This Christmas (14 page)

The next morning I woke up feeling like my old self again. A good night’s sleep can be incredibly transformational. Plus, I had a naughty dream that I wasn’t the least bit embarrassed by. Who else had to know that in the wee hours of the night, I was Paris Hilton dancing naked in a cage? When I burst out from behind the bars, everyone was cheering wildly for me. Sophie and Gwen were there. Prudence was in the back capturing the whole spectacle in silver wire. Reilly was among the cheering masses.

“Looks like you’re having fun, honey!” he shouted above the roar of the club. Even Dr. Jay was there, asking how I felt.

“Free!” I shouted to him. The truth was that I felt more than just free. I felt alive. I was beaming as I looked into the mirror and saw that I had Paris Hilton’s lean, youthful body. Who knew I could dance like this? Suddenly, that idiot Ron appeared and threw milk at me. But in our dreams we can be victorious even in the face of attempted humiliation. The cold milk splashed against my skin and glowed under the black light of the club. Much to the chagrin of Ron, the Borscht Belt reject, the milk made me look even hotter. I was glow-in-the-dark sexy.

It’s a given that I would never do something this brazen in real life, but until last night I hadn’t had the nerve to even dream about it.

After I showered, I blew out my hair and put on makeup for the first time in weeks. I was ready. Not for my next date, but for something more important.

As the doors opened, I heard a choir of angels singing. This time, I wasn’t dreaming. It was a Madrigal group performing in the lobby of Saks Fifth Avenue. My husband and son would be home tomorrow evening and I hadn’t purchased a single gift for either of them yet.

Five hours later that had changed. My taxi driver actually had to help me carry all of the bags from the car to my front door. I rushed in to the ringing of the phone and a blinking answering machine. I dropped a pile of holiday cards on the kitchen counter and picked up the telephone.

“I found him,” Gwen said, without introduction.

“Found whom?” I asked.

“Mr. Right. The perfect guy for Prudence,” she explained. “I don’t know if you remember Ken Wenrich from the Snow Ball last weekend?”

“The Snow Ball?”

“Sarah, you and Reilly were there. The fundraiser that makes it possible for underprivileged kids to go on ski trips.”

“Oh, yes,” I recalled. At the event I made the mistake of questioning the wisdom of an organization that takes poverty-stricken children from their freezing roach-infested tenements and sends them to Vail for the weekend. Not only did it seem like an imprudent use of funds; it seemed downright cruel. It was like saying,
Hey, kiddies, in case you hadn’t noticed the depressing conditions you’re currently living in, let us pose the most stark contrast to make you painfully aware. Happy holidays!
But, as Reilly said, half of all business contacts are made on the ski slopes and golf courses. So, in a way, this was an economic affirmative action program. It just seemed that the money would have been better spent on scholarship funds or the neighborhood library.

“Ken was on the committee with me,” Gwen finished. “I think he’d be perfect for Prudence.”

“Why?”

“I just do,” Gwen said. “Anyway, Sophie brought up a good question the other day. When we find these guys, how are we supposed to get them together with Prudence? Sophie said she and Jennifer have been trying to set her up on blind dates for months, but she won’t go.”

“Oh,” I said, pondering the question. My effort to find Prudence a new husband was so poorly planned, I had to wonder if finding her a man was ever really my real focus. Or if fretting about Prudence was simply a convenient way for me to avoid what was going on with me—a downward spiral into neurosis and rage. After all, Prudence told Reilly that she’d “dated” over eighty women before she found me. I had one “date” and I threw milk at him. Then there was Dr. Jay, a therapist with a seemingly endless tolerance for my hostility. Perhaps he would be a good match for Prudence. If anyone had more issues than I did, it was Prudence Malone.

“Maybe we should just have a party,” Gwen suggested. “How ’bout a New Year’s Eve party.”

“I think a party is in poor taste,” I said, as the image of myself dancing in a cage flashed before my eyes. “Gwen, I’ve got another call. Let’s talk later about Ken. Keep up the good work.”

“Hey, hon,” Reilly said.

“Hey,” I said, extending the word to show my elation. “How are you guys doing up there?”

“Sarah, the boy’s a natural,” Reilly said. “He skied a black diamond today. Are you sure the kid’s never been on skis before?”

