Nell (51 page)

Eleven

It had been a perfectly beautiful Christmas.

Nell sat alone on Christmas night, curled up in her elephant robe on the living room sofa. The glittering debris of crumpled wrapping paper and cat-clawed ribbons littered the room, but Nell could ignore all that by keeping the room dark. The only light came in rhythmic sparks from the tiny multicolored bulbs that blinked from the Christmas tree and their reflection in all the windows of the room. It had snowed, and everything was silent now. Nell sat alone and felt as though she were in some cozy machine gliding through space, her voyage lighted by the fleet, brief flashes of stars.

She was sipping Baileys Irish Cream liqueur, a present from Cora Donne, the biology professor for whom Nell helped choose clothes at the boutique. This drink warmed Nell doubly. It was delicious, and it made her happy to know that she had helped Cora so much that the woman had wanted to express her gratitude in this way. Nell was not, then, completely without her little influences on the world, and this was as satisfying to her thoughts as the creamy liqueur was to her tongue.

It had been a good day, much different in tone from the previous day. Then Nell had worked frantically at the boutique, helping last-minute shoppers, and had come home exhausted to shepherd her children through Christmas Eve alone. Her parents had established certain rituals in their home, which made all the Christmas Eves of Nell’s childhood memory blend into one lovely time; Nell wanted to do the same for her children. She had served them a traditional Christmas Eve meal of vegetable soup and corn bread, then listened to records of carols by the fire, sipping eggnog and eating the cookies they had decorated last week. They had hung stockings, and Jeremy read Luke 2:1–20 from the Bible, and Hannah read “ ’Twas the Night before Christmas.” Nell let the children open one present each on Christmas Eve, so that they wouldn’t die of suspense before the twenty-fifth, and the children had taken their new presents and gone to bed fairly early, hoping that would make the morning come faster.

Nell had done the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen. When she was certain the
children were asleep, she became Santa Claus, setting up the goodies for the children to find the next morning. Usually she enjoyed this part of the evening, but this Christmas she had had to assemble a doll crib for Hannah and it had required almost more strength and mechanical ability than she possessed. She had been stumped, trying to get Part B into Slot B. When she finally did manage to get it in, it was only by breaking a fingernail off just below the quick. That hurt a lot. She had cursed softly, and tears had come to her eyes, and she had thought to herself, oh, why wasn’t some
man
there to help her? Then she had remembered that the man who by rights should have been there was Marlow, and he was never any good at that sort of thing and never interested in it anyway.

This year Marlow had completely forgotten the children’s Christmas again. He had gone off to some island for his vacation, to enjoy his once-again single state, and in that state he had forgotten the children. He had forgotten Clary as well as Hannah and Jeremy; and they were all used to it by now. The children almost didn’t think of their father at Christmas. Nell wished she could let it go, the memory—the false memory. Marlow had never been good at Christmas, and she was truly happier without him.

Still, Nell had been lonely on Christmas Eve, and lonely for her children’s sake. Sometimes it seemed to her that she just could not stretch enough to accommodate all her children’s needs and desires. It was a matter of energy, of joy. When she was happy, she expanded, so that an overflowing ease was in her mothering; when she was happy, there was more than enough of her to go around. But when she was sad, she felt her soul and energies become shriveled and stingy, so that it was hard work to be cheerful or creative or kind. And this Christmas Eve, she was sad, because she was not with Andy.

Andy had not wanted to come to Arlington for Christmas for all the usual reasons: the allergy to animals, the noise and chaos of the season in the city. It had been agreed between them that Nell would try to go to Nantucket for New Year’s Eve. They would exchange Christmas presents then. He had not thought to send anything to the children. Nell had gotten angry enough to think of him as an old Scrooge, to think she just would not see him ever again, when he had confused her by calling late on Christmas Eve to tell her he loved her and missed her. The sound of his voice had been sorcery. She had been enthralled. She had not known if she was happy or sad when she finally went to sleep.

