The Art of Losing Yourself (29 page)

G
RACIE

The run-down motel I ran to in August had morphed into a vintage Christmas wonderland. “The Little Drummer Boy” played from the speakers in the hospitality room. The smell of eggnog and gingerbread hung in the air. A pair of long tables draped in poinsettia-red tablecloths formed a right angle around the Christmas tree—a green-tinseled island in a sea of wrapped presents. One in particular kept drawing my attention, pulling the knots in my stomach tighter as I set forks on top of carefully folded cream-colored napkins.

When Carmen finished her table straightening, she looked up at me with a smile. “I really like your hair.”

She wasn’t talking about the tips, which I’d dyed tree-green yesterday afternoon in a rare but festive bout of Christmas cheer. My fingers moved to the bobby pin I’d used to pin my bangs back.

“You should wear it like that more often.”

Carmen’s compliment did not help with the stomach-knotting problem. The only thing worse than trying too hard was being caught trying too hard. Seriously, what had prompted me to invite Elias to our Christmas soiree? I mean, I was going to meet his mother. He was going to meet my mother. Our mothers were going to meet each other. I peeked at the present I’d wrapped in the midst of my dye job. What if he thought it was stupid?

Ben’s mom hurried inside with a pitcher of iced tea and set it on the table and told us there was lots of work left to do. She stopped short of clapping her hands and saying “chop-chop,” but the implication was there. I only met her last night and already I had her pegged. She was the kind of woman who delivered commands in a voice so sweet and southern, you’d never be able to call her out on it. The kind of woman whose “oh, bless her heart” was code for “what an idiot.”

She rushed into the front office, where another long table had been set for the food. As soon as she was gone, I swear Carmen rolled her eyes a little. I set
the final fork in place and wiped my hands on my ankle-length black cotton skirt.

“Are you nervous?” she asked.

“No.” My answer came way too quick to be true. “Are you?”

“Terrified.”

“Because of Ingrid?”

Carmen pulled at the hem of her blouse. “I just hope she’ll be in a state of mind to appreciate all of this. I called Rayanna—her nurse—and she seems to be doing well, but you never know when the switch in her mind will turn off.”

I tried to dredge up some comforting words, but the gift distracted me again, and then Mrs. Hart returned with a pitcher of water to set beside the tea. “Everyone will be here soon. Carmen, can you come help me with the last of the food?”

Daughter-in-law followed mother-in-law like an obedient puppy, and I made a beeline to the tree. A girl could only imagine the awkward scene that would unfold when she gave a boy a present and he had nothing for her so many times before she psyched herself out. I grabbed the gift, speed-walked to my car, and shut it inside the trunk. A long, slow breath leaked out into the air, and with it, my building anxiety.

I should have done that a long time ago.

Outside room 4, Mom sat in a lawn chair smoking a cigarette, watching Carmen’s dad play a game of bags in the courtyard with Ben and his father and brother-in-law. They all arrived last night—Ben’s parents, Ben’s sister (Liz) and her husband and their hyperactive brood of children, Carmen’s dad (Henry), and Mom. All of them were staying at the motel. I asked Carmen if it was weird for her—having her divorced parents in such close proximity. She said no. I was beginning to think it was more awkward for me. It wasn’t exactly comfortable watching Mom work so hard to impress the man she lost all chances with the second she saw two lines on a stick. My baby bean of a self foiled her plans to win her ex-husband back. Seventeen years later and it seemed like she was taking another stab at it.

I crossed my arms to ward off the cold and joined her outside her motel room door. “Since when did you take up chain-smoking?”

“It’s better than alcohol.” She exhaled a stream of smoke.

“Same slow death. Just more coherent.”

“Don’t be so self-righteous, Gracie. It’s not an attractive quality.” Mom returned the cigarette to her lips and took another drag, her attention never leaving Henry. He was a good-looking man for his age. A bookish version of George Clooney. I could understand why Mom was attracted to him. This understanding, however, did not lessen the embarrassment that came with watching her gawk.

Henry and Ben laughed about something while Mr. Hart chewed on a cigar and tossed one of his bags. Every man but him had offered to help the women set up with the food. Mrs. Hart had shooed them all off, insisting it was women’s work. I wanted to ask her if we should put on June Cleaver dresses and aprons and maybe strings of pearls while we were at it, but she probably would have laughed and said, “Oh, bless your heart.” So I had refrained.

The crunch of gravel drew my attention away from the laughing men. A Honda Accord had pulled into the parking lot. It was in roughly the same shape as my Mirage. The sight of it had the short-lived relief I experienced upon shoving Elias’s gift in my trunk whooshing away. “Mom, can you put out the cigarette?”

