Jeremy
I never would have opened the door
if I had any clue what would be behind it.
But I’ve been expecting a delivery. Band-Aids, courtesy of Amazon. I don’t even recall using any Band-Aids in
the last several months, but yesterday I needed one when I slipped with the
knife while trying to pry a bagel open, and they were all gone. Whenever I think I’ve finally got the hang of
cutting things one-handed, I end up with a nice gash on my hand to prove me
wrong. So I ordered Band-Aids. And also, a bagel guillotine.
Most people’s deliveries are left
with the doorman, who keeps them stashed in a closet behind his desk. Lucky for me, Luis the super is nice enough
to bring packages directly to my door. He
does that favor for me and four other people in the building. All of the other tenants who get their
packages hand-delivered are over the age of seventy. Certainly none of them are in their early
thirties like yours truly.
I’d tell him I’d get the damn
packages myself, but who am I kidding? I
can’t carry a box while I’m walking.
After six years of this, I’ve learned not to let my stupid pride get in
the way.
Most of the time.
So when I hear the doorbell ring, I
assume it’s Luis. I throw open the door without even checking the
peephole. Big mistake. One I will soon pay big time for.
Standing before me are three grade-school-aged
girls. Three girls, somewhere between
kindergarten and puberty, who look as surprised to see me as I am to see them. I assume these girls are my neighbors from
somewhere within the building, but damned if I’ve ever seen them before. That’s the problem with essentially being a
shut-in—I don’t know my neighbors.
Actually, it’s less of a problem and more of a fringe benefit.
The girls are dressed
identically. Identically and
impractically. It’s below freezing out
today, yet they’re each wearing green velvet dresses with short sleeves and red
trim. The girls each have their hair tied into identical pigtail braids with
the same red satin bows that trim their dresses. The middle girl is the tallest and blondest
of the three. She’s the prettiest too. I can almost see this girl ten years from
now, striking down any poor schmuck who dares to approach her. When she sees
me, she shoots a look at a tall woman in her early forties standing to the
side. The meaning of the look is
obvious:
Do
we have to do this?
The woman plasters a smile on her
face and thrusts a hand in my direction. “Hello!” she says in a fake cheerful
voice that grates on my nerves. “My name
is Luann Williamson and I live in 8F!”
Shaking hands. So easy for most people. You stick out your right hand, clasp the
other hand in front of you, and then it’s over.
Bada bing, bada bang. Most people
don’t even think about it.
My right arm doesn’t move. At all.
Not my hand, not my elbow, not my shoulder. When my right hip started moving again, the
doctors were hopeful for my arm, but nothing ever happened. Six months after an aneurysm burst in my
brain on Christmas Day, I was told the chances of ever regaining any movement
at all in my right arm were “slim to none.”
My right arm is useless. Completely and utterly useless.
I’ve gotten good at doing most
things one-handed, albeit with occasional injury. For the first year, I was seething with
resentment, but I’ve mellowed since then.
So I can’t cut a bagel without nicking a vein. So I can’t tie my shoelaces anymore. Eventually, you get over it and move on.
The truth is, I could deal just fine
with my right arm not being around to help me if the goddamn thing weren’t such
a liability. That’s what kills me.
For example, at the moment, instead
of lying quietly at my side, my right hand is clenched into a tight fist
pressed firmly against my chest, my elbow bent as far as it can go, at the
mercy of muscles I can’t control. It’s
hard to even put a shirt on when my arm is this tight. It looks painful, and trust me—it is.
It’s the cold weather that does it
to me. Not that the summer is any
picnic, but the winter is always especially awful for my muscles. Yet another reason to dread Christmas.
Since I opened the door, Luann Williamson
has been trying desperately to avoid staring at my arm. I could see it all over her face. Yet she
still stuck out her right hand for me to shake.
And now I have to deal with this situation.
I sigh and let go of the handle of
my crutch with my left hand to clasp her hand briefly, just so this awkward
moment can be over. Her cheeks color as
our hands make contact, and she’s quick to pull away. If I needed a reminder why I haven’t dated in
years, there it is.
