Some Women (12 page)

“The best decisions rarely are. But you're stronger than you think.”

“I don't feel strong.”

“Well, you are. I can see it.”

“What if you find something? You're going to fill me in, right?”

“Absolutely. As long as it's concrete. I will not let speculation stunt your progress.”

“Has anyone ever told you you're wise beyond your years?”

“That would make me—what? About as smart as you are?” Mackenzie smirked.

“Oh, you little bitch!”

“Perhaps. But you'll be thanking this bitch in no time!”

They laughed together, and Annabel noticed that the tight grip on her heart was gradually beginning to release.

Every year, without fail, Christmas snuck up on Piper like a mugger in a dark alley, thudding her over the head with the reality that she hadn't given a moment's consideration to buying a tree, stringing lights, hanging ornaments and stockings, or even what she was going to buy for Fern or Todd. Fortunately, Todd had ignored her overture that they all find a time to pick out a tree together. Instead, he'd said he was going to take Fern with him—just Fern. Maybe they could make it an annual ritual. This sentiment had imbued Piper with hope. And when Fern had willingly agreed to accompany Todd without her, Piper had felt that
finally
things could be turning around. After all, it was the season for forgiveness and family. So what if their family didn't fill the traditional mold?

In the past few weeks, Fern hadn't spoken much of her father. On the heels of the cryptic note she'd left in Piper's office, Fern had
come to explain that she'd found Max on Facebook via one of his third cousins, whom she'd located through a website that tracked genealogy. She'd admitted to opening a Facebook account, despite the fact that she was legally too young to have one, and writing him a message, which—to her profound disappointment—he had not returned. Like mother, like daughter. Wasn't it natural for Fern to want to follow in Piper's professional footsteps, since she'd spent years accompanying her on work assignments? On the one hand, Piper was proud that Fern had made use of her innate investigative instincts to track down Max, and she knew those inherited skills were important to Fern—though perhaps not as important as luring her father back into their lives.

Piper had assumed she'd feel relieved by the reliability of Max's failure to reply to Fern. That it would be some sort of unspoken
I told you so
, after having been cast as the eternal cynic in Fern's eyes. But she'd derived no pleasure from watching her daughter's expectation wilt into sorrow once she'd realized that he was never going to answer her. Instead, Piper had felt indignant. Resentful. And protective. It was one thing to walk out on her, but to leave a child behind like this was not okay. It never would be. Yet it was Piper who'd been expected to pick up the pieces and to make sure that those pieces didn't come unglued.

Piper had asked Fern if she wanted to talk about it. About him. If there was anything she needed to know. She'd even offered to pull an old shoe box from the top of her closet, one she was certain contained a few outdated photos of Max. Photos she hadn't dared to look at for as long as she could remember. But Fern had shaken her head and said nothing. What was there for her to say? For so many years, Piper had waited for the day that Fern would be old
enough to understand. To digest the fact that Max wasn't the superhero she'd imagined him to be. There was no cape. No gleaming “D” for Dad emblazoned on his chest. Because a father was someone who was present, and if, for some valid reason, that was impossible—for example, if he was serving his country overseas—then he was in touch. He sent letters. He did his best. That was what parents did: their best. Piper knew this to be true because she'd been doing her best for the past decade. And, if she did say so herself, she'd done a damn good job.

Only now—now that Fern was coming to the realization that Piper had been forced to arrive at all those years ago—instead of feeling gratified, she felt scared. Scared that her daughter's comprehension would breed a fear of abandonment. An unwillingness to trust people. And, ultimately, a brand of self-loathing that had haunted Piper, possibly until she'd met Todd.

She hadn't told him about Fern's note. Or the fact that she'd found Max. What was the point? He was a ghost, and, as far as Piper was concerned, unless she saw one with her own two eyes, ghosts were categorically a figment of one's imagination. Continuing to allow Max to be part of their conversation wasn't fair to Todd. It wasn't fair to her. And it certainly wasn't fair to Fern.

