Miracle (16 page)

W
ell, aren’t you going to open it?” Suzy demanded. Barbara obediently pulled off the red-and-green-plaid bow, bracing herself for the twinge of disappointment she always felt when she opened Christmas presents.

“I always just tear the paper, Aunt Barbara,” Suzy said. “I picked out this present all by myself. I knew what you wanted from the Macy’s parade when your hands got so cold.”

Barbara got the package open. Inside was a pair of red-and-purple striped mittens. “It’s just what I wanted. Thank you, Suzy,” she said. She pointed at the pile of silver boxes under the tree. “One of those is for you, I think.”

Suzy dived under the tree and began digging through the presents.

“She really did pick them out all by herself,” Ellen whispered, a smile quirking the corners of her mouth. “As you could probably tell by the colors.”

Barbara tried on the mittens. I wonder if Joyce got gloves, she thought. At her last session Joyce had told Barbara that her mother always got her gloves, even though she hated gloves and her mother knew it. “I gave one of my patients
your phone number,” Barbara said to Ellen. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Just a little,” said her sister. Barbara clenched her mittened fists.

Suzy dumped a silver box with a large blue bow on it in Barbara’s lap. “Does this one say ‘To Suzy’?” she asked.

Barbara unfolded the silver card. “It says ‘To Suzy from Aunt Barbara.’” Suzy began tearing at the paper.

“Why don’t you open it on the floor?” Ellen said, and Suzy snatched the package off Barbara’s lap and dropped to the floor with it.

“I’m really worried about this patient,” Barbara said. “She’s spending Christmas at home with an unhappy, domineering mother.”

“Then why did she go home?”

“Because she’s been indoctrinated to believe that Christmas is a wonderful, magical time when everyone is happy and secret wishes can come true,” Barbara said bitterly.

“A baseball shirt,” Suzy said happily. “I bet now those boys at my preschool will let me play ball with them.” She pulled the pin-striped Yankees shirt on over her red nightgown.

“Thank goodness you were able to find the shirt,” Ellen said softly. “I don’t know what she would have done if she hadn’t gotten one. It’s all she’s talked about for a month.”

I don’t know what my patient will do either, Barbara thought. Ellen put another red-and-green package in her lap, and she opened it, wondering if Joyce was opening her presents. At Joyce’s last session she had talked about how much she hated Christmas morning, how her mother always found fault with all her presents, saying they didn’t fit or were the wrong color or that she already had one.

“Your mother’s using her presents to express the dissatisfaction she feels with her own life,” Barbara had told her. “Of course, everyone feels some disappointment when they open presents. It’s because the present is only a symbol for what the person really wants.”

“Do you know what I want for Christmas?” Joyce had said as though she hadn’t heard a word. “A ruby necklace.”

The phone rang. “I hope this isn’t your patient,” Ellen said, and went into the hall to answer it.

“What does this present say?” Suzy said. She was standing holding another present, a big one with cheap, garish Santa Clauses all over it.

Ellen came back in, smiling. “Just a neighbor calling to wish us a merry Christmas. I was afraid it was your patient.”

“So was I,” Barbara said. “She’s talked herself into believing that she’s getting a ruby necklace for Christmas, and I’m very worried about her emotional state when she’s disappointed.”

“I can’t read, you know,” Suzy said loudly, and they both laughed. “Does this present say ‘To Suzy’?”

“Yes,” Ellen said, looking at the tag, which had a Santa Claus on it. “But it doesn’t say who it’s from. Is this from you, Barbara?”

“It’s ominous,” Suzy said. “We had ominous presents at my preschool.”

“Anonymous,” Ellen corrected, untaping the tag and looking on the back. “They had a gift exchange. I wonder who sent this. Mom’s bringing her presents over this afternoon and Jim decided to wait and give her his when she goes down there next weekend. Go ahead and open it, honey, and when we see what it is, maybe we’ll know who it’s from.” Suzy knelt over the box and started tearing at the cheap paper. “Your patient thinks she’s getting a ruby necklace?” Ellen said.

“Yes, she saw it in a little shop in the Village, and last week when she went in there again, it was gone. She’s convinced someone bought it for her.”

“Isn’t it possible someone did?”

“Her family lives in Pennsylvania, she has no close friends, and she didn’t tell anybody she wanted it.”

“Did you buy her the necklace?” Suzy said. She was tearing busily at the Santa Claus paper.

“No,” Barbara said to Ellen. “She didn’t even tell me about the necklace until after it was gone from the shop, and the last thing I’d want to do would be to encourage her in her mother’s neurotic behavior pattern.”

“I would buy her the necklace,” Suzy said. She had all the paper off and was lifting the lid off a white box. “I would buy it and say, ‘Surprise!’”

“Even if she got the necklace, she’d be disappointed in it,” Barbara said, feeling obscurely angry at Suzy. “The necklace is only a symbol for a subconscious wish. Everyone has those wishes: to go back to the womb, to kill our mothers and sleep with our fathers, to die. The conscious mind is terrified of those wishes, so it substitutes something safer—a doll or a necklace.”

“Do you really think it’s that ominous?” Ellen asked, the corners of her mouth quirking again. “Sorry, I’m starting to sound like Suzy. Do you really think it’s that serious? Maybe your patient really wants a ruby necklace. Didn’t you ever want something really special that you didn’t tell anybody about? You did. Don’t you remember that year you wanted a pony and you were so disappointed?”