Christmas morning had been a delight, with the children nutty with joy over their
presents. Nell had sat, sipping creamy coffee, listening to the carols that Jeremy insisted be played full blast, watching the children open their presents. Her parents had called from Iowa for a long Christmas Day conversation. The children had opened package after package—from Nell’s parents, from Nell, from Clary, from their friends. And Nell had fared well, too. She and Clary had not always exchanged Christmas presents, and Nell had not thought they would this year, because Clary had taken off for Michigan with Bob. But the day she left, Clary had stopped by with presents for the children and a big box for Nell.

“Don’t open it till Christmas,” she had instructed, and Nell had been glad to have that big red-foil-wrapped box sitting under the tree, waiting for
her
.

Inside the box, Nell discovered on Christmas morning, was a beautiful pair of white figure skates, just her size. It was a real extravagance of thought and expense on Clary’s part, and Nell was stunned. She took the skates out of the box and turned them around in her hands, looking at them, feeling the supple leather, the sharp bright blades.

“Oh, Mom, skates. Neat!” the kids said, then turned back to their own presents, not impressed. To them skates were just skates.

But to Nell this present meant all sorts of things. She had skated a lot as a child, but had not been out on the ice for years. She and Clary had talked about skating this summer, and Nell had confessed that she doubted if she’d ever skate again. What if I fell and broke an ankle or an arm? Who would take care of the children? she had said. Although I hate thinking that I’ll never skate again, she had told Clary. I used to love it so much, that feeling of effortless motion, that easy sweep and glide.

Now here were these skates from Clary, with a card saying, “Merry Christmas, Nell—now go on and glide.”

Nell had nearly cried, she was so touched by Clary’s thoughtfulness. She had put the skates back in the box and set it among her other presents—the soaps from the children (shell-shaped this year, to remind her of Nantucket), the perfume and check from her parents, the foil-wrapped liqueur from Cora Donne, the fruitcake from a neighbor. The skates were the nicest present she had received in years; Nell knew she could not resist using them. They seemed to have an almost symbolic power.

In the afternoon, she and the children had gone to the Andersons’ for Christmas
dinner. It had been hard to drag the children away from their loot, but once at John and Katy’s, they had been mesmerized by Teddy, the Andersons’ two-month-old baby, and when the infant had finally fallen asleep, Jeremy and Hannah had occupied themselves by playing with the multitude of baby toys Teddy had received, toys they could remember playing with themselves when they were tiny. While Teddy slept, everyone else exchanged presents, then ate an enormous Christmas dinner. It was a lovely evening, so sweetened by the Andersons’ friendship that when Nell and her children left to go to their own home, Nell felt only a slight twinge of envy and despair to see Katy and John standing there in the doorway, arms wrapped around each other in good company, two adults loving each other, while Nell led her children through the snow to her cold car.

Back at home, they had put on the Christmas tree lights again and lit a fire and sat around in the living room feeling fat and smug. The children’s favorite babysitter dropped by, all fresh and glowing, to exchange gifts with the children. Then Ilona and Phillip had made a surprise visit. They gave Hannah a beautiful porcelain doll with antique clothing; Nell shuddered to think how much the doll cost and what Hannah would do to it when she played with it. They gave Jeremy an enormous Capsela set. They gave Nell a cashmere sweater.

“Oh,” Nell had cried, “this is too much. I didn’t intend to exchange presents, Ilona, you knew that, we agreed on that.”

“Oh, Nell,” Ilona said, “be quiet. We wanted to do this. God knows we can afford it. It’s a real pleasure for us—don’t take the pleasure away by grunching around in some kind of unnecessary guilt!”

Nell had stared at Ilona over the wrapping-covered boxes. She knew that Ilona would never appreciate the realities of her own single life, knew that Ilona believed Nell liked wallowing—grunching around—in misery; and that thought made her irritated enough to accept the presents. They had brought champagne, too, and so they finished off the evening sipping champagne by the fire. Even Hannah and Jeremy were allowed small amounts of champagne in the good crystal glasses; it made a perfect finish to the day.