By the time Piper arrived home at eight o'clock, the house was pitch-black, which was odd, because Todd always left a light on in the kitchen and it wasn't even that late. She'd spent the past two hours racing from store to store, trying to procure as many “perfect” presents as she could find, slapping down her credit card without a second thought and therefore spending way more than she'd planned or could really afford. Why hadn't she ordered everything online months ago,
before
Christmas Eve?
Before
the black
Uggs Fern had asked for had been available only in brown, for thirty dollars more than they'd cost on Cyber Monday—when Fern had e-mailed her the link with a giant smiley-face emoticon next to it. All she would have had to do was click three or four times, and they'd have been delivered to her doorstep weeks before the holiday was upon them.

Why couldn't she be more organized, like Annabel, who'd declared with a proud grin the other day after they'd worked out together that all of her gifts had been wrapped, labeled, and hidden in a closet in her guest room since a week before Thanksgiving?

It was just that whenever she tried to set aside a block of time to attend to things like Christmas shopping or scheduling a long-overdue waxing appointment, something work related always got in the way.

“Hello?” Piper cracked the front door. “Anyone here?” she called out into the darkness.

“Mom! You're home!” Fern shrieked from somewhere in the distance. “Todd! Mom is home! Hurry!”

“Could someone maybe turn a light on?” Piper felt her way through the living room and into the dining room, where suddenly she noticed the table was lit with flickering candles, surrounding a succulent whole ham, bowls of roasted potatoes and green beans, and a loaf of homemade bread. There was a tall, bushy evergreen filling the corner of the room and draped from top to bottom with sparkling threads of white lights. At the top was a large red star constructed from paper, with a photo of Piper, Todd, and Fern in front of the Lincoln Memorial tacked to the center. They'd asked another tourist to snap that shot the previous summer when they'd decided to visit Washington DC for a long weekend. It was one of
the last times Piper could recall them all being completely happy. As a family.

“Do you love it, Mom?” Fern was practically trembling with excitement.

“I don't know what to say.” Piper's eyes brimmed with tears. “This is”—her words caught in her throat—“this is the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me.”

Fern wrapped her arms around Piper's waist and Piper hugged her close. She smiled at Todd, who was looking rather pleased with himself.

“You've been working so hard lately. Fern really wanted to do something extra special for you.” He came toward them and helped Piper out of her jacket and set her purse to the side.

“Thank you.” As she held Fern's face in her hands, she noticed that she was wearing one of her favorite pink party dresses. “Thank you, my sweet girl. You have no idea how much this means to me.” Then she turned to Todd, who was utterly dashing in a dark jacket with a red-and-green striped tie. “And you. Thank you for whatever part you had in this.” She winked over Fern's head.

“Honestly, Mommy, Todd did most of it.”

“Well, I certainly couldn't have done any of it without you.” He stroked the back of Fern's head affectionately. As a father would. “For example, I would never have picked this perfect Christmas tie without you.”

“That's true.” Fern nodded. “And I did get the lights untangled for you.”

“You absolutely did,” he confirmed.

“You're both amazing.” Piper kissed Todd on the lips and, for
the first time in a long time, Fern didn't flinch or feign a gagging sound.

“Shall we eat?” He motioned to the mouthwatering feast.

“But I look like such a slob.” The clean pair of blue jeans she'd worn to work that morning had been sullied at the knees when she'd slipped on a patch of ice and fallen forward into a puddle of muddy slush. Her shirt was wrinkled and mostly untucked. And her hair, which she'd blown into manageable waves more than twelve hours ago, was now slicked back into a sweaty bun after all of her running around. “Let me go change into something nicer. Maybe shower.”

“No way, Mom! We're starving. We've been waiting for, like, an hour.”

“And you look beautiful just the way you are,” Todd added, guiding her to her seat next to him and across from Fern. “Now, who wants to say grace?”

“I do!” Fern's hand shot up into the air and she let it drop, blushing slightly at her own eagerness.

“I think that's an excellent idea.” Todd smiled at her and then at Piper. “The floor is yours.”

Fern sat up straight and cleared her throat. She clasped her hands, resting them on the table in front of her, and hooked her head downward, as Piper and Todd followed suit. “Thank you for this beautiful dinner. Thank you for my mother.” She paused. “And for Todd.” Piper and Todd exchanged knowing glances. “Thank you for the roof over our heads and all of the nice things we have that so many other people do not. Thank you for my friends and my teachers. And thank you in advance for my new Uggs!” She giggled like the ten-year-old girl she was.

