Lipstick Apology (33 page)

I nodded. “Doing good, thanks.” There was something odd about seeing Dr. Reeves outside of his office without the hum of painful equipment in the background. But it was nice too, because in some way totally unexpected he reminded me of my father. Certainly my father didn't have his suave nature or his fancy wardrobe, but they were both easygoing and exuded a certain comfort. And I was glad for Jolie to finally have that.

Trent pulled out Scrabble, and he and Jacob started a game while Lindsey and I went to help Jolie in the kitchen.

We leaned over Jolie's shoulder. She was using a wooden spoon to fish out flakes of black burnt char from a lumpy substance I could only guess was stuffing.

“It'll be okay,” Jolie said, talking more to herself than us.

Surprisingly, the turkey didn't look half bad. At least it didn't look so dehydrated and crusty like last time. I had started to wash the lettuce for the salad when again, there was a buzz. The doorman announced two more visitors. We all looked around at each other dumbfounded.

Jolie leaned her head out into the living room and glared at Trent. “If you ordered Chinese, I will kill you!”

We all laughed. Jolie opened the door, and no one was more shocked than me to see Anthony, familiar NY Giants hat on his head and several white boxes in his hand. Behind him, a woman who had to be his mother was holding a large bag in one hand and a huge centerpiece of festive flowers in the other. Jolie ushered them in, taking the bag from Mrs. Rucelli's hands.

Anthony reached for the flowers and put them in the center of the kitchen table. “See, Ma, I told you they wouldn't have flowers.”

Mrs. Rucelli smacked Anthony on his head and spouted something in Italian. She turned to Jolie. “My boy,” she said with her heavy accent. “He have no manners. These,” she said gesturing to the arrangement, “are for you.”

Jolie smiled. “Thank you so much. I didn't know you were coming,” she said, shooting me a look. “But please, make yourself comfortable.”

Mrs. Rucelli took off her coat. “My boy tells me you need a little help around the food. Me,” she said, pointing to her enormous body. “I love food. So, we make a go together, no?”

Jolie smiled, shaking a finger at Anthony. “You talking trash about me?” she teased.

Anthony set the white cardboard boxes down on the table. “Not me,” he said, hiding his finger and pointing over at me.

“I SEE THAT!” I said, walking over toward him.

Anthony stood there in his pressed khaki pants and navy blue hoodie. The outfit was so mismatched it just reeked of a battle between him and his mother. She won the bottom half, he won the top. My heart raced when I looked at him. Part of me wanted to run to him and hug him, but an equally persuasive part of me wanted to escape to my room and lock the door. We stood there motionless. Then Anthony casually reached over and gave me a hug. “Merry Christmas, Em,” he whispered in my ear.

My eyes filled up, and I reached around to blot them with my sleeve. Lindsey met my glance and smiled. I pulled away and took Anthony by the arm to introduce him to Trent and Jacob.

Lindsey sat on the couch between Trent and Jacob. Anthony and I sat on the floor on the opposite side of the coffee table. Lindsey pulled out two more Scrabble wells and placed them in front of us.

Trent stood up and with a dramatic sweep of his arm flung all the tiles off the board back into the box. “Good, let's start over,” he said, crossing out his and Jacob's tallies.

“Look out for the sore loser,” Jacob said, laughing.

“Pu-lease! You were using all your fancy dental jargon,” Trent said.

“Jargon?! I used the word
clean
!” Jacob laughed. He turned to us. “He's just mad because I was up by fifty points.”

I watched Anthony pass out tiles and Lindsey offer to keep score as Trent and Jacob argued whether
schmooze
was a word. There was the sound of a food processor humming in the kitchen followed by laughter. Jolie popped out from the kitchen wiping her hands on Mom's retro apron and turned on the radio.

Christmas music filled the apartment.
Have a holly jolly Christmas. It's the best time of the year.

