The Hazards of Sleeping Alone (44 page)

Charlotte places two mugs on the table. Steam rises. She sits. Then, in fits and starts, Emily tells the story of what happened. Walter's proposal was exactly as Charlotte would have predicted: early morning light, a gentle snow, Walter down on one knee in the backyard. The perfect diamond glinting in its perfect wooden box. Emily pauses on certain details, her eyes filling. Charlotte just keeps nodding, much as the story breaks her heart.

“The ring, he—he said—” She stops, draws a breath. “He said it wasn't just for me. It was for me and the baby. And that's the part I keep going back to, you know? The whole way down here I just kept hearing those words over and over, and thinking of the baby, and how maybe it's selfish to not say yes. I kept thinking, did I do the right thing? Did I make a huge mistake? Why did I even say no anyway? It's like I didn't even think—all of a sudden I was shaking my head and I don't even know
why.
” She blinks and tears pool in her eyes. “Maybe it was just fear stopping me. Fear of, you know, leaping into a big decision. Maybe it was just the magnitude of the moment.”

There's a note of hope in her voice, and Charlotte is tempted to agree. To get her on the phone with Walter, encourage him to come down here. Amazing how two months ago his coming here bothered Charlotte so deeply. Now she wants nothing more than for Walter to walk through the door.

But she knows she must be honest. “I've known you a long time, honey,” Charlotte says. “And I would never describe you as a person who's fearful.”

Emily's face crumples a little. “True.”

“In fact, I'd say you
like
leaping into big decisions. Wouldn't you?”

“I guess.” Emily looks miserable. Her eyes are round, her voice genuinely bewildered. “But then why didn't I leap at this?”

Charlotte looks at her. For one of the first times in her life, her daughter is turning to her for insight. Not Joe, not Valerie, not one of her friends or roommates or books or brochures. She's looking to her mother as someone who knows more than she does, someone who can illuminate what she doesn't understand.

“Well,” Charlotte says tentatively, “I know you had your reasons. You never seemed—sure.”

“Do you think I did the wrong thing?”

“No.” Charlotte pauses. “I think you listened to your gut.”

“But that's just it.” Emily's eyes are glistening. “I
did
listen to my gut, so it's impossible to break it down into real reasons. Because it's like there
aren't
any. There's no reason I shouldn't marry Walter—I mean, we're different. I know we're different. But everybody's different. And when I look at the big picture, it just seems silly. I mean, we're having a baby together, so if we
can
be together, maybe we should be.”

Charlotte feels the pressure of words from her past. She hears Howard that first night in the restaurant:
I'd rather see my kids being cautious than jumping in if they're not as sure as they can be.
She sees Bea on the patio, her face soft, baffled, talking about men, about love.
It's okay to break up with a good guy. It's even okay to break up with someone you love.
But the last voice is unexpected.

“You know what your dad said to me the night he left?”

Emily looks as surprised to hear it as Charlotte. She shakes her head.

“He said—” Suddenly Charlotte is standing on those stairs again, facing Joe's slumped back, hearing his voice crack. “He had just told me that he was unhappy. In our marriage. And I said—well, I asked him about you. And he said, it's better that she's not raised by parents who don't love each other.”

For a moment, Emily seems to forget her own sadness. “Oh Mom.”

“Please,” Charlotte says, reaching for her teacup. “It was years ago.”

“But still—”

“Really. It's okay.”

Charlotte takes a sip of tea. Emily fingers the edge of her placemat, rolling it like a scroll. “But even if that's true,” she says, “why
don't
I love Walter? I mean, he's amazing. You think so, Joe thinks so. I mean, he
is.
And he loves me. After I said no, he started—” Her voice catches and she lets the placemat unfurl. “I'm telling you, Walter literally never cries. And it made
me
so sad to see
him
so sad, I thought—maybe I
do
really love him. Maybe that's what love means. Because, honestly—I can't imagine feeling worse for anyone in the world.” Her face is broken into a million desperate pieces. “He's just so good.”

Charlotte nods.

“There's no one in the world with a better heart,” Emily says.

Charlotte fixes on those spilled drops of red wine. She chooses her words carefully, much as it pains her to say them. “But that doesn't mean you have to be with him,” she says. “And it doesn't mean you have to be in love with him.”

Emily looks up at her with eyes wide, incredulous. “But how can that be?”

For a long moment they stare across the table, each watching
the other, waiting for an answer. But neither of them knows. Neither can claim to understand the heart's inner workings, its urges and impulses, flutters and leaps. It might be the most alike they've ever been.

When the phone rings, Charlotte jumps. “It isn't him,” Emily assures her. “I promise.”

Still, her pulse is thumping as she answers. “Hello?”

“Hello, um, Charlotte?”

The surge of comfort she feels hearing his voice almost takes her breath away.

“Oh—hello. Howard.” The name is for Emily's benefit. “Hi.”

“Are you in the middle of something? You sound a little—like you're in the middle of something.”

“No, not really. Just sitting here with Emily. Having a cup of tea.”

“Wow. They made good time, huh?”

“Well—yes. She did. Yes.”

Howard is silent for a beat. Then, “Oh Charlotte.”

She turns slightly so Emily can't see her face.

“They broke up?”

“Yes,” she says again, and the definitiveness makes her feel her face might break.

“I'm sorry.”

She nods into the phone, knowing that he means it. And as sad as she feels, it is tinged with consolation: with the knowledge that she has someone to sympathize with her, someone who realizes she's lost something too. Even though with Emily she must remain steady, later, with Howard, she can be as sad as she's feeling. What a comfort that is: having someone to share your sadness.

“Maybe you should stay home tonight,” he says.

