonight. In our bedroom. In our bed.

Just me coming home early from this business trip
—
something that I'd never done before
—
would prove to Anthony that I was serious about us and our marriage. I knew I wasn't good at this wife thing. Maybe it was because, as a little girl, I'd never wanted to grow up to be a wife. Maybe it was because I saw Anthony as more of my business partner than my husband. But whatever my issues were, I wanted to get it right, now. I'd probably need some counseling, and I was fine with that.

I'd start with tonight, though. Just me and Anthony.

It was just about five minutes before a new day when the cab eased to the side of the road on PCH and stopped at our home. Every time I pulled up in front of our Malibu beachside house, I was reminded of just how blessed I was. And I was going to not only tell my husband that tonight, I was going to show him.

I rushed through the front door and dropped my bag right at the entry. Of course, the house was dark, but not pitch-black since the midnight moon that lit the beach seeped through the living room's magnificent glass wall. As I headed up the stairs, I was already peeling off my clothes, getting ready for my husband.

And then I got to the doorway of our bedroom.

And I stopped.

I was frozen, but only for a moment.

Truly, my eyes had to be deceiving me. It was dark, so my brain had confused my eyes because I couldn't be seeing what I saw. That's why I turned on the light. The bright overhead light that lit up the bedroom like the shining sun. The light we never used because it was so bright. But the light that I needed now.

Anthony was home. In bed. But he was not alone.

I screamed.

And then he screamed. And then she screamed.

"Oh, my god!"

I think I was the one who said that because the next thing I heard was, "Kendall!"

That was Anthony, but I couldn't concentrate on him. Because my eyes wouldn't move from the woman who held the sheet, my sheet, from my bed, over her bare chest.

"Kendall!" Anthony yelled my name again.

It wasn't until he touched me that I was finally freed from my catatonic state. That was when I stumbled out of the bedroom and staggered down the stairs. Thick tears clouded my eyes, slowing me down as I struggled to open the garage door and jump into my car.

I was surprised that Anthony hadn't caught up to me, but I guess I had an advantage
—
I was already dressed.

The tires screamed as I shifted the car into reverse and pressed the accelerator to the floor. Then I pushed the car into drive and did the same thing. I drove, with no destination in mind, but after only a few minutes, I couldn't keep going. I was truly blinded by my tears and wouldn't make it much further. But where was I going to go?

It didn't take me long to figure that out, nor long to get there. But if I'd been thinking straight, I would've chosen someplace else. Because five minutes after I arrived in my office, Anthony barreled in.

"Kendall!" There was relief in his voice. "Oh, my god!"

I turned to face him and the way he looked at me, I wondered what he saw. I knew he could see my swollen, red eyes, but could he see my busted heart, too? That's the part that I wanted him to see. I wanted to rip my blouse open, slash my skin, and show him my heart that I knew would never, ever be the same.

But with all of that in my mind, the only words that came out of me were, "How could you?"

He shook his head slowly, and that's when I noticed that his eyes were as puffed up as mine. I wondered why
—
it wasn't like he had any reason to hurt.

"Kendall," he said, "I'm so sorry."

But I didn't want to hear any apologies. I just wanted my answer. "How could you?" I asked him again through my sobs.

There was nothing but sorrow in his eyes, and I wanted to smack that out of him. "I'm sorry," he kept saying. "We can try to work through this
…
it was just this one time."

One time? So that was supposed to make a difference?

He said, "Please, Kendall. Please, let's try."

I said, "Why
…
why Sabrina? Why my sister?"

I had to do what I always did when I tortured myself with that memory. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to push all of that to the back of my mind.

But the memory was never far enough away. It stayed close enough to come back. Especially at Christmas when my father summoned me. For this talk.

It was only because I loved and respected him that I came when he called.

Pushing open the car door, I inhaled a deep breath of courage, then trotted up the three steps before I put my key in the front door. Before I turned the lock, I said a quick prayer asking God to make this short because I knew it wasn't going to be sweet.

"Daddy!" I yelled out the moment I stepped inside. "I'm here."

The sound of Michael Jackson's pre-teen voice played through the speakers in the living room.

Santa Claus is coming to town
…
.

I laughed out loud at the song that brought back so many memories. What was going on? I paused right at the door as I took in the sight in front of me with wonder. I'd just been here on Tuesday, but in the four days since we'd had our regular weekly dinner together, my father had turned his home into "Christmas Present."