“Why, is this the boyfriend?” She stood from her lawn chair, the cigarette still lit.

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

She smiled, like my reaction amused her, then flicked some ash onto the ground.

The Honda came to a stop beside Liz’s SUV. Elias stepped out first, wearing a navy-blue tie over an untucked white dress shirt, khaki pants, and his tried-and-true sneakers. No coat, despite the cold. His mother stepped out next, wearing a gray coat over a simple red dress. She had thin brown hair cut chin length and the kind of skin that looked like it was once tan, but she no longer had the time to maintain it.

The two of them walked toward us, Elias with a goofy grin.

The knots in my stomach tied double.

“You must be Gracie,” his mom said when they reached us.

“And you’re Mrs. Banks.” She and Elias had the same eyes—same shape, same color—only hers were run-down. Not in the “I drink too much” sense,
like my mom’s so often were, but in the “I work too much and sleep too little” sense.

“Please, call me Leah. Elias talks about you enough, I feel like we’ve already met.”

Elias tipped his chin. “Nice hair, Fisher.”

My face flushed. Thanks to my stupid bobby pin, I had zero bangs to hide behind. I tugged at the sleeves of my sweater, newly grateful that I at least had the sense to shove his present in the trunk of my Mitsubishi. His hands were very empty.

His mom, however, held out a foil-wrapped plate. “I made fruitcake.”

“Thank you.” I took the plate, then motioned to my cigarette-smoking mother. “This is my mom, Evelyn. Mom, this is Elias and…Leah Banks.”

Elias and my mom shook hands. His mom and my mom shook hands. There was a horrible moment of awkward silence, and then Ben called out to Eli and Leah across the parking lot. When he reached us, he gave Elias a full hug, Leah a side hug, and wished them both a Merry Christmas. Liz’s husband and Henry came along with him. Ben’s father remained in the courtyard, finishing up his cigar and the game all by his lonesome. I didn’t miss the annoyed glance Ben gave his father before making introductions. When he finished, he cupped his hand on the back of Elias’s neck. “You did a good job with this one, Leah.”

“He’s a keeper, all right.” She slid her arm around Elias’s waist and gave him a squeeze. The crown of her head was a good foot lower than his, which meant he must have gotten his height from his father. As the adults fell into conversation, Elias stood beside me with that unwavering grin of his.

“What has you so jolly?” I asked.

“It’s the best time of the year.” He leaned close. “And I really like your hair.”

I would have perhaps slugged him in the arm if more crunching gravel hadn’t distracted me. This time it was a Lincoln Navigator. A big black woman sat behind the wheel and a skinny old man with a white beard and a Santa Claus hat sat shotgun. As soon as the car stopped, St. Nick hopped out and opened the back door, and out stepped an older version of the woman who paid me for my seashells and drew me fake treasure maps. She had the same black
hair (which I suspected she dyed), olive skin, and the ugliest Christmas sweater I’d ever seen.

Ingrid pressed her hand against her chest as she took in her surroundings. Her attention lingered on the large sign—bright even in the day—and when she finished examining every inch of the motel, her attention landed on me and my mother. “Evelyn Fisher and, oh my stars, little Gracie? Now if you aren’t a sight for sore eyes.”

I didn’t know why it meant so much, hearing her say my name.

She wrapped her hand around St. Nick’s elbow and walked toward us. “Put out that cigarette right now before you give us all cancer.”

Mom dropped the cigarette and squished it with the ball of her shoe.

Henry hugged her first. Ingrid’s fingers gripped the backside of his tweed jacket like she never wanted to let go. Then the door to the front office opened behind me and Carmen stood in the doorway.

“Carmen!” Aunt Ingrid let Henry go. “Look at my baby.”

She didn’t motion to the man she’d just hugged or Carmen in the doorway. She motioned to The Treasure Chest. It made my sister’s eyes fill with tears.

C
ARMEN

Amidst the sound of ripping wrapping paper and the crooning of Bing Crosby, Aunt Ingrid passed out the presents with a glow in her cheeks. I made sure everyone had at least one present beneath the tree. Combine that with all the wrapped toys Liz and her husband brought with them from New Orleans, and there were plenty of gifts to be opened. Liz’s Tasmanian devils had the process down to a hyperactive, assembly-line art form.

Eli and Gracie sat next to one another on the floor. He whispered something in her ear. She nodded once and the pair slipped out of the room. Unease settled into my stomach. They were hormonal teenagers, after all, and as much as I hated to admit it, I still didn’t fully trust Gracie. I deferred to Leah. She paused from her conversation with Rayanna, taking note of her son’s departure, but didn’t object. I suppose if Leah trusted Eli, then so could I.