Charlotte had been thinking the same thing, but doesn't want Emily to feel guilty. She chooses her words vaguely. “It might not be a bad idea …”

“Mom,” Emily snaps. “What are you doing?”

“Hold on,” Charlotte says, tucking the phone to her shoulder. “Honey, did you say something?”

“I said, what are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“You're not canceling your plans because of me, are you?”

“No. Well, yes. But not
because
of you. It's just that, well, it's getting late.”

“It's called Midnight Mass, Mom.”

“Right, I know. But the snow's getting bad. It really is. It's not a big deal.”

“Mom,” Emily says, “I saw your new dress. It
is
a big deal.”

Charlotte pauses for a moment, then stops pretending. “Fine,” she sighs. “Yes. It is a big deal. And yes I am staying home because of you. Of
course
I'm staying home. Do you really think I would leave you here alone tonight?”

“I'm not letting you stay.”

“But I want to—”

“No way.” Emily tosses her head from side to side. “I've worked too long and hard to get you out of this house to watch you pass up a hot date on my account.”

“But it's Christmas Eve!”

“All the more reason.” Then Emily smiles, her first real smile since she arrived. “I know you'd stay in a heartbeat if I asked you to, but I'm okay. Really. It might do me good to be alone. Maybe I'll take a bath or something … plus I want to call Joe to—you know.” She falters a little. “To tell him what happened.
So you have to go. At this point, it's the only thing that might redeem my Christmas Eve.”

“Charlotte?” Howard is saying.

“Yes.” Charlotte presses the receiver to her ear. “I'm here.”

“I was thinking.” He clears his throat. “Why don't I just stop by tomorrow sometime. I don't want to create problems. You should be at home tonight.”

“Well, actually,” Charlotte says, “I'm not allowed.”

“Oh?” He pauses. “Are you sure? Because to be honest with you, it's not even that great a Mass.”

“Em,” Charlotte whispers, lowering the phone. “He says it's not even that great a Mass.”

“It's kind of boring, actually,” he adds.

“He says it's kind of boring—”

But Emily is on her feet, marching across the kitchen, and snatches the phone from Charlotte's hand. “Hello, Howard? It's Emily. Listen. I've had a really shitty day, and I'm sick of thinking about my shitty day, and bottom line, we're running kind of low on men tonight.” She pauses, says, “Good,” and hangs up. “He'll be right over.”

Sliding into the unlocked position, the deadbolt is silent. The knob unfastens with only the faintest click. The key is eased out, the door inched open, the shoes slipped off and placed on the floor. Then the deadbolt is reset, the knob relocked, and the chain guided tenderly across its brass groove so the loose links don't touch the wall. Stocking feet mince across the tiles, are swallowed by the rug. They pause beside the couch and the sleeping form under a nest of blankets.

Emily is lying on her back, just as she always used to, bathed in the white lights of the Christmas tree. Behind the drapes, the
snow is silhouetted in the porch light, and the falling flakes comb the blankets with shadow. Charlotte leans down toward Emily's face. She can see the almost imperceptible rise and fall of the blanket, proof that she is breathing. Beneath it is her strong frame, and beneath that, a baby breathing her breath.

Charlotte straightens. From the distance, she hears Howard brushing off his car and has to smile. They'd stood whispering on her porch for so long fresh snow must have accumulated on his windows. As she turns from the couch, she notices the silk bathrobe has been dislodged from its box. Emily must have examined it—approvingly, she is sure. Then, tucked behind the tree stand, Charlotte spots the red box from the trunk. She feels her heart catch. In part because Walter sent it, and in part because Emily, seeing it was missing and despite her sadness, went and brought it inside.

Maybe it would be wise to open it now, alone. Charlotte steps quietly to the tree, reaches for the box and takes it to the kitchen. It is silent except for the dim buzz of the stove light, the refrigerator's electric hum. The ice shifts, once, as if rolling over in its sleep. Charlotte unwraps the gift almost soundlessly, not tearing the paper, gently peeling up the tongues of tape. What she finds inside isn't a box after all, but a plaque made of wood. Carved across the front are the words
Home Sweet Home.

Charlotte says a silent thank-you, then tucks her gift under her arm. She turns the lights off in the kitchen, the foyer. As she approaches her bedroom she can just make out, in the silvery overspill of light from the tree, something hanging from the doorknob. Squinting, she leans down to read it: an index card, attached by a glinting length of tinsel.
Howard is nice.
Charlotte smiles. She leaves the note hooked to the door, shuts it behind her, and within minutes is fast asleep.

S
he awakes to bright sunlight pouring through the window and a knot of excitement tingling in her chest. There's a vague feeling of importance about the morning, but it takes a few seconds to remember why. Then it clicks: April 12th. Emily's baby shower.

Slipping into her purple bathrobe, Charlotte gets the coffee started, opens up the kitchen blinds and tugs the windows up. The spring air is warm, sweet, tinged with the smell of cut grass. In the bathroom, she extracts her Noxzema from its spot in the medicine cabinet, next to Howard's silver razor. She'd told him he could have a whole shelf if he wanted, but he didn't want to “invade her space.” So he stored essentials only, all bought in the travel-size section of the drugstore: miniature bottles of Barbasol, aftershave, mouthwash.

These were minor invasions, relatively speaking. Because for the past month the world had been bombarding Charlotte from all sides. Phone ringing, Internet zapping, shower guests RSVPing with questions about what to bring, what to buy, was it a boy or a girl? “Girl,” Charlotte told them, then added, “but
no pink.” Dr. Joyce had confirmed the sex of the baby a few months ago; Emily's instincts had been right. Of course it was a girl, thought Charlotte, another girl in a lineage of girls, another girl to cause her mother worry and wonder.