“I remember,” Barbara said.

“Oh, it’s just what I wanted!” Suzy said so breathlessly that they both looked over at her. Suzy pulled a doll out of a nest of pink tissue and held it out at arm’s length. The doll had a pink ruffled dress, yellow curls, and an expression of almost astonishing sweetness. Suzy stared at it as if she were half afraid of it. “It is,” she said in a hushed tone. “It’s just what I wanted.”

“I thought you said she didn’t like dolls,” Barbara said.

“I thought she didn’t. She didn’t breathe a word of this.” Ellen picked up the box and rustled through the pink tissue paper, looking for a card. “Who on earth do you suppose sent it?”

“I am going to call her Letitia,” Suzy said. “She’s hungry. I’m going to feed her breakfast.” She went off into the kitchen, still holding the doll carefully away from her.

“I had no idea she wanted a doll,” Ellen said as soon as she was out of sight. “Did she say anything when you took her to Macy’s?”

“No,” Barbara said, wadding the wrapping paper in her lap into a ball. “We never even went near the dolls. She wanted to look at baseball bats.”

“Then how did you know she wanted a doll?”

Barbara stopped with her hands full of paper and plaid ribbon. “I didn’t send her the doll,” she said angrily. “I bought her the Yankees shirt, remember?”

“Then who sent it to her?”

“How would I know? Jim, maybe?”

“No. He’s getting her a catcher’s mitt.”

The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” Barbara said. She crammed the red paper into a box and went into the hall.

“I just had to call you!” Joyce shouted at her. She sounded nearly hysterical.

“I’m right here,” she said soothingly. “I want you to tell me what’s upsetting you.”

“I’m not upset!” Joyce said. “You don’t understand! I got it!”

“The ruby necklace?” Barbara said.

“At first I thought I hadn’t gotten it and I was trying to be cheerful about it even though my mother hated everything I got her and she gave me gloves again, and then, when almost all the presents had been passed out, there it was, in this little box, all wrapped in Santa Claus paper. There was a little tag with a Santa Claus on it, too, and it said ‘To Joyce.’ It didn’t say who it was from. I opened it, and there it was. It’s just what I wanted!”

“Surprise, Aunt Barbara,” Suzy said, feeding a cookie shaped like Santa Claus to her doll.

“I’ll wear the necklace to my next session so you can see it,” Joyce said, and hung up.

“Barbara,” Ellen’s voice called from the living room. “I think you’d better come in here.”

Barbara took hold of Suzy’s hand and walked into the living room. Ellen was wrestling with a package wrapped in gaudy Santa Claus paper. It was wedged between the Christmas tree and the door. Ellen was behind it, trying to straighten the tree.

“Where did this come from?” Barbara said.

“It came in the mail,” Suzy said. She handed Barbara her doll and clambered up on the couch to get to the small tag taped on top.

“There isn’t any mail on Christmas,” Barbara said.

Ellen squeezed past the tree and around to where Barbara was standing. “I hope it’s not a pony,” she said, and the corners of her mouth quirked. “It’s certainly big enough for one.”

Suzy climbed back down, handed Barbara the tag, and took her doll back. Barbara held the tag a little away from her, as if she were afraid of it. It had a Santa Claus on it. It read “To Barbara.” The present was big enough to be a pony. Or something worse. Something only your subconscious knew you wanted. Something too frightening for your conscious mind to even know it wanted.

“It’s an ominous present,” Suzy said. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

M
arley was dead: to begin with.

Dickens’s story,
A Christmas Carol
, however, of which the aforementioned is the first sentence, is alive and well and available in any number of versions. In the books department of Harridge’s, where I work, we have nineteen, including
Mickey’s Christmas Carol, The Muppet Christmas Carol
, the CuddlyWuddlys’
Christmas Carol
, and one with photographs of dogs dressed as Scrooge and Mrs. Cratchit.

We also have an assortment of
Christmas Carol
cookbooks, advent calendars, jigsaw puzzles, and an audiotape on which Captain Picard of the American television series
Star Trek: The Next Generation
takes all the parts.

All of these are, of course, adaptations, shortened and altered and otherwise bowdlerized. No one reads the original, though we carry it, in paperback. In the two years I’ve worked here, we’ve only sold a single copy, and that to myself. I bought it last year to read to my daughter, Gemma, when I had her for Christmas, but then I did not have time to do so. My ex-wife, Margaret, came to pick her up early for a pantomime she and
Robert were taking her to, and we only got as far as Marley’s ghost.

Gemma knows the story, though, in spite of never having read it, and the names of all the characters, as does everyone. They are so well-known, in fact, that at the beginning of the season this year Harridge’s management had suggested the staff dress in costume as Scrooge and Tiny Tim, to increase profits and “provide a seasonal atmosphere.”

There was a general outcry at this, and the idea had been dropped. But on the morning of the twenty-second when I arrived at work, there was a figure in a floor-dragging black robe and a hood standing by the order desk with Mr. Voskins, who was smiling smugly.

“Good morning, Mr. Grey,” Mr. Voskins said to me. “This is your new assistant,” and I half-expected him to say, “Mr. Black,” but instead he said pleasedly, “the Spirit of Christmas Future.”

It is actually Christmas Yet to Come, but Mr. Voskins has not read the original either.

“How do you do?” I said, wondering if Mr. Voskins was going to demand that I wear a costume as well, and why he had hired someone just now. The books department had been shorthanded all of December.