“He’s really doing black diamonds? How’s his form?” I asked. “I’m going to come with you guys next time.” Then I had a wonderful idea. My staying home while my family was off skiing was ridiculous. I belonged with Reilly and Hunter, not being Prudence’s secret proxy date. “Reilly, I’m going to drive up there tonight. We can ski all day Christmas Eve and maybe even stay up for Christmas Day if there’s room at the inn.” I giggled with giddy anticipation. “I bought presents for you guys today. I can wrap them, pack, and be on the road in an hour, two at the most.” My heart raced at the thought.

“Roads are closed, hon,” Reilly said. “That’s one of the reasons I’m calling. There’s a chance we won’t be able to get down the mountain tomorrow.”

“What?! But tomorrow’s Christmas Eve!”

“Yeah, well, tell that to the snow,” Reilly said. “I’m sorry, Sarah. You know how much I want us to have Christmas Eve together. They haven’t said for sure that the roads will be closed, so keep the faith. Worse case, we’ll be back to the city just after noon on Christmas.”

I was such a fool not to have gone with them. A good ski vacation was probably all I needed to chase away my holiday blues. After hanging up the phone with Hunter, who was utterly nonplussed by the potential itinerary change, I sat down at my computer and made a list of my New Year’s resolutions. This year I would have more fun with life. I would go skiing with Hunter and Reilly. I would sign up for poetry class at the New School. I would snap out of my funk once and for all. And I was on my way. Throwing milk at Rudy was a christening of my new life.

I meant Ron. Throwing milk at Ron was exhilarating.

I decided to get to sleep early. The shopping wore me out. All the pushing through crowds. The tug-of-war for sale items. The flying elbows working their way through couture. I hope I didn’t hurt anyone.

But before I turned in for the evening, I wanted to check if Prudence’s personal ad had generated any more response.

First, there was Dr. Jay, who wanted to get together for coffee. My hand immediately reached for the delete key. I pulled it away and thought I’d save it for later. Perhaps I would go. He was a therapist and Prudence is mighty screwed up. Maybe I should check him out as a prospective new husband for her. Who knows, he could be cute.

Was there some sort of directive from Singleinthecity.com to send out stupid holiday jokes? I’m sorry I missed Chanukah, when the Jewish guys were offering to light my fire—eight nights in a row.

Dr. Jay was starting to look pretty good.

I woke up groggy the next morning. I got eleven hours of sleep, though never for more than two hours at a time. I hadn’t had so many interruptions since Hunter was a baby.

First I dreamt that I was Mrs. Claus sitting in the passenger seat of the sleigh as my jolly husband made his Christmas Eve rounds. “See how nice this is?” I said, resting my hand on his red velvet pants. “I told you it was safe for me to come along, silly.” Just then Rudolf turned his head back to face us. Not only was his red nose shining through the fog, but his eyes were nuclear green with no pupils. He looked like that possessed puppet from the horror flicks. The sleigh jerked forward and wind wrapped our bodies as the sleigh sped through the air. Then suddenly the sleigh descended dangerously quickly. We were dropping until I bolted upright into consciousness.

A few hours later I was once again woken by the feeling of my own body sitting up in terror. This time I was walking a blind dog. Not a seeing-eye dog, but a dog who was blind. We were in a blizzard and I was walking my dog in Times Square. He looked like a wet Toto from
The Wizard of Oz
. I remember feeling sorry for the dog because he couldn’t see the billion bright lights of electronic billboards and Broadway marquees. I handed him a dog treat as we waited for the light to change. Somehow, the leash disappeared and Toto started walking across the busy street. He was calm, too calm. It was a creepy image—a catatonic dog miraculously crossing Broadway as taxis whizzed by him, honking and swerving. As he reached the middle of the street, I realized that this was
my
blind dog. I had to save him. I sped into the street, holding out my hand like a crossing guard. The dog turned his solid white eyes to me and raced toward the other side, leaving me in the middle of traffic. The last thing I saw was a Checker Cab screeching its brakes to avoid hitting me. It was inches away from hitting me before I was shocked awake.

