MAGPIE (24 page)
***
Morning came early, with two small children pouncing on my bed demanding that I wake to see all the snow that had fallen during the night. Cody joined in, leaving me no other choice but to acquiesce.
“Okay! Okay! Let’s go!”
We hurried out of my room toward the back door and peered out the window. Cody slipped by us and shot through the doggie door, making a deep trail in the twelve inches of snow that blanketed every surface of my back yard.
“Nana! Can we go outside? Please?” Timmy was jumping up and down while Lisbeth squealed with delight.
“Of course you can. Your mom is so smart; look, she packed snow pants
and
boots
and
hats
and
mittens—just for you two! Let’s go find them. But guys, let me make my coffee first.”
They ran, side by side to their room and began to rummage through their bags. I quickly ground my beans and started a full pot.
It was Sunday, the second half of the last weekend before Christmas, and I was pleased as punch that my shopping was done. I wanted to do things with my grandkids I so fondly remembered as a child. A few days ago, Bill and I drove around my neighborhood, scouting the best lights and decorations. We thumbed through the paper deciding which holiday event we’d attend, knowing he and I would have the energy for only one. It wasn’t a difficult decision and Bill purchased six tickets to Denver’s
Zoo Lights
for later that week—four for us and two for Katie (and whomever she wanted to bring along).
The day was cold and, by the time the sun went down, the temperature read twenty-six degrees. The kids spent less than an hour outside building a snow owl, hoping to hear a hoot or two from Al. Calling them inside, I noticed that a light dusting had coated the old snow, and made the trees and shrubs glisten, stirring memories of old.
While Timmy and Lisbeth organized pieces to a
Harry Potter
puzzle on the coffee table, I gathered all the ingredients for cookies and hot cocoa. I’d repaired my cherished relic as much as I could, covering each page with a thin clear adhesive that didn’t exist when I packed it away with Michael’s other childhood keepsakes. Thrilled to think that our baking tradition would live on, I would make certain Michael’s children would experience what he had. I felt at peace; there was no need for tears on this joyous day. Perhaps tears were a thing of the past.
Katie came by just as I turned the oven on—she’d insisted on helping my personal
pâtissier and pâtissière…and sample their goods.
“Holy cow, sis, you pulled out all the stops,” she said as she smeared goat cheese on a delicate cracker I’d set out, along with other adult treats; I knew the kids would sneak “samples” of their confections throughout the evening.
Laughing, I said, “Would you have expected anything less? Oh, look at this…” I showed her the cookie cookbook that I’d repaired.
“Mags, this is fantastic! But you said it was ruined,” Carefully leafing through it, Katie lingered on a few of our favorite recipes.
Looking over her shoulder, I said, “I decided to take a stab at restoring it. Came out pretty good, I think.” I gently squeezed her shoulder and asked, “want a glass of Prosecco, sis?”
“You have to ask?” She chuckled, taking two flutes out of the cabinet.
Later, we delighted at the sight of the carefully arranged and not-so-expertly decorated cookies displayed across the breakfast bar. Permanent cocoa mustaches covered the twin’s upper lips, cookie crumbs dotting their sweaters. Bing Crosby crooned, “I’ll be Home for Christmas,” while we sampled more confections.
“Simply magical, “Katie announced, sneaking a gingerbread angel piped with red icing and heavily coated with silver sprinkles. The kids giggled, watching her stuff the entire heavenly creature in her mouth, mumbling, “Mmmm—yummy!” as she washed it down with hot cocoa.
“Hey sis, got anything to spice this up?”
Pouring a healthy slug of Bailey’s into Katie’s cup, I proclaimed, “Tis the season!”
***
The events leading up to Christmas Eve were picture perfect. I’d made a game of deciding which was the best-decorated house in the neighborhood, and the kids presented the lucky winner with a tin of their homemade cookies. The next day, Bill had prepared a wonderful (and warm) snack pack for our excursion to Zoo Lights, which turned out to be a wonderful outing for kids who’d rarely experienced snow, especially twelve inches of it. We’d close each evening with hot cocoa, cookies and stories of Christmas’s when Michael was young, embellishing just a smidge to tickle his own children.