Christ, why the hell are these
people at my door? Are they girl
scouts? Are they selling cookies? I don’t want cookies, but I’ll give them a
wad of cash to leave immediately.
“My daughter Katie and her friends
Liz and Brianna are singing carols for the holiday,” Luann Williamson explains
to me. She’s not meeting my eyes
anymore.
“Oh,” I say. “That’s nice.”
And then we stand there in
uncomfortable silence. It takes fifteen
minutes of silence before I get it.
These girls want to sing for
me. Christmas songs.
Is she kidding me?
“Luis suggested you might enjoy it,”
Luann Williamson adds.
Oh.
Okay, I get it now. Luis gave her
the names of me and the other building shut-ins who were likely to be home at
four in the afternoon on a Monday. He
didn’t do it to be a jerk. He probably
thought we all needed a bright spot in our day.
A little Christmas cheer.
Except I’m in the middle of working,
and I really really don’t have time
to listen to Christmas carols. I’m about
to explain that when the chubby little brunette on the end says to me, “What’s
your favorite Christmas song, Mister?”
I stare at her. “I don’t like Christmas songs.”
The dark-haired girl’s eyes
widen. “You don’t?”
She couldn’t have looked more
horrified if I admitted to her that I’m ninety-five percent sure the Santa at
the department store down the block is the homeless man I’ve seen sleeping on
our corner.
“No,”
I say in a voice that I hope does not invite further exploration of the topic. I glance at Luann Williamson. “I’m sure there are other people in the
building who would really enjoy this, but I’m working now. I’m very busy.”
“Yeah, let’s go,” the blond girl, Future Destroyer of Men, mutters under her
breath.
Go,
please go. I can’t stand here while
these three kids sing songs for me because they feel sorry for me. And about my
least favorite holiday.
Christmas. Taylor used to love Christmas.
That tree we had six years ago was
the last one that’s ever been in my home.
I wonder if Taylor’s got a new
tree. I wonder if she’s got presents
stacked under the tree for her new husband.
I wonder if they’re going to have sex on Christmas morning.
“My favorite is Rudolph the Red
Nosed Reindeer,” the dark-haired girl tells me.
“Ugh!” the blond girl huffs. “I hate that stupid song, Katie!”
“It’s funny,” the brunette, Katie,
insists. “You have to do it with the
funny lyrics.” She looks at me, her
brown eyes wide and earnest. Somehow she
reminds me of Taylor—what Taylor might have been like when she was a little
girl. “So after the lyrics, ‘Rudolph the
red-nosed reindeer had a very shiny nose,’ someone else would say—”
“Like a lightbulb,” I finish,
without meaning to. I spent a good year of my childhood singing that song. Rudolph
the red-nosed reindeer, you’ll go down in history—like George Washington!
When I was nine, that was the height of comedy.
I wish anything could make me
as happy now as that song made me when I was a kid.
Katie beams at me. “Yeah!
You know it?”
I didn’t mean to encourage her. But now it’s too late. This little girl is singing—singing her heart
out. She’s off-key but what she lacks in
pitch, she makes up in enthusiasm. She’s
belting out the most boisterous version of Rudolph I’ve ever heard while her
friends reluctantly sing along. It’s
cute—I’m not going to say it’s not cute.
But I’m not in the mood for this shit.
I’ve got a lot of work to do.
And even if I didn’t have anything
to do, I’m still not in the mood.
When they finish the song, Katie does
jazz hands. She looks really proud of
herself. The corners of my lips twitch,
almost smiling but not quite. It’s
possible I’ve forgotten how.
“Thanks,” I mutter. “Okay, well, goodbye—”
“What song would you like next?”
Katie asks me.
I look over at the blond girl, who
is twirling one of her braids around her finger, her blue eyes lifted
skyward. “God, Katie,” the girl says, “he doesn’t want any more songs. Let’s
just go.”