The next dream was the most disturbing of all. I was back in the nightclub where I was dancing as Paris Hilton in the cage. This time, though, I did not have the benefit of Paris’s hair extensions or nineteen-inch waist. It was just me with my Wellesley bob and birthing hips. Being naked was not sexy this time. I knew that the crowd was not cheering for me but, rather, anticipating some sort of public lynching or witch burning. As I huddled in the corner of the cage, in burst Ron, tossing glasses of Chivas onto my body. The crowd roared as he lit a match and threw it into my locked cage. As the burning stick crossed the bar, I sat up in my bed, coated with sweat.

Whatever happened to good old-fashioned holiday dreams led by liaison ghosts from Christmas past, present, and future?

The next day I decided to revisit a ritual from my Girl Scout days. Each summer, our troop leader took us on a four-day camping trip. We did all of the usual things like hiking, orienteering, and bingeing on S’mores, but on the last day, we had to remain completely speechless. We weren’t aloud to charade, write notes, or even use sign language unless it was an emergency. This monastic exercise was supposed to help us “hear ourselves,” as our troop leader said. All of the girls hated it, and I pretended to as well, but secretly I loved the opportunity to turn off the chatter of my own voice and those of my giggly girlfriends. While my friends now have far more interesting topics to discuss—like who should marry my husband’s ex-wife—it would still be nice to spend a day without talking. I’ve lived in Manhattan my whole life and always thought it would be fun to walk from my house all the way down to Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village. God knows why I’ve never done this. It’s only four miles. I could walk that in heels. I decided today would be the day I made my silent trek. I’d cross through Central Park, then head down Fifth Avenue all the way down to the Arc de Washington Square. I was more excited than when I left for Europe for the summer after college graduation. But, first, I needed to speak with Reilly about when he and Hunter would be home.

“Still closed, hon,” Reilly said. I looked out the window and saw thick snowflakes floating onto the white-carpeted sidewalk. I imagined children celebrating and grabbing their sleds, and tugging on the bottoms of their father’s sweaters, begging to go to the park. The parents would sigh. They too had prayed for a white Christmas, but only so they could light a fire and snuggle under a down comforter as their children played video games in the next room. They’d look at each other and agree that the kids could go out and play. They’d pretend they were reluctant but both would secretly share the deliciously frustrating bond of delayed intimacy by parenthood. If only I had gone with Reilly and Hunter, we could all be snowbound together. For years, we could recall that first Christmas when we were snowed in at the cabin.

“When are they going to open the roads?!” I whined.

“When it’s safe to drive on them,” Reilly said. “Look, I’m as sorry as you are about this, Sarah, but we don’t want to take any chances.”

“Of course,” I said. “You’re right. I’m just disappointed, that’s all.”

“Me too, hon. We could still be home Christmas morning. I’m not sure, but I’ll call you tonight once we get off the slopes.” How I longed to be on a ski slope with my husband and son. My silent trek in the snow would probably take several hours with the inevitable stops along the way. When I ski, I can make it down four miles in minutes.

“Okay,” I said stoically. I then explained to Hunter how very sorry I was that we couldn’t spend Christmas Eve together. He replied that Reilly hadn’t made him take a bath since they’d arrived.

“I love you,” was the last thing I said. I thought that would be a good note on which to leave verbal communication. My eyes welled with tears at the thought. I did love Reilly and Hunter so much. It was so disappointing that we’d miss our first Christmas Eve together as a family, but I was more overwhelmed by a deep sense of gratitude that we had found each other, and were a family.

I wrapped myself in a full-length camel hair coat I’d just bought at Saks, put on the Timberland boots I hadn’t sported in years, and headed toward the park. It began to snow just as I approached one of Central Park’s small tunnels, under a walkway overhead. The blackened semicircle contrasted with the snow falling through the trees on the other side. I felt as though I were walking into a snow globe.

I watched my breath escape from my mouth and remembered summers when I pushed Hunter’s stroller down this same path. Before Hunter was born, Rudy and I biked the park nearly every Saturday the weather permitted. We took Hunter to a Neil Young concert in the park and Rudy fed him his first spoonful of Mr. Softie chocolate ice cream. (No sprinkles because I was too nervous that Hunter would choke.) Hunter raised his eyebrows with the same expression of pleasant intrigue his father often wore and snatched the spoon in a way that made me rest assured that our son was extremely motivated. I told Rudy that Hunter was as determined as his father. He told me the baby was as beautiful as his mother. How had we slid from that day in the park to the night on the Jersey Turnpike in just four months?