“Well done!” Todd raised his wineglass, as did Piper, and they clinked theirs with Fern's water glass and then with each other's.

“Thanks.” Fern smiled and then frowned.

“What's wrong, sweetheart?”

“I didn't get you anything, Mom. I wanted to, but . . .”

“Oh, baby, that's okay. I've got you, and that's the best present I could ever dream of.”

“Maybe next year.” She shrugged.

“Well, the way I always celebrated was that the kids get all the gifts. So there,” Todd chimed in.

“Don't worry. Mom helped me buy you that new razor you wanted.” Fern's hand flew to her mouth. “Oops! I just spoiled it.”

“Um, actually, not really.” Piper laughed. “I may have forgotten that particular item.”

“Who needs a razor anyway?” Todd scooped a large spoonful of potatoes onto Piper's plate. “I'm thinking of going for the Santa Claus look this year. What do you guys think? Would I be debonair with a big, bushy beard?” He rubbed his chin with his fingers.

“Eeew, no!” Fern crumpled her face. “On second thought, maybe that would be good, because then Mom wouldn't want to kiss you all the time!”

“Sorry—I vote no beard!” Piper bit down on a string bean. “These are delicious!”

“There was a lot of butter involved. You may not want to look at the bottom of the bowl.”

“I helped melt the butter!” Fern inserted. “These are much better than the ones you microwave in the bag, Mom.”

“Yes, well, my culinary skills pale in comparison to Todd's. I'd
say we're lucky to have him.” Fern nodded in agreement, and Piper felt like her heart might burst with joy.

For the next hour, they lingered at the table, finishing dinner and then moving on to dessert—a stunning crème brûlée, concocted by Todd, with its rich custard base topped with a layer of crunchy caramel. They reminisced about the fun times they'd spent together and the few long-weekend trips they'd taken—sightseeing in Washington DC, skiing in Vermont, and whitewater rafting on West Virginia's Gauley River. Finally, after they'd all declared themselves stuffed like mushrooms, Fern was granted permission to stay up extra late to watch
It's a Wonderful Life
, while Piper and Todd retreated to the kitchen to clean up.

“You sit. Do not lift a finger,” Piper insisted. “You've done more than enough already.”

“Don't be silly. It'll take twice as long that way.” He rubbed her shoulders from behind, where she was standing at the sink. “And then I'll just have to wait for you to come upstairs, like I always do.”

“Fair point.” Piper drizzled dish soap onto a plate and started scrubbing it with a sponge. “Did you hear what Fern said during grace?”

“Which part?” Todd took the plate from Piper, along with a handful of silverware, and loaded it into the dishwasher. “I ran and emptied it earlier so we'd have room for all the dinner dishes.”

“Smart man.” Piper turned to kiss him on the lips and then back toward the sink. “The part about the Uggs.”

“Yeah? I think that's to be expected. She's a kid.”

“Oh, I know. I don't mind that she said it. I mind that I couldn't
get the ones she wanted. They only had brown by the time I got there tonight. I think that qualifies me as the worst mother ever.”

“You are not, nor could you ever be, even close to a bad mother. Second of all, I got the Uggs a month ago when she sent us that link.”

“You did not!”

“I did!”

“You are a god among men.” Piper stood on her tiptoes to give him a proper hug. “Wait—how did you know I wasn't going to get them too?”

“Let's see . . . perhaps because I know you.” He grinned.

“I guess she'll have two pairs now.”

“Not the worst thing in the world. She's a good kid.”

“That's true.” Piper handed him the platter that had held the ham. “Have you noticed that things are getting better with Fern? She seems suddenly back to her old self. Not angry toward you or me anymore. I'd be skeptical if I wasn't so happy about it.”

“I have noticed.” Todd dried off the last bowl and placed it in the cabinet below the oven. Then he took Piper by the hand, drew her close, and enfolded her in his arms. “I think kids can be funny that way. Not that I have any prior experience, but they probably go through phases, and Fern might have been experiencing something we weren't necessarily aware of.”

“I hate that.”

“I know you do.” Todd brushed an errant strand of hair off Piper's face. “But she's getting older, and she's not always going to tell us everything.”