I thought about years of Christmas holidays celebrated on Arbor Way with my parents. The cornucopia of holiday cheer, with stuffed stockings draped on the mantel and happiness in our hearts. I allowed a few scribbled lines in an old diary to somehow erase all my solid family memories. But in my heart, I knew it didn't have to. I could still hold on to that family image carved into my mind before the plane crash, before the diaries. But now, with my parents gone, could Christmas ever be the same?

As I sat there, watching Lindsey tease Trent about a misspelled Scrabble word, I leaned slightly against Anthony and he didn't back away. He stayed there, firm, like a rock of strength. And suddenly, it occurred to me: Christmas was no longer about model families and decorated trees and perfect turkey dinners. That holiday became a symbol of change. It was about crawling out from under the wreckage and rebuilding after disaster—making new memories and new families with people who fill our voids and make us laugh. Because as my sports-obsessed shrink once said:
The game must go on.

Anthony laid down five tiles to spell the word
crazy.
He put his arm around me. “You're the definition, Em.”

We all laughed.

Jolie and Mrs. Rucelli appeared from the kitchen and said that in about one hour, a
homemade
Christmas meal would be served.

“Oh, thank God. My Christmas prayers have been answered,” Trent said.

And we all laughed. Even Jolie.

 

AFTER EVERYONE HAD LEFT,
I gave Jolie her present.

When she pulled the lipstick necklace out of the box, she started to cry.

“The clasp is broken, but the jeweler said he would replace it. And I used Krazy Glue to glue the diamond back in, so that's why it's not so sparkly, but it is real.”

Jolie held the chain up to her neck. “I want to put it on, but . . .” She looked down at the broken clasp and started to laugh. Soon we were both laughing and I was telling her about my night of destruction.

“I have something for you too,” Jolie said.

I gestured to the mountain of gifts under the tree. “I think I have enough.”

She shook her head. “Wait here.” She returned with a box covered in plain brown paper.

“It's okay to be hurt,” Jolie said. “It's okay to be confused. This grief will always be a part of who you are. But one day you'll wake up and realize you didn't dream about the plane crash or think about the apology. And you'll know that you've started to heal.” She handed me the box. Across the paper, written with a thick, black Sharpie, it read:
These have always belonged to you
.

Jolie smiled at me. “It's your decision what to do with this information.”

Inside were my mother's diaries.

“NOW THAT
was some New Year's Eve party,” Georgia said, lying in her sleeping bag on my bedroom floor.

“That's how we do it in the city,” Lindsey said, grabbing the pillow from under Carly's head.

“Still sleeping!” Carly bellowed.

“I'm still a little surprised I was invited,” I said.

“Why?” Lindsey asked, sitting up. “People like you for you—not just because you were half of a wonder couple.”

I smiled and tried not to look too surprised.

“Even Andi,” Lindsey said, somehow reading my insecurities.

“I can't believe it's a new year,” Carly said, climbing up to sit next to me on the bed.

“It's going to be a better year,” Lindsey said, stealing a glance at the diaries stacked up on my desk.

“I hope,” I said softly, thinking I was lucky to have such good friends help me through my crisis.

“No
hoping
about it,” Georgia said. “I have
confirmation
.”

“Oh, jeez,” I mumbled.

Georgia stood up as if addressing a crowd. “After Sister Ginger . . .” She looked at Lindsey and Carly. “That's my psychic. After she finished telling me that I
should
mail my evil twin sister story line pitch to the
Rhapsody in Rio
writing department, I asked her if she could do a tarot card reading for Emily.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Interesting!” Carly said.

“Very!” Georgia exclaimed as she unzipped her suitcase and pulled out a piece of paper. “Sister Ginger's tarot card reading for Emily Carson.” She dramatically extended her arm. “High Priestess, Strength, the Lovers.
All upright.
”

Lindsey and Carly looked at me for interpretation.

I shrugged. “I don't know what she's talking about!” Georgia opened her eyes wide. “High Priestess means secret knowledge. Strength means courage. Lovers means harmony and union. Sister Ginger's interpretation? Emily's heart understands, Emily's heart mends, Emily's heart loves. LOVES, Emily, LOVES. There's romance in your future!”