I walked for about another hour, stopping to look at window displays and eavesdropping on conversations. Just when I felt I needed a rest, St. Patrick’s Cathedral stood before me, offering respite. As I entered the gothic cathedral, I was struck by the flickering votive candles people had lit in remembrance of lost loved ones. Even though neither Rudy nor I was Catholic, I knew I would light one for him and sit for a moment to remember our brief time together, as ambivalent as I felt about it. It didn’t surprise me that I cried when lighting his candle. I cry at anything these days. But I was rather caught off guard by my own impulse to light a second candle. For myself.

I watched skaters at Rockefeller Center and smiled at Prometheus in his eternal struggle. Sometimes I don’t appreciate how good I really have it. After another leisurely hour of walking down Fifth Avenue, I reached the Empire State Building and realized that in my thirty-two years living in Manhattan, I’d never been to the top. I stopped in and saw a short line of people waiting for the elevator to the observation deck and drifted onto it without a moment of pause. As the sign promised, the visibility was zero at the top. The needle was surrounded in fog. We were, literally, standing in a low-hanging cloud. A boy who appeared to be about ten years old, wearing a Cardinals baseball cap, looked through the telescope around the periphery of the deck and shouted, “Awesome! This is so cool!” As I wondered if I should rummage for my quarters, his mother asked if he could see anything through the lens. He shook his head that he couldn’t.

“What are you so excited about then?” his father asked, teasing.

“I’m on the top of the Empire State Building!” he said, with a child’s voluminous animation. I remember last year I took Hunter to the zoo and a toddler pointed at a monkey and gleefully exclaimed, “He’s my friend!” When do we lose that? I’m not sure I ever had it, even as a child.

By the time I reached Washington Square Park night had fallen. The park was empty save for a few drug dealers, confident that the holidays would bring out addicts who’d overestimated their ability to cope with their families. A couple clung to each other’s arms and raced toward the southern exit of the park. I sat on a bench and wondered what it was that brought me on this silent journey to the park. It was beautiful, to be sure, but I wasn’t exactly sure why I was there.

Then I realized that there was something settling about slowly walking the streets I rushed about every day. It was like untangling a knot.

I broke my silence when I got into a taxi and told the cabbie my address. Then my cell phone rang with a call from Reilly to let me know the roads were “probably” going to open at noon. “We’ll have a late Christmas, hon,” he promised. “What can we do?”

Reilly was so levelheaded. What could we do, really? He and Hunter would be on the road as soon as it was safe. So I decided to be sensible as well and make plans for myself for Christmas morning, then continue my search for Prudence’s new husband while I still had the freedom to do so. “Oh, hi, Gwen,” I said into her answering machine. “I just remembered you’re at your parents’ this weekend. Okay, then, just calling to say hi. Call me when you get home.” Before dialing my own parents, I remembered that they were in Barbados for the holidays. I called a few friends and exchanged brief well wishes for Christmas and the New Year.

It had been only twenty-four hours since I’d checked Prudence’s mailbox on Single in the City, and she’d already gotten 142 new responses. Was she really such a catch or did these men simply prescribe to what Daddy used to call the mud method? That is, throw mud in every direction and some of it will stick.

As I was deleting messages from the multitude of lovers of moonlit walks on the beach, I heard the ring of an Instant Message. Dr. Jay, I presume.

What was with this guy? I was so clearly not interested, and yet every time I logged on to the computer, there he was, cluelessly eager to chat with me. Or rather chat with Prudence. I’d have to go back and check out the photo of her that I posted. She is obviously much better looking than I gave her credit for. And there was more to Dr. Jay than I was giving him credit for. For some reason, I was glad to hear from him.

As we finalized our plans, my heart raced as I realized I would have to explain to Jay that I was not, in fact, Prudence but, rather, her “friend” who’s taken an unusual interest in finding her a new man. If Jay was the right guy for Prudence, how would I introduce them? And what if they really hit it off and
did
wind up in a serious relationship? Could I really expect Jay to keep hidden the fact that I’d posted a profile of Prudence on an Internet dating site? This is why I am not partial to doing things spontaneously. Having a plan and a contingency is a far better way to go. Unfortunately, I had neither.