The Hazards of Sleeping Alone (43 page)

“You know,” Linda said, seemingly to herself, “I was in line at a fast-food place the first time I really stood up for myself. It was a Wendy's, and I had Rachel with me, she couldn't have been more than four or five. We were waiting in line and this man shoved in front of us.” She turned back to Charlotte and smiled faintly. “The thing is, if I had been alone, I probably wouldn't have had the guts to say anything, but he shoved in front of Rachel, so I did. I had to. That was my job.” A glimmer of pain stole across her face, so quick it might not have been there at all. “It was my job to keep her safe.”

That night, Charlotte hung the three Christmas stockings in a row across her mantel. She liked the way they caught the faint glow of the moonlight, the names glittering like the surface of new snow. She walked over to the sliding glass door and looked outside. The cold was visible, the whole world bleached and bald: the grass patchy, branches stark, even the glass-topped table looked frosted. Charlotte nudged the door open and hugged her shoulders. The air was so cold it burned her throat. It hurt to breathe. And when she paused to listen, the world was strangely silent, as if even sound had frozen, bracing itself for what was to come.

By Christmas Eve the snow has started falling. By noon there is a dusting; by late afternoon, an inch or two. Charlotte keeps the news on, the weather reporters giving continuous updates from beneath their fur hats and coats. Thankfully, despite their dramatic graphics, the snow doesn't appear to be falling too hard. It doesn't have the single-mindedness of a serious storm; the flakes take their time finding the ground, swirling and eddying like the inside of a snow globe. Charlotte had called Emily and Walter the day before to be sure they knew the forecast, and Emily assured her everyone in New Jersey was a wimp and living in New England had made them winter weather professionals.

Meanwhile, Charlotte has kept herself busy making Unit L1 the most tastefully festive in all of Sunset Heights. While some of her neighbors propped gaudy blinking ornaments on their front lawns, she placed a simple white light in each window. She bought poinsettias for the foyer, a green pillar candle for her coffee table (yuletide scent). Her refrigerator is chock-full of ingredients for tomorrow's Christmas breakfast: eggnog, cheese-broccoli bake, cranberry walnut muffins. The bottom drawers clank when opened, packed with cans of rootbeer and bottles of Sam Adams (she took the liberty of upgrading the Summer Ale to Winter Lager). There's even new coffee for Walter, a Christmas Blend Charlotte picked up at the mall.

Under the tree she's piled the gifts from Joe and Valerie, wrapped in shimmery, iridescent paper or pulpy gift bags made of pressed flowers. Charlotte's presents are wrapped in grinning reindeer, the stockings above the fireplace filled to bursting. On Dunleavy Street, even after Emily was in college, Charlotte had gone through the motions of bringing out the gifts after she was asleep. But since Emily and Walter would be sleeping practically under the tree tonight, this ritual seemed, at last, impractical.

Charlotte's present from Bea is displayed under the tree too; they'd exchanged gifts the night before, as Bea was leaving for the dreaded three-day Christmas extravaganza at Mrs. Dunne's. “This is what you get,” she groused, but happily. “Decide to marry a man and you're stuck with his mother on Christmas Day.”

Charlotte gave Bea a set of jangly bracelets, which she immediately shoved halfway up her arm. Bea gave Charlotte a new bathrobe: silky purplish-pink with a V-neck that plunged much deeper than she was used to. “No offense, Char,” Bea said, “but that old orange thing you wear could be in a museum for the single woman. You need to upgrade. Howie'll be sleeping over before you know it.”

Charlotte and Howard hadn't yet had a “sleepover,” but they were spending more and more time together. Sometimes they went out, to dinner or a movie. Weeknights they often stayed in and Charlotte cooked; it was nice having someone to cook for. She even liked having someone else's needs to be aware of as she browsed the supermarket or searched the Internet for recipes with low cholesterol. Howard began to enjoy watching
Jeopardy!
or at least pretend he did. He was good at the history and geography; Charlotte was good at 10-Letter Words and Potent Potables. Last week, Howard made lunch for Charlotte and his daughter Meg—an attempt to prove to them both he wasn't hopeless in the kitchen. Unfortunately, the experience wasn't too reassuring. He made tacos from a kit, consulting the back of the box an inconceivable number of times, and broke most of the shells as he stuffed them. “Fuddy Daddy,” Megan sighed, as she and Charlotte exchanged cringes. Ultimately, though, Howard served the meal wearing a sombrero, which was so uncharacteristically absurd they gave him an A± for effort. Tonight, Charlotte is invited to Midnight Mass at Howard's church. Emily
and Walter are scheduled to arrive around nine, which will give her just enough time to fix them something to eat before he picks her up.

For now, Charlotte watches the snow. The low urgency of the weather reporters leaks in from the living room, but the flakes floating past the kitchen window look nonchalant, unfocused. She lets her gaze slide to the dried flowers hanging on the wall, and smiles: Howard's daisies. She hadn't wanted to throw them out, even after they began to shrivel, so Emily had explained how to dry flowers by stringing them upside down. The bouquet rebelled at first, and for two days Charlotte was sweeping up leathery white petals and bright yellow dust from her kitchen floor. But now, the flowers seem to have adjusted to their role in the decor, like something in a magazine spread on rustic country kitchens.

