Baby, It's Cold Outside Page 11

  That I’d never let him down.

  “Thanks, Santa,” my younger self whispers earnestly.

  Mackenzie looks up into my eyes. “Did Pop make it home in time?”

  My voice takes on a faraway tone, because I remember what happened the next day—and I remember exactly how it felt.

  “We went to the Fishers’ for Christmas Eve dinner. We were all there—me, Matthew, Steven. At seven years old, your dad was already following your mom around, wanting to hang out with her. I kept watching the door. Waiting for my dad to walk through it. Hoping.”

  A smile comes to my lips. “And then he did. Laughing and loud and bigger than life. I ran to him and—even before he hugged my mother—he scooped me up and spun me around. Carried me on his shoulder like Tiny fucking Tim. And it felt . . . magical. Like real Christmas magic. And I was so . . . proud of myself. Because I thought my wish brought him home.”

  I blink, snapping out of my reverie. And I gaze down at Mackenzie. “Out of all the Christmases I enjoyed as a kid . . . that one . . . that one was the best.”

  “But you forgot about it?”

  That’s how it happens, right? You grow up, and the wonder of the holidays fades. It becomes more of a burden—places to go, traffic, gifts that have to be found and bought. And you forget the little things, the simple moments that are supposed to make a regular day—more.

  “Yeah. I guess I did.”

  It’s only when I glance up from Mackenzie’s face that I realize we’re not in that small apartment anymore. We’re back in my office. My head swims a little—like vertigo. I sit down on the suede couch until it passes. I glance at my watch, and it’s the same time as before Mackenzie walked through my door. Still two hours to go before my conference.

  “Do you know why I showed you this particular memory tonight?” Mackenzie asks me.

  I snort. “To demonstrate I’m obviously more like my father than I ever realized?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I showed you this because moments matter. You may not have remembered it, but it still played a part in who you grew up to be. And how you felt about Christmas, your dad, and in some ways, yourself. It’s the little things, all added together, that make us who we are. So now that you remember, what are you going to do, Uncle Drew?”

  I rub the back of my neck. “I’ll . . . I’ll find a way to make it up to James after Christmas. Maybe take him to a basketball game for some quality time. Just the two of us.”

  Mackenzie sighs. And she seems disappointed. It’s similar to how Kate looks at me when she comes home from the salon and I’m not excited by the fact that she trimmed off a whole quarter of an inch.

  Like . . . I’m missing something.

  “Well,” she laments, “it’s time for me to go.”

  Even though I’m still sure this is a dream—I’m not taking any chances. “Hold on, sweetheart. I can’t leave yet. Hang out here with me and I’ll get you home when I’m done.”

  She sits down on the couch. “Okay, Uncle Drew. Whatever you say.”

  I head back around my desk, sit, and refocus all my attention on my presentation.

  chapter 4

  Mackenzie plays quietly on her phone while I work. She’s mature and considerate like that. After a half hour I glance at the couch to thank her—and see that she’s fucking gone.

  I shoot to my feet. “Mackenzie?” When there’s no answer, I rush for the door. Flinging it open I call, “Mack—”

  I actually said her full name, but you couldn’t hear it.

  Because the blaring of “Angels We Have Heard on High” drowned out my voice. And if that wasn’t loud enough, there’s the echo of bells jingling in the background, the hum of a dozen audio-animatronic elves, reindeer and headless gingerbread men scattered around—and let’s not forget the crunch and whistle of falling snow.

  Yes, actual snow—inside my goddamn office building.

  The main floor outside the offices has been transformed into a winter wonderland.

  I just stand there. Stunned.

  But I have to say, this beats the shit out of anything the mall has ever come up with.

  Then my sister, Alexandra, comes walking around the corner. She’s decked out in elegant holiday finery—a red, strapless satin dress, black heels, her hair piled high on her head, with a pearl tiara nestled in the blond curls.

  She surveys the room. “God, I’m good.”

  I cross my arms and lean back against a snow-covered desk. “A little overdone, don’t you think?”

  Alexandra raises her shoulder. “If you can’t overdo Christmas, what can you overdo?” Then she regards me with bright green eyes.

  And I deduce, “You’re not here to pick up your daughter, are you?”

  “No, my daughter is safe and sound. Why do you think I’m here, little brother?”

  “I’m starting to think it’s because every member of my family has been body snatched by green-eyed aliens hell-bent on keeping me from getting any fucking work done.”

  She shakes her head. “Even your alien invasion theories are egomaniacal.”

  I push off from the desk. “All right, let’s go. The sooner we do this, the sooner I can get back to my desk.” And I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Show me your vision, Christmas ghost. Teach me the error of my ways.”

  Alexandra scowls. And checks out her manicure. “Now I’m not in the mood.”

