Cupid's Christmas (7 page)

She drove for forty-five minutes, but while her eyes were focused on the road ahead, her mind was leafing through a photo album of memories. When Lindsay left the turnpike and turned onto Route 70, she felt the warmth of at long last being home. She grabbed her cell phone and pushed speed dial 2. Phillip had been number one, but weeks ago he’d been deleted. Now there were only five numbers programmed into her phone—the Book Barn and the pizza delivery place would be deleted before the day was over, then there would be just three, Amanda, Sara, and her father, he was number two.

He answered before the telephone could ring a second time, “Hi honey,” he said, “Are you on your way?”

“I’m almost there,” she answered. “Ten minutes, maybe fifteen.”

“Can’t wait to see you,” he said. “Drive safely.”

He was waiting alongside the driveway when she pulled in.

Her father appeared more robust and cheerful than Lindsay remembered. She kissed him on the cheek and he pulled her into a bear hug. “It’s good to have you home,” he said, and his voice wrapped itself around her with a familiarity she’d almost forgotten. 

John tugged Lindsay’s suitcase from the trunk of the car and carried it into the house. She followed behind saying, “You don’t have to do that Dad. I can handle it myself.”

“I know you can,” he answered, and continued up the stairs. He lifted the oversized suitcase onto the bed, and told Lindsay to join him in the kitchen when she was ready.

Lindsay unzipped the bag, removed her laptop, the few toiletries she’d tucked around the edges and three of her very best dresses. She left the remainder. She was going to be here for a long time, the clothes could wait until later when there’d be plenty of time for unpacking. For several minutes she stood looking at the room—the teddy bear sitting in the chair, the lace runner atop the dresser, the curtains at the window, pink curtains her mother had sewn. These things, Lindsay realized, were the reason she hadn’t come home. In New York she could fool herself into believing her mother was elsewhere, not gone forever, just simply elsewhere. Here Bethany’s absence was absolute. There was no elsewhere. Mom was gone, the kind of gone that slices into a person’s heart like a razor blade.

Standing there, where everything was just as it had always been, Lindsay felt the hole in her life growing bigger and bigger. The memories that had distanced themselves while she was in New York suddenly came alive and with them they brought a sense of shame. She had selfishly stayed away and left her father to face this alone. It was an ugly truth that now stood naked before her. Never again, she vowed, never again would she leave him alone.

T
his is exactly what I feared would happen. Lindsay is one of the few humans with what we call misappropriated affection. I’ve only had a handful of these cases, but my counterpart in California encountered one-hundred and thirty-six in just the last century. Of course his problems are rather unique—there was the movie director who…no…in the interest of decency I think it best I not tell that story.

Back to Lindsay, there is no cure for misappropriated affection. The only thing I can do is provide a distraction which then becomes the target of her love. Ergo—the dog.  You might not have seen it but I know for certain, Lindsay fell in love with that dog the minute its picture flashed on her screen. This is another thing that baffles me when it comes to humans—even those without the capacity to love one another will love a dog. Of course compared to humans, dogs are easy. They’ll love any human I give them. The only problem a dog ever has is switching from one human to another.

B
y the time Lindsay came downstairs John had brewed a fresh pot of coffee. “This isn’t Starbucks, is it?” she asked. When John answered that it was Maxwell House, she filled a large mug and joined him at the table. They were not five minutes into the conversation before she asked, “Do you still miss Mom?”

“Of course I do,” John answered.

“Yeah, me too.” She looked at him and smiled, “It’s nice that you’ve kept everything just the way Mom had it. That shows how much you love her.”

“Well actually, the sofa is new,” John said. “…and the porch furniture and the dining room light fixture…” He was trying to swing the conversation around so he could mention that Eleanor had picked out those things, but he didn’t get the chance.

“It’s a good thing Mom married someone with
principles
. I hope one day I’ll meet a man just like you, someone who will love me, the way you love Mom.”

A finger of apprehension poked at John’s stomach. Lindsay’s words were present tense, not past. Words, John thought, it’s only words. He hesitated several minutes and carefully phrased his answer. “I did love your mother,” he said cautiously applying past tense, “and I always will. She has a very special place in my heart. Losing her was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to endure.” He paused long enough to let the thought register, then said, “But life moves ahead whether we want it to or not…”

“I know,” Lindsay sighed.

John was on the verge of mentioning Eleanor, when Lindsay spoke again.