Early Christmas Eve morning, I tempted my sleepy cherubs out of bed with fresh-out-of-the-oven cinnamon rolls. My plan was to pack up the successfully satiated duo and go pick up our tree that I ordered from a nearby nursery. I selected a Fraser Fir not only for its deep-green color and rich pine fragrance, but also because it was more slender than most, making it perfect for my snug living room.
I had no other errands, so I was fairly sure I’d be home by the time Katie and Bill were scheduled to arrive. I didn’t have to ask either one to help out; they’d been fixtures around the house for the past several days, and we’d come to cherish our full, loud and extremely happy household. Katie volunteered to make most of the food while Bill assumed the role of bar manager, which required a refresher course in kids’ drinks. Dessert was covered; we had enough Christmas cookies to last well past New Year’s. I took on the main course, a maple-glazed ham that was easy and a real crowd-pleaser.
My Christmas Eve guest list had been pared to about a dozen people, including Katie’s boyfriend, Kevin, who rounded our number to six. The other half included three of my favorite couples: Tony and Steve, Tina and Trish, and my best kept secret—Mom and Dad. They hadn’t been to Denver in well over a year and hadn’t seen their great grandchildren in close to two. The Western Slope was as dry as a bone, hopefully making the first half of their trip uneventful. Dad was an expert driver and Mom knew well enough to keep quiet, so navigating snowy roads east of the Eisenhower Tunnel would be a piece of cake, Dad would later claim. Nevertheless, I kept my fingers crossed until I saw them pull up unscathed…physically anyway.
“Nana! Nana! Can we get pointsetters, too?” Lisbeth drifted toward a table full of bright red Poinsettias and a few pinks ones. I didn’t like having them in the house, not because of their rumored toxicity (they are only mildly toxic to dogs); these holiday beauties simply don’t last long and their red petals leave terrible stains.
Thinking twice before saying no, I offered Lisbeth another option. “I tell you what Lizzy, I am going to give you something very special, something you can take home that will bloom year after year and it will remind you of this very special Christmas.”
“What, Nana? What are you going to get me?” Lisbeth’s curiosity reminded so much of Michael’s. A twinge of sadness crept up and I quickly choked it back down.
“Let’s go over here.” I took her tiny hand in mine and walked to another table. Bending down so my head was level with Lisbeth’s, I said, “Lizzy, this is an ‘Amaryllis.’ I’ll show you how to take care of it so it blooms every year, just like in the picture here.” She squealed with delight and I took the box that held one very special bulb to the counter and added it to my order.
A young man who didn’t seem to mind the bitter cold helped load the tree atop Beater and waved an enthusiastic goodbye as we pulled out of the parking lot. Minutes later, Katie and Bill rushed out of the house as we pulled into the driveway and began untying the tree before I’d shifted to “park.”
“Katie, guess what? Nana got me a murillus! Look, it’s going to bloom every year! I got a red one cuz it’s Christmas, and red is a Christmas color! See, look…” Katie bent down to look inside the paper bag while Timmy shadowed Bill as he carefully loosened the twine around the tree.
“Hey Timmy, can you hold this end for me?” Bill was so natural with kids. It suddenly occurred to me that this was his first Christmas without his son. Even though Bill hadn’t seen him in ten years, it still must hurt like hell. I wondered if he was experiencing any sadness at all. If he was, it didn’t show.
I pulled out sandwich fixings while Katie busied herself in the kitchen. The ham wouldn’t take long, and I’d set the tables the night before.
Only one task remained; the tree stood bare, demanding to be embellished with decorations and ornaments that had lain dormant for too many years. As Timmy and Lisbeth danced about, singing unabashedly to “Rudolph,” I stacked the boxes of Christmas doodads in front of the tree. I worried my emotions might overcome me (and the rest of the house) so I joined them, amplifying my voice to elicit some giggles and keep a few ghosts at bay.
Bill looked up and noticed a pained look washing across my face. He put down the half case of wine and walked over to me. Taking my hand in his, he bent down to open one of the boxes. The kids were eager to see what was inside, and before I could say anything, Timmy spotted a bright red container of Styrofoam balls covered in cotton, felt and beads, the faces of Santa, Mrs. Claus and a couple of elves staring back. They were a Christmas gift Michael made in fifth grade he couldn’t wait to show us; I smiled remembering the day he brought them home. The cheery Christmas characters had always been the first on the tree and last off, and Timmy zeroed right onto them.