Now everyone was gone, and the children, exhausted from pleasure, had gone to bed. Christmas was officially over. The long school holiday stretched in front of them, when Nell would leave Jeremy and Hannah with their sitter during the day and get the
boutique ready for the New Year sale. And the new year would come.

How time slipped away, Nell thought, and not wanting to fall into one of her grunching around moods, she rose and put the new Elton John record—a present from the Andersons—on her stereo. Katy had wanted Nell to listen to “I’m Still Standing,” an upbeat song about surviving love. Nell thought the song would be great to exercise to, but the song she got hooked on this evening was “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues,” a song about being separated from a lover. Nell played it over and over again until she could sing along with the record. After a while, she began to cry. She put her head in her lap and sobbed. “Oh God, you dirty bastard,” she whispered into the Christmas night. “You really are going to let me live my life all alone, aren’t you?” The record finished playing and the stereo switched off automatically. Nell sat alone crying until she had to wander off into the kitchen to get tissues for her nose.

She knew that she would never love another man as she loved Andy. She never had before, she never would again. Whatever caused love, brought love, was a mystery and an unreachable thing. This much had happened to her—she had fallen truly in love with Andy—and that was beyond her control. Her only point of control in it all was in the choice to continue seeing him, knowing he would never say to her the words she wanted to hear—“I need to be with you, Nell. I choose you. Marry me”—or to stop seeing him because that knowledge hurt too much. She wanted to make the decision, needed to make it, needed the clean finality, the clarity it would bring to her life. But she did not know how to decide.

A beam of light crossed her living room windows, like a searchlight in the night. Nell went to her window and looked out, puzzled. A car had come into her driveway and parked; she saw a man getting out, his arms laden with presents. For one moment her heart leaped as hard and high as if she had been kicked. Then she realized that the man was a little too short to be Andy. She went to the door. It was Stellios.

“Merry Christmas,” he said. “Can I come in?”

“Of course, Stellios,” Nell said. She smiled and opened the door wide. “Come in. Merry Christmas.”

Stellios stomped the snow off his work boots, and shoving the presents under one arm, brushed snow off his shoulders and took off his wool cap. His dark hair fell tousled
around his face.

“I’ve been thinking all day about whether or not to come over and see all of you,” he said. “And now I suppose it’s too late and the kids are in bed.”

“Well, the kids are in bed,” Nell said. “And asleep. Wiped out, you know, from the excitement. But come in anyway. I’m drinking some yummy new stuff—let me give you some. Stellios, you shouldn’t have brought presents, really.”

They went into the living room as they talked and sat down side by side on the sofa. “I know, but I wanted to,” Stellios said. “I like giving gifts, especially to children. I bought Hannah a pretty doll. And Jeremy a book. Ripley’s
Believe It or Not
. Lots of neat facts in there. And this is for you.”

“Oh, Stellios, thank you,” Nell said, taking the present. It was a beautifully bound copy of
The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady
. Nell could tell how carefully Stellios had thought about these presents, these books, how he meant to show her he appreciated her as an intelligent, literate woman. She doubted if he ever read anything more demanding than the comics in the evening paper.

So this was a sweet and generous thing, this gift-giving of his, and as Nell poured Stellios a glass of creamy liqueur, she wished she could love him. He was a kind man; it shouldn’t matter that he didn’t read. He was certainly handsome enough. And he was not dumb. He had learned from experience, if not from books. When his fiancée had left him, dumped him, he had not grown bitter and hard like many people would, he had not come to hate all women, to want to hurt them in return for the hurt one woman had given him. No, he had learned compassion. He had learned gentleness or, more probably, had learned how to flow with the natural gentleness inside him. He was in so many ways a lovely man, and Nell wished right then more than anything in the world that she loved him. He made her feel so special; he had chosen to be with
her
this evening. She had met his relatives, his friends, his crowd; she knew that there were any number of women younger and more fun than she was that he could be with now. It was puzzling to her that Stellios would choose to be with her at all when he could be with someone whose stomach was taut, who would like his jokes, and who would not accidentally use words he didn’t quite understand. It was puzzling to her—but it was also flattering. It was irresistibly flattering.