From the time we were little kids, Dad always tried to get the biggest tree with the brightest lights. But this year, he'd done even more. Besides the six-foot tree that stood in front of the bay window, garland was draped across the four walls of the living room, and he'd even hung red felt stockings on the fireplace exactly the way he used to do when we were kids.

But it was the mistletoe swinging above the entryway between the living room and the kitchen that made me laugh out loud. Who had my dad been kissing? Now, I had a few questions for him, but whatever was going on, I wasn't going to be mad. Whatever it was that was making him fill his house with all of this cheer was all right with me.

"Baby girl? Is that you?"

My father had the kind of voice that I could listen to all night
—
whether he was talking or singing, it was always melodic. It always made me smile.

But then, I heard the slow, soft shuffles of his slippers sliding along the parquet hallway floor, and my smile faded quickly. He didn't move the way he used to, and the sound made me remember that my father was truly getting older.

When he appeared at the edge of the living room, I tried not to frown. Now, I'd just seen my father on Tuesday, and though I thought he'd lost a little weight then, I could really see it now. It was the way his bathrobe hung from his frame--like it was a size too big. And his shoulders were a little hunched over. That wasn't like him; he always stood so tall, so proud.

But I wasn't going to let him see any of my concern. "Hey, Daddy."

"Baby girl." First in the way he called me that and then in the way he hugged me, I had no doubt that my father truly loved me.

When my arms tightened around him, I could really feel his thinness. How much weight had he lost? And why was I just noticing that? Stepping back from his embrace, I asked, "How you doing, Daddy?"

He smiled, nodded. "I'm good."

"You seem like you've lost a little weight." I did my best to keep my concern out of my voice. "It must be all the working out you've been doing." I chuckled a little just to keep it light. But I really did want to know what was going on.

"Yeah, you know I love that elliptical thing that you got for me. I try to do it every day." He motioned toward the sofa. "Let's sit down."

I followed behind him and tried to do a measurement in my mind. My father was six-three, but right now, he didn't look close to six feet. Was he shrinking?

"I'm thinking maybe you're working out too much," I said. "Maybe you don't need to do it every day. You might need a day of rest."

He shook his head. "I don't have time to slow down, honey," he said as he sat in the chair across from me. "I'm an old man; I gotta do as much as I can right now."

I waved my hand like his words didn't mean anything. "You're not hardly old. Seventy-one is the new fifty-one."

That made him laugh out loud. "Well somebody needs to tell these old bones 'cause they don't know that they're twenty years younger."

"Whatever, you're not old!" I said it like those words were a demand. I wanted him to believe what I was telling him.

"How you doin', baby girl?" he asked, changing the subject. "Business good?"

"Yeah." This was a question that he asked me every time we got together.

And then he said, "Kendall," in that special way that meant that some serious business was about to be discussed. In that moment, I remembered
—
because I had surely forgotten
—
why my father had summoned me here.

Remembering now made me tense up, made me press my hands into my lap and try to hide the way my fingers had curled into fists.

"It's almost Christmas," my father said as if that were a news flash. "And then came the punch line. "I want us all to have Christmas dinner together this year."

It was amazing to me that my father's words hadn't changed since 2007. But then, I never changed my word either. "No!" That was it. That was simple. That's the way it was.

It was like my father didn't hear my
“
No!
”
He said, "You know how you've had dreams and gone after them your whole life, baby girl?" He stopped, turned and focused his eyes on the photos that crowded the mantel.

My father had just changed up the script, and that made me frown. This wasn't part of our normal talk.

He said, "Well, I have dreams, too," and turned back to face me. "This year, my greatest dream is that we all sit down at the table right there," he paused and pointed to the dining room table behind him, "and have Christmas dinner."

I pressed my lips together. I was really proud of myself; I'd gotten so much better at swallowing the first words that came to my mind
—
at least with my father. Six years ago, when he had invited me to that first dinner after Anthony and Sabrina's betrayal, I had jumped up and down, wailing the whole time. I shouted, I screamed, and then I stomped out of the house, completely insulted that my father had asked me to break bread with the likes of my sister.

But even though those emotions still rumbled inside of me, I kept my rage to myself.

Make no mistake, though, the years hadn't softened my heart. Every single time my father brought up Christmas, it made me think of the two people that I had once loved the most, but who now topped my enemies list.

But what woman wouldn't feel bad about: One
—
her sister sleeping with her husband. Two
—
her husband then leaving her. And three
—
her husband then marrying her sister.