“But…” Katie juts out her little
chin. “We’re supposed to do three.”
I shake my head. “I’ve got work to do, so…”
“We’re supposed to do three,” Katie
insists.
“Look, I don’t—”
Her eyes brighten. “What about The Twelve Days of Christmas?”
No.
No. “I really don’t—”
“Katie, honey,” Luann says through
her teeth, “this man says he doesn’t want any more songs.”
“You said we’re bringing Christmas
cheer to people who don’t have friends and family,” Katie says pointedly. Well, she’s got my number. No friends, no family. Just me, my computer, a plant I keep
forgetting to water, and soon a bagel guillotine. “You said three songs, Mommy.”
Luann lets out a strangled
laugh. “Katie…”
“On the first day of Christmas,”
Katie begins, her clear voice ringing out through the hallway, “my true love
gave to me…”
Why is everything this week
straining the very limits of my patience?
I could have listened to one more quick song, but doesn’t this song have
like a million verses? Or at least… you
know, twelve verses? Which is a lot.
I don’t have time for this. And what’s more, my right leg is tightening
up to the point where I’m worried I won’t be able to stand much longer. I don’t want to face-plant in front of these
girls.
“I’m sorry,” I say, even as Katie is
still belting out the lyrics, “I really don’t have time to—”
“…a partridge in a pair tree…”
She’s not stopping. For Christ’s sake…
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
And then? I shut the door in her face.
Yes, I slam the door in the face of
a little girl. Who is trying to sing me
Christmas carols because I apparently have no friends or family. Two weeks before Christmas.
I’m worse than Mr. Wilson. I’m Scrooge.
But in my defense, “The Twelve Days
of Christmas” is a really fucking
long song.
Noelle
“Henry! Stop fiddling with your jacket!”
Walking home with my child from his
school five blocks away is an exercise in learning to control my temper. When I picked him up, he insisted he didn’t
want to wear his winter coat because it was “so hot.” After spending five minutes trying to
persuade him he couldn’t go out in a T-shirt in sub-freezing temperatures, I
decided to just go with it. I assumed
within one minute, Henry would crack and put the damn thing on.
After two blocks, Henry was still
happily walking along next to me in his T-shirt. My iPhone was reporting the temperature to be
twenty-nine degrees, but my child was somehow perfectly comfortable with no
coat or even sweater. Does he have some
problem with his temperature regulation?
Is his internal thermometer broken?
Is that a thing?
People were starting to give me some
serious dirty looks. One woman barked at
me that she was going to report me to Child Protective Services. Finally, I was the one who cracked. I shook Henry’s blue Cars-themed jacket in his face and barked, “You need to put this
on! It’s too cold!”
“I’m not cold!”
“I don’t care!”
Not my best parenting moment, that’s
for sure. And then once Henry put the
damn coat on, he couldn’t figure out the zipper. The cold wind slapped me in the face as I got
down on my knees to inspect the little zipper on Henry’s coat. I don’t understand why all the zippers on
children’s coats are dysfunctional. Is
that too much to ask for? A working
zipper?
Of course, two minutes after I got
it zipped, Henry had unzipped it because it was “so hot!”
By the time I get to our building,
I’m ready to climb into bed and hide under the covers for the next week. My job as the manager of a busy restaurant is
stressful enough, especially since one of the waitresses no-showed and I had to
sub in for her shift. I’m just lucky
they let me adjust my hours so I’d be able to leave early enough to pick up
Henry when his afterschool program ended.
At least the lobby is warm. The heat fills my cheeks and my fingers
tingle as the circulation starts back up.
Also, they’ve put up a Christmas tree in the lobby, which fills my chest
with a warm, good feeling. I love
Christmas. I mean, you pretty much have
to if you have a name like “Noelle.” We only have space in our tiny apartment
for a half-sized tree, but this one is full-sized or even plus-sized, lit with
multicolored bulbs and ornaments hanging off every branch. Unfortunately, they’ve pushed it all the way
to the side of the lobby so you can barely see it.