Her eyes are drawn back to the window. This snowfall has the same casual, seemingly oblivious quality as the one she watched out the window of her doctor's office, more than twenty years ago, the winter day she found out she was pregnant. Charlotte had sat staring at it long after the nurse left the room, amazed that these two things could be happening simultaneously: a baby growing inside her and, outside, this light, almost whimsical flurry. She'd been alone that afternoon, and somehow the quality of the snow made her feel more so. But, Charlotte thinks now, she hadn't needed to be alone. She had suspected what was wrong when she made the appointment, could have asked Joe to cancel class, but she hadn't told him anything. Not that she had an appointment, not even that she was late. And despite this, she'd felt angry at him for not being there. Which was unfair, of course. The fact was—that day, and many days since then—Charlotte's aloneness was something she had chosen.

The whiteness before her eyes begins to blur. Charlotte feels suspended between two snowfalls, two windows, two young pregnant women, two bouquets of daisies. For it was daisies Joe brought her the day Emily was born—at least, she thinks they were. If she closes her eyes she can almost see them poking from the top of their plastic bag, white with a red drugstore logo, cinched at the top with Joe's yellow necktie in a makeshift bow. But the flowers themselves are vague; those she can't quite remember. She should, she thinks—and yet, how young she was. A wife for almost two years, but only slightly older than Emily is now. Whenever Charlotte remembers her marriage, she pictures herself an awkward adult, but in reality, she wasn't much more than a child.

She looks at the oven clock. Not even six. No point sitting here making herself more worried. She could be getting out the sheets and towels. Slicing fruit for tomorrow. Ironing the new dress she bought for tonight. She heads to her bedroom closet and is unsheathing the dress from its clingy plastic when she hears a knock. Pauses. It's too early for Emily and Walter. She wonders if it's Bea—maybe she and Bill had a fight over his mother. Or Howard—would he have come early to surprise her? More likely it was one of her neighbors coming to wish her a Merry Christmas. She'd spotted Ruth O'Keefe earlier, trotting across the lawn with Ernie strapped into what looked like antlers. The knock sounds again. With a pinch of annoyance, Charlotte hooks the dress to her closet, marches into the foyer, unlocks the door, and Emily bursts into tears.

Charlotte opens her arms as her daughter falls into them. “Ssshhh,” she says, a pure reflex: no questions, just comfort. Emily's body goes limp as she cries into Charlotte's shoulder,
deep, shuddering sobs. “Ssshhh,” Charlotte repeats, “ssshhh,” over and over. She strokes Emily's hair, damp with snow. She gazes over the top of her head at the station wagon silhouetted against the pearl-white sky. The car flashes an unnatural green, red, green, red, reflecting the blinking reindeer on a neighbor's front lawn. But other than that, there is no movement. No Walter opening up the trunk. No Walter walking toward them with gifts in his arms. Emily is alone.

Gradually, Charlotte feels her daughter's body taking shape again: muscles firming, breaths growing even, sobs reduced to sniffles and the occasional ragged breath. When Emily disentangles herself, her face is a mess of tears, runny nose, melted snowflakes dripping down her forehead from her hairline, but she doesn't seem to notice.

“He proposed.”

Charlotte nods. She holds her daughter's face in both hands.

“Last night. He—he wanted to do it before we came. He wanted us to tell everybody on Christmas. He—he got down on one knee—”

She starts to cry again. “Oh honey,” Charlotte says, pulling her in, murmuring into her hair. “I'm so sorry.” From behind them, the weather reporters continue droning. A spasm of music eases into a commercial. Through the open front door, a sharp gust scatters the foyer with snow.

Charlotte draws back to look into Emily's face. “Why don't you get out of those wet clothes,” she says, tracing a thumb under each wet eye. “And we'll talk. Okay?”

“Okay,” Emily hesitates, sniffling. “But my stuff 's in the—”

“I'll go get it. It's freezing.” Charlotte reaches behind them to shut the door. “You stay inside.”

As Emily sloughs off her coat and boots, Charlotte sets the water on to boil. She pockets Emily's thick, clotted keyring—wondering, briefly, what all these keys could possibly unlock—and heads outside. The snow is up to her ankles. It must be cold, but she doesn't feel it. The station wagon is parked at an odd angle, slicing across the spot. Charlotte can't help but picture how Emily must have flown down the highway, wipers flapping, tears mixing with snow, then swung into the parking lot, barreled over the speed bumps and jerked to a stop.

Charlotte shrugs off the image, opens up the trunk. Inside are a lumpy duffel bag, spiral notebooks, Nalgene bottles, reams of pastel construction paper, a scattering of gifts. Each gift is covered in Emily's trademark homemade wrapping: pages from magazines, theater playbills, construction paper decorated with stickers or stars. In a far corner, Charlotte spots one that looks different: a square box, neatly wrapped in red paper.
To: Charlotte,
the tag says.
From: Walter.
A pressure lands on her heart. Tears squeeze from her eyes, but she blinks them back. Now isn't the time. She shoulders the duffel and scoops up Emily's presents, but leaves the one from Walter where she found it.

In the kitchen, Emily is looking slightly better. Her eyes are red, but her face is rubbed dry. She's wearing a gray wool sweater that hangs almost to her knees. Charlotte wonders if it's Walter's.

“I turned off the TV,” Emily says. “The weather people were driving me crazy.”

“Oh, I know.” Charlotte deposits the duffel on the couch. “So overdramatic, aren't they?”

“Plus, I'm here.” Emily smiles wanly. “So you can stop worrying.”

Charlotte manages a smile back but the truth is, she feels
nothing but worry. This, she thinks, is her daughter.
Her
daughter. Not another mother's story, but her own. This is her daughter who once seemed so invincible, now huddled in a chair, drowning in a shapeless sweater, tear-streaked, pregnant, and most of all, alone.