Michael, are you here with us? Please stay…
With Bill by my side, I welcomed this new tradition and family set-up, unexpected as it was.
Just a few minutes into stringing the lights on the tree, Kevin, Katie’s boyfriend, came through the side door carrying several large loaves of crusty bread. He dropped the bag, kissed Katie and trotted over to check out our work. He shook Bill’s hand and gave me a bear hug. Then, he rumpled the twins’ hair and plopped on the sofa.
“Hey wench, where’s my beer?” He jokingly shouted to Katie.
Katie wasted no time and said, “Ask the barmaid, her name is ‘Bill.’”
Laughing, Kevin pulled himself up and asked Bill if he’d like one. I reminded Kevin that I, too, enjoy a beer now and then and Katie echoed the same sentiment. The twins were busy placing ornaments on the tree, while Bill worked around them with the popcorn and cranberry garland. It felt like I was looking through a plate glass window in front of Macy’s in New York.
Reflecting silently, I toasted Jack and Michael, thanking them for their love and the joy we shared. Though I wasn’t really sure they had anything to do with it, I thanked them for giving me the time and space I needed to surrender to their passing. Finally, I whispered, “I love you” to both, embracing the moment with gratitude.
While everyone worked on the tree, I ducked out to shower. I wanted to be ready when Mom and Dad walked through the door, surprising everyone, especially their great grandkids.
I stopped in my room to grab my robe when I noticed a text from Daniel,
Today, 2:03 PM
DANIEL: Merry x-mas, mags
MAGS: Hey Danny, merry x-mas to u 2! U ok?
DANIEL: Ya, with my bro, its all good
MAGS: Really?
DANIEL: Really – wanted u 2 know that I’m so grateful we r friends, Mags
MAGS: Same here, Danny, really – who knew we would make it this far? If I ever get married again, you’re invited
DANIEL: You get a front row seat at mine – you’ll always be in my heart, Mags
MAGS: Same to you, friend, same to you
DANIEL: Bye then, Mags, I hope u r having the time of your life with your babies
MAGS: I am, Danny, thx. I wish you happiness these next few days, u deserve so much of it. Merry x-mas my friend
I sat on the edge of my bed, realizing that Daniel and I had said goodbye.
It wasn’t a hard stop, not a complete severing of a relationship. Still, what we once had was gone, and I didn’t think we’d ever get it back. I was so tired of grieving. I needed—no, I
wanted
—happiness to flood my life. I longed to shower under endless streams of joy, peppered by moments of ecstasy and contentment. Seven years was enough. From now on, I would celebrate my life, not try to renovate it.
“It’s my time, damn it!” I said slightly louder than intended, hoping that the ruckus in the living room prevented anyone from hearing my proclamation. I marched into the bathroom and took a long, hot shower. I wanted to thoroughly wash away my emotional grime, which took a bit longer than the other kind. Standing under a heavy spray of hot water, I said, more softly this time, “It’s my time, Mags. It’s my time.”
CHAPTER 11
N
ew Years—Recurring Tears
A
calm washed over me as the year expired. It reminded me of the time I ate magic mushrooms someone had given me at a party in high school. Within minutes, I was
feeling
colors I’d never seen before; the room was spinning and my thoughts vacillated between reality (fantasy?) and fantasy (reality?); my mind, body and spirit separated, floating up and away from each other like soft, summer clouds. And then the fragments came together as I descending from one helluva trip. Lucky for me, I’d found a quiet bedroom in the midst of a frenzied party and was able to come down gently.
Although that was the only time I experimented with drugs, I recall it vividly; it was as if my mind, body and spirit had decided to fully synthesize, rather than simply reconnect, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I’d been given access to an alternate world that forever changed my perspective…or so it felt. Like my one and only psychedelic trip, the holidays revealed a new perspective; intense sensations, colors and emotions swirled, encasing me like a warm cocoon.
I pledged to live each moment in the present, spurred by watching my grandkids do it so effortlessly. They reminded me how to find magic in everyday things, like inventing new Christmas cookies and building snow animals instead of an old, tired snowman.