“Katie, honey, I’m sure he was just
really busy…”
I look over at the plush red couches
at the far end of the lobby, where there’s a little dark-haired girl in a
pretty green velvet dress, who is sobbing loudly while a woman attempts to
comfort her. Henry nudges me when he
sees them, “Mom, that’s Katie from school!”
He raises his hand at her. “Hi,
Katie!”
Before I can tell my son to leave
the poor girl alone, I’ve made eye contact with the woman comforting her. She shoots me a pained look, and I feel
obligated to go over there. After all, I
don’t know many people in the building yet.
I should probably try to make some friends. It seems like Greg got all our old friends in
the divorce.
“Is everything okay?” I ask. “Anything I can do to help?”
The woman rubs the little girl’s
back. “We had a caroling mishap.”
“I was just trying to do three
songs!” Katie bursts out.
The woman sighs and tucks her blond
hair behind her ear. “The girls were
trying to sing for this man on the fifth floor who… well, he was busy, I
guess. He shut the door in our face in
the middle of Katie singing.”
I gasp. “How awful!”
“We live on the fifth floor!” Henry
volunteers. He looks up at me, his eyes
widening. “Mom, I bet it was the mean
guy in 5B!”
“It was!” Katie exclaims, wiping
tears from her eyes. “It was 5B! He didn’t like our songs at all.”
“I hate that guy!” Henry exclaims.
“Henry,” I say sternly. “We don’t say ‘hate.’ That’s not a nice word.”
“Yeah, but he’s really mean!” My son
juts out his lower lip. “He slammed the
door on Katie while she was singing. That’s rude, right, Mom? And he was mean to me too!”
“Still,” I say.
The woman’s eyebrows are scrunched
together, so I tell her, “This guy heard Henry playing with his ball in the
hallway and threatened to take it away.”
“Oh wow!” She shakes her head. “That’s terrible. I’ve seen that guy around, and if I knew it
was his apartment… well, I certainly wouldn’t have knocked. He’s not
very friendly. I’ve shared an elevator
with him, and he doesn’t even say hello.
He just grunts if you talk to him.”
“Probably better to stay out of his
way.” I offer a smile. “By the way, I’m Noelle. My son and I just moved in to 5H.”
I reach out my hand and the woman
clasps it in her own as she smiles at me.
She seems nice. I want to make
some new friends. I don’t want to admit how desperately lonely I’ve been in the
last year.
“I’m Luann,” she says. “Katie is my youngest—I’ve got an older son
too. We live in 8F. Welcome to the building.” Her smile widens. “A few grouches aside, it’s a nice place to
live.”
“I love the Christmas tree.” My eyes
go back to the large tree at the far end of the lobby. It’s really beautiful. It reminds me of the trees we used to have
when I was growing up, before I was relegated to tiny apartments in the city. “Why does it have to be all tucked away back
there though?”
“I know!” Luann cries. “I was thinking the same thing!”
The doorman, Joe, is flipping
through a magazine at his desk. Joe is
always reading or fiddling with his phone or dozing off. I feel like at the price we’re paying to live
here, he should be constantly at attention like those guards in front of
Buckingham Palace. I stride over to the desk and clear my throat until he looks
up.
“Oh, hi, Ms. Moore,” he says. “What’s up?”
“That tree.” I point to it with my
embarrassingly bitten fingernails. My
bad habit is really getting out of control.
I hope Luann doesn’t see. “Is
there any way we could have it moved so that it’s where people can actually see it?”
“I
can see it,” Joe says.
Helpful. Very helpful.
Katie has stopped crying and joined
my son to admire the tree up close. Just
looking at that tree makes me tear up.
Honestly, this holiday has been rough for me—it’s the first Christmas
since my divorce. But it’s funny how
something simple like a beautiful Christmas tree could make me remember there
are still things I enjoy in life, even if my ex is a total wanker.
I’m going to enjoy this
holiday. In spite of Greg.