Aunt Ingrid picked up one of the few remaining gifts. “This one is for…” She flipped the box upside down to read the tag. “Nurse Ray.”

Rayanna gave me a dubious look. “Girl, what you going and buying me presents for?”

I raised my glass of eggnog. “Merry Christmas.”

She took the wrapped gift from Aunt Ingrid, clicking her tongue and shaking her head the entire way. I bought her a purple scarf from T.J. Maxx and, for fun, a gaudy headband with reindeer antlers. A laugh hissed through the gap in her teeth as she pulled it out from the box and put it on her head.

On the other side of the room, Mom flirted with Dad, and Ben’s parents exchanged gifts with an unnatural stiffness that had accompanied their marriage since I’d known them. I told Ben once that I couldn’t understand how they got to be that way—two polite strangers. My attention wandered to my husband, who watched his mother unwrap a pair of pendant earrings with the same furrowed brow he’d been wearing for most of the evening.

The final gift was from me to Earl. He tore it open with childlike enthusiasm and pulled out a stuffed penguin wearing a Santa hat like his own.

“Press the beak,” I told him.

He did and the penguin lit up and started doing a funny dance to the tune of “Up on the Rooftop.” Liz’s children abandoned their toys and gathered around. Earl slapped his knee and let out a hoot. I couldn’t tell who was more delighted with the gift—him or the kids. As soon as the penguin stopped dancing, Earl pressed the beak again while Liz stuffed balls of crumpled wrapping paper into a garbage bag. Once the floor was relatively wrapper free, Aunt Ingrid clapped her hands. “I have one last present.”

My nieces and nephews looked up from the dancing penguin.

“Have you heard of the Christmas pickle?” she asked them.

My attention snapped to Ben. His lifted to me.

“I hate pickles,” I heard Liz’s oldest say.

“It’s not a real pickle,” Ingrid replied. “It’s an ornament. And whoever finds it gets the final gift.”

The kids’ chatter fell away, and inside the charged connection of our gaze, Ben and I relived a Christmas Eve eight years ago. Gone were Earl and Rayanna and Leah, Liz and her husband and their pack of Tasmanian devils.

“Jingle Bell Rock” by Bobby Helms had been playing on the CD player. The motel guests had gone to their rooms for the evening. All who remained were my father, sipping the last of his eggnog; Uncle Gerald and Aunt Ingrid, engaged in a playful Lindy Hop; and me and Ben, sitting on the floor. I rested against his broad chest, relishing the feel of his arms around me, the lift and drop of each breath he took. He traced the lines on my palms, making my nerve endings tingle. The Christmas before, during my final year at UVA, had been miserable without him, and here I was now, living with Ingrid and Gerald at the Chest, working as Channel Three’s newest weekend meteorologist. It was too good to be true, a hand-picked miracle from God. I still couldn’t get over it.

“You haven’t found the pickle yet,” Aunt Ingrid said to me as Gerald spun her in a circle.

I chuckled. “Maybe the Lambert kids can look for it tomorrow before they hit the road.” The Lamberts were staying in unit 3. They stopped at The Chest every Christmas Eve on their way to St. Augustine. They’d become like family.

Gerald pulled Ingrid close, pressed his cheek against hers as they swayed to the music.

“But the pickle is a Christmas Eve tradition and it’s Christmas Eve.”

“Better listen to her,” Gerald said. “You know how this woman is about that pickle.”

He was right, of course. Genevieve, Beau, and I had outgrown that pickle years and years ago. Ingrid refused to accept our aging.

Ben nudged me. “You should go look. I helped her hide it this year.”

I turned around with raised eyebrows. “She never lets anyone hide that pickle but her.”

He winked at me. “I told you. She likes me.”

I left my comfortable spot on the floor in Ben’s arms. As I searched, I didn’t notice that behind me, Ingrid and Gerald had stopped dancing, or that Dad had put down his eggnog. I started low, working my way up the tinseled boughs, until I found it a foot or so from the top. I plucked it off the branch and turned around triumphantly. As I held it up, the pickle made a strange sound, like something was inside. Curious, I took off the top and turned it over, and a ring tumbled onto my palm. I looked up from my hand.

Ben was on one knee, smiling that crooked smile.

My hand fluttered to my chest.

“I love you madly, Carmen. I didn’t stop last year when we were apart and I won’t stop for the rest of my life.” He looked up through his dark eyelashes, those blue eyes every bit as mesmerizing as they were when we first met. “I want you to be my wife. I want you to be the mother of my children. I want us to get gray hairs together, have grandchildren together. Who knows? Maybe someday, we can even follow in the footsteps of those two lovebirds over there and run this place together.”