Lindsey and Carly clapped, and we all laughed.

 

AFTER CARLY AND LINDSEY
left that morning, Georgia and I hugged goodbye and promised to see each other for spring break. Then she took a cab to Penn Station and the train back to Pennsylvania.

With all my friends gone and Jolie at Dr. Reeve's house, the apartment seemed especially quiet. The phone rang and startled me.

“Hey,” Anthony said. “
When Harry Met Sally
is on TV. Want to watch it together?”

“Sure.” I grabbed the remote and cradled the phone in my neck. “What channel?”

There was a knock at the door. When I opened it, Anthony was smiling.

“What? I thought we were going to watch it while on the phone . . .”

“Where's the fun in that?” Anthony handed me a white pastry box.

We sat down on the couch with our legs propped on the coffee table and ate crumb cake. As friends turned into lovers on the TV screen in front of us, I wanted to finally tell him how I felt, but I couldn't find the courage.

“What?” Anthony asked.

Just say it.
But I couldn't. I looked out the window at the river. “Does it get any easier?” I asked him. “The pain, the grief?”

Anthony thought for a long time. “Sometimes. But mostly it's just different.”

I nodded, still looking out at the rocky waves of the Hudson. “In Pennsylvania, I lived near the Delaware River,” I said. “That river was so calm. Peaceful.”
Like my life was.
“And this river is so turbulent.”
Like my life here is.

Anthony was looking out to the Hudson. He craned his neck to the left, getting a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty in the distance.

As I looked out to the proud face of Lady Liberty, thrusting her flaming torch into the sky, I realized something. The Statue of Liberty, the universal symbol of freedom, was perched on a small twelve-acre island in the middle of the rocky, turbulent Hudson River. And suddenly it occurred to me: maybe that's because the road to freedom is never a calm journey. Maybe you have to battle the currents to reach the ultimate goal. Freedom from the grief. Freedom from the mystery. Freedom from the truth.

I had spent three months looking out at the crashing waters but never seeing the opportunity.

I got up from the couch and raced toward my room.

“Where are you going?” Anthony called after me.

“Here, help me.” I thrust some of the diaries into his hands. “Follow me.”

I couldn't wait for the elevator. I took the four flights of steps down at lightning pace and raced out the door and down toward the park. I crossed the bike path and the stretches of snow-covered lawn and reached the edge of the river.

“Maybe we should have put on coats?” Anthony laughed.

I looked into Anthony's soft brown eyes. “Do you know that one day I looked under my mom's bed and found three milk jugs filled with coins? When I asked her what they were, she said she had been secretly saving spare change so I could get a really nice prom dress.” My eyes welled up. “And when my dad's mom died, my mom went out and secretly took German cooking classes so she could make all the meals my dad thought he'd never taste again. And she was a really great artist and art historian, but she gave up her career to be a mom.” I swallowed hard. “That was who my mom was. These—” I lifted the diaries off my chest. “These stories are not how I knew her. They aren't who my mother was to me.”

I stepped to the railing along the river, lifted the stack of notebooks into the air, and flung them toward the dark water. The pages fluttered in the wind and the water splashed over the inked words. They didn't sink at first but floated with the breeze.

Anthony handed me the remaining books, and with vigor I propelled the books into the air, watching them flap violently, crash, and float.

I was flooded with such a sense of renewal I looked up toward the darkening sky and yelled at the top of my lungs,
“I FORGIVE YOU!”

Anthony threw his head back and screamed, “FREEDOM!”

Then I started shouting the word
freedom
too. Together we were lunatics but with only each other for an audience. We danced around on the snowy grass, singing and laughing, until the sun had completely set and we were all at once in complete darkness.

I reached over and took Anthony's hand and we walked back toward the apartment.

“You know,” I said, trying to figure out how I could possibly thank him for being there for me. “I'm sorry about how I've acted. Things between us . . .”