“You could move it right there,”
Luann suggests, pointing to a spot more central in the lobby. “That would be a much better spot.”
“There’s no outlet there.” Joe
shrugs. “Gotta plug the tree in, right?”
Luann raises her eyebrows. “You don’t have an extension cord?”
I have to hand it to Luann. She doesn’t let up until Joe digs out a huge extension
cord that traverses the length of the lobby and repositions the tree in a more
central location. Luann steps back to
admire it.
“That’s so much better!” she
exclaims.
Joe looks doubtfully at the tree,
then down at the extension cord.
“Someone could trip on this cord.”
Luann snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a tiny little extension cord.”
I’m not so sure. It does seem possible someone could trip on
that cord, but Joe finally shrugs and leaves it as it is. I suppose if he thinks it’s okay and so does
Luann, it’s probably fine.
Oh No. I cannot wait for one week to read the next chapter. Impossible!!! This is soooo good.
ReplyDeleteThank you! I really appreciate you commenting. Whenever I write something new, I always get nervous people won't like it, especially when it isn't a story about a paraplegic.
DeleteHe just needs the love of a good woman. Can't wait for them to meet.
ReplyDeleteTc
Next time! But it won't be how you think...
DeleteThis is great! An actual grinch, isn't he? I find it funny because Luann is a male name in brazilian portuguese and I struggled so much to imagine Luann as a woman LOL Thanks for posting, annabelle! We really appreciate it.
ReplyDeleteI was actually considering changing Luann's name because the super is Luis, so it's too many Lu's....
DeleteOne week to wait for the next chapter?? Again??? This is torture!! :)
ReplyDeletePoor Jeremy - now we know why he hates Christmas... You show Jeremy's internal struggles with not-wanting-to-appear-grinch so well - he really has his reasons to act the way he does although it looks rough on the outside. And to his defense - he actually says "I'm sorry" repeatedly!! And you know, you can't expect people to have time for them when you pop in out of the blue even with the best intentions to do something good for them!! However, I do understand children's logic and THEY really may not see it this way!
I like it how you depict children in your stories - they are cute on the one hand and exasperating in their behaviour on the other.
This chapter had actually so many sad or bittersweet moments: people trying to be nice to each other versus sad reality that messes up the best intentions. This line: "I’m worse than Mr. Wilson. I’m Scrooge." killed me inside on this front.
The heart-wrenching moments also apply to Noelle's part: you depict it convincingly how she does her best to bring up a young boy but is deeply sad and lonely inside.
So, a great story (again) and can't wait to have the main characters meet! (Which I guess won't be very positive in the beginning which means that it will take some more chapters to see things getting better...)
Thank you, Annabelle!
Wow, thank you so much for that thoughtful comment. It's definitely going to have a lot more heart-wrenching moments as the story continues.
DeleteOh, this just gets better and better! Can't wait to see more of this entertaining story. Thanks for sharing with us.
ReplyDeleteThanks for your lovely comment, as always, Pepper!
DeleteI love this! And gee, I wonder who might trip on that cord... :P Can't wait for the next chapter!
ReplyDeleteAlso, did you mean 15 seconds of silence instead of minutes? Minutes seems a little much... "It takes fifteen minutes of silence before I get it."
DeleteThanks... I wonder too! ;)
DeleteAnother great chapter. I'm excited for Noelle and Jeremy to meet...but I'm guessing it may not go very well. Thanks so much for sharing your stories!
ReplyDeleteIt will actually go better than you think ;)
Deleteooh, can't wait for the meeting, But I also suspect it's not going to go smoothly.
ReplyDeleteI always love your characters, they are so real and believable.
Thank you!!!
DeleteLove everything you write, can't wait for the next chapter!
ReplyDeleteI'm busy posting it now!
DeleteI can imagine the problem he will have with the extension cord!
ReplyDeleteThanks for the new story Annabelle! I'm sad when you're insecure; you have tremendous talent!!
ReplyDelete