Tears blurred my vision. I looked over at Aunt Ingrid. She blinked them back too, with a smile that said nothing in the world would make her happier. Laughter bubbled up in my throat, so light I thought it might lift me into the air. I didn’t know it was possible to feel so much joy in one single moment of time.

“Carmen, will you marry me?”

With the ring clutched in my fist, I nodded. Rapidly.

Ben jumped to his feet, wrapped me in his arms, and spun me in a circle. Then he kissed me. And as he slipped the ring onto my finger, I felt like a princess at the end of a fairy tale, heading into the sunset that was happily ever after.

“I found it!” Liz’s oldest jolted me out of the memory. She jumped on the balls of her feet to the pouts and whines of her three younger siblings.

An alarming lump expanded inside my throat. It came without warning. It came without mercy. In light of such a happy memory, the brokenness around me glared. Aunt Ingrid and her ailing mind. Earl and his ailing heart. Ben’s distant parents. My divorced ones. Gerald’s absence. And most pronounced of all, the ghosts of my unborn children. They should have been here—at least one of them—toddling about after their older cousins, whining and complaining that they wanted the Christmas pickle too.

All of it had me scrambling from my seat and making a quick exit into the back room. I set my hands on either edge of the commercial sink and stared down into the drain. I should have been happy. Aunt Ingrid was doing great. More than great, actually. It was a Hearts day.

But what about tomorrow and the next?

If that memory proved anything, it was that moments didn’t last. Moments weren’t enough.

“Carmen—you back there?”

I wiped at my eyes and hurried into the front office.

Dad stood by the desk, peering past me as if the reason for my sudden escape could be found in the hallway. “Everything okay? You left pretty quickly.”

“It’s fine.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. I could have told him I needed to use the rest room or get a drink, but why was I in the back room, then? I walked to the table and refilled my eggnog. “Mom’s in rare form.”

“I’m glad she’s doing well. I want her to be happy.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. It was the same smile he’d been smiling all night. I assumed it was because he had to endure Mom’s advances, but what if it was something else?

“Dad, is everything okay with you?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “The motel looks great.”

“Thanks.”

He paused. Cleared his throat. “Someone made an offer.”

“What?” The news thumped me in the chest. Hard. I had no idea what
shocked me more—his words or the bluntness with which he delivered them. “What do you mean an offer?”

He held up his hands, as if to calm me down. But I hadn’t even gotten worked up yet. How could I when he’d just sucker-punched me in the gut? As far as I knew, we weren’t putting The Treasure Chest on the market. That was why Gracie and I had been fixing it up.

“It came out of the blue, really. It’s an older couple who’ve been searching for a mom-and-pop motel to purchase for the past two years now. They’ve never been able to find the right one. When they discovered The Treasure Chest online and saw that it had been shut down since last April, they started doing some research. According to the woman, they fell in love. He called me up a couple days ago with an offer.”

“Did you accept?”

“I wanted to talk to you first.”

“I thought we agreed we weren’t going to sell it.”

“We agreed we didn’t want it knocked down. This couple has no intention of doing that.”

“But what happens when they retire? What happens when they decide they don’t want to be in the motel business anymore?”

“Honey…”

I shook my head, increasingly incensed. “They’ll sell it to the CEO of Emerald Grande or some other luxury resort, and then a bulldozer will be here within a week. They’ll knock The Treasure Chest to the ground, and it will be gone forever.”

“Knock The Treasure Chest to the ground?”

The shocked question did not belong to my father. It belonged to Aunt Ingrid. She stood in the entryway between the hospitality room and the front office, the flush in her cheeks ebbing into a pallor that made her look every year her age and then some. She took a step back, the shock in her eyes morphing into a confusion that splintered my heart to pieces.

“What do you mean by knocking my motel down?” Her expression turned frantic. “Have you talked to Gerald about this?”

Dad took a slow step toward her. “Aunt Ingrid, please let me explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain. I want to speak with Gerald.” She took another
step back. “Where’s my Gerald? He won’t stand for this. And neither will I. This is our home! You can’t knock down our home!”

Rayanna rushed into the room. “Ingrid, honey, why are you upset?”

She looked around the room—her movement wild, disoriented, frightened. Not a trace of coherency remained. “Please, where’s Gerald? I want to know where my husband is.”

Tears burned my eyes. Because I could give Ingrid a renovated Treasure Chest, but I could not resurrect her dead husband. And I could not bring her back from wherever she had gone.