“It’s just that Mom was so special,” she said wistfully, “no one could ever replace her.”

John decided this was not the right time to mention Eleanor, so he changed the subject. “How about having dinner at McGuffey’s tonight?”

Lindsay nodded, “Okay.” She thought back to the time when McGuffey’s was called Pub n’ Grub. They had a salad bar and the waiters were college kids, who wore jeans and green logo tee shirts. She hadn’t been back for years—five, maybe more. “Yeah,” she said, “McGuffey’s would be great.” Lindsay was already picturing how it much fun it would be to see the friends she’d been thinking of.

It was a few minutes after seven when they settled into the booth at McGuffey’s. It was a slow night so there were only a handful of diners and a few stragglers at the bar. “Wow, this place sure has changed,” Lindsay mumbled. She pictured the room the way it once was and found it disconcerting to see formal waiters and white tablecloths. As soon as the gray-bearded waiter left with their orders, she said, “I just hate it when things change.”

Her father looked at her quizzically, “What changed?”

“Everything. This place used to be so much fun. It was noisy and crowded…”

“Noisy and crowded is good?”

“Sometimes,” she sighed, “The Pub n’ Grub was always so great. It was lively and fun, I mean just look at the place now. It’s dead. The only person in the room I know is you.”

“McGuffey bought the place eight, maybe nine years ago, and he’s improved most everything. The food’s better—”

“But there’s no atmosphere!”

“Sure there is. It’s just not what you expected.” John smiled. “Things change Lindsay and that’s not necessarily bad—”

“I disagree,” she argued. “The changes I’ve seen have all been bad. Think about it—the apartment building, my job, Phillip…”

John looked at the sadness stretched across his daughter’s face. “I know that lately it’s been tough,” he said sympathetically. “But give life a chance. Sometimes when you think you’re as miserable as you can possibly be, somebody special shows up and changes everything.”

Assuming that he was speaking of her mother, Lindsay asked, “Did you know right away Mom was somebody special?”

John took a deep breath. He knew there would be no opportunity to tell her tonight. “Yes,” he finally answered. “The first time I heard your mom laugh, I knew I was in love with her. She knew it too.”

Lindsay thought she saw the twinkle of memories dancing in his eyes. “That’s exactly what I’m hoping will happen to me,” she said.

He smiled, “Patience, honey, patience. Love isn’t something you go looking for. When the right man comes along he’ll find you.”

Unfortunately, what Lindsay imagined to be a twinkle was really the start of a tear—John was thinking of how he could explain this to Eleanor.

I
don’t often say this, but there are times when a human gets things right, and Eleanor was absolutely on the mark when she told John that he should have broken this news to Lindsay earlier. If I look no further than tomorrow, I can see the trouble ahead.

T
hat night Lindsay settled into her old room and it was if she’d never left.  As she hung the remainder of her clothes in the closet and tucked her underwear into the dresser drawers, she hummed a tune she’d heard on the radio weeks earlier. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, then climbed into bed and snuggled under the comforter. That’s when the buzzing in her ear returned. For several minutes she remained perfectly still, barely breathing, every ounce of concentration was focused on listening to the sound. Words. Words from somewhere far away. Words chopped up into little bitty pieces …um…um…

She bolted upright. “I’m waiting!” Suddenly the buzzing stopped. “Who’s waiting?” she said to no one. While her question still hung in the air, Lindsay heard the high-pitched bark of a dog.

John

I
was going to tell Lindsay about Eleanor tonight. I’d gone over what I had to say a dozen or more times, but every time I had the words ready to burst out of my mouth, Lindsay dredged up another memory of her mother. Don’t misunderstand me—Bethany was, without question, a wonderful woman. But she and Lindsay sometimes went at it like two bulldogs. I could be out in the garage or trimming hedges in the back yard and hear Lindsay’s voice screaming about how she wasn’t allowed to do one thing or another. To hear her tell it, every kid in Shawnee High School had more privileges than she did.

Of course, Lindsay doesn’t remember any of that. She only remembers the good times, which I suppose is how it should be. But when every other word she speaks is about how wonderful Bethany was, it’s pretty impossible to bring up the subject of Eleanor.

 The irony of this situation is that if Lindsay gave it a chance, I think she’d like Eleanor. In a number of ways, Eleanor is a lot like Bethany except maybe a little slower to anger and a lot more forgiving. Of course that could be because of age. We’re a bit older now, and years do have a way of mellowing people.