  I grit my teeth. “Alexandra . . .”

  “I don’t like to be rushed, Drew. You have to invest the time—smell the holly bush, get the full experience. I’m not some wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am.”

  My face contorts. “I certainly hope not. That’s fucking gross.”

  “The heavens have chosen to intercede on your behalf!” She stomps her foot. “To help you. A little gratitude would be nice.”

  I pinch my nose, breathe deep, and compose myself. Because the spirit bitch is obviously in a tormenting mood, like a cat toying with a mouse before it’s devoured. Trying to wriggle out from under her paw will only prolong it. My best option is to just give in. Play dead.

  Submit.

  “I apologize for being flippant, Alexandra. Thank you for taking the time tonight to educate me. I’m truly fortunate to have a sister and heavenly angel who care so much for my emotional well-being.”

  Her head bobs side to side, weighing my sincerity. “And do you like the decorations?” she asks petulantly.

  I smile. “The decorations are lovely.”

  Alexandra’s expression slides toward appeasement. “And the music?”

  “One of my favorite songs—a classic.”

  She grins teasingly. “I worked really hard on the snow.”

  Submission isn’t my forte.

  “Goddamn it, Lex!”

  She holds her hands up. “Okay, okay.” She straightens and clasps my hand. “Come with me.”

  Together we walk to Steven’s office. Instinctively, I close my eyes as we step through the doorway. Then I open them.

  “This is . . . this is your apartment,” I state.

  My sister’s condo has the typical regal appointments of an exclusive and ultraexpensive New York City living space. Panoramic views, high ceilings, detailed dark wood moldings, shiny, pristine marble floors. But there’s a warmth to it—earth-toned walls, comfy couches, colorful throw pillows, children’s framed artwork—that makes it a family friendly home.

  “Brilliant observation, as always,” she returns.

  “When is this?” I ask.

  Alexandra’s eyes turn sympathetic. “This is tonight. At this very moment. These are the memories you won’t be a part of.”

  We go into the family room, where all the familiar faces are congregated. There’s my father, in a black suit and red tie, with a ridiculous Santa hat on his head, talking to Frank Fisher—my father’s lifelong friend and business partner—at the wet bar. He pours apple cider into a shot glass for Mackenzie, who’s perched on a stool between the two men. A smal
l smile comes to my lips as I gaze at my mom, who looks a couple of decades older than her earlier incarnation, but every bit as beautiful—this time in a simple red dress and black pumps. She’s chatting with my sister on the couch. On the far side of the room is my brother-in-law, Steven, his blue eyes sparkling with pride behind his dark-rimmed glasses as he bends his head to hear what his son, Thomas, tells him. They stand in front of the Ping-Pong table—our latest family get-together pastime. They’re getting ready to play my best friend, Matthew Fisher, and his five-year-old son, Michael, as they stand on the other side of the table, looking a little like twins with their short light brown hair and similar button-down green shirts.

  Adjacent to the table is a love seat, where Matthew’s wife and Kate’s best friend, Delores “Dee-Dee” Warren, is seated, surprisingly wearing one of her lower-key outfits—a short red leather skirt, a snug white striped sweater, and glowing, dangly Santa Claus earrings.

  Next to Dee is Kate, and I can’t take my eyes off of her.

  An elegant long-sleeved black velvet dress hugs her in all the right places, her dark, shiny hair falls over her shoulder in waves, and open-toe green heels encase her feet. Three-carat diamond earrings—earrings I gave her for our second wedding anniversary—glitter on her ears. She’s flawless. And so gorgeous I actually feel my chest tighten with a mixture of pride and ever-present desire.

  It’s the perfect family gathering. Evergreens and bows add a holiday flair to the decor, Christmas music plays cheerfully in the background, and dozens of delicious-smelling dishes rest on a buffet table, waiting to be uncovered. It’s a modernized version of an idyllic Norman Rockwell image—the entire room is alive with laughter and joyful chatter. Everyone’s happy to be there, everyone’s having a good time.

  Everyone except my son, James.

  He’s unusually quiet, sitting on the recliner next to the love seat. His dark brown eyes alternate between watching the Ping-Pong match and glancing down the hall toward the front door.

  Steven, who’s always been attuned to how others are feeling, nudges James with his elbow. “What do you say, buddy? You want to be on Thomas’s and my team? We could use another man.”

  My five-year-old son smiles genuinely and glances down at the two Ping-Pong paddles in his hands. “That’s okay, Uncle Steven—I’m gonna wait for my daddy. I’ll be on his team.”

  And doesn’t that just make me feel like two cents’ worth of shit. Because he’s completely unaware that I have no intention of showing up.

  James’s words immediately grab Kate’s attention, and she crouches down in front of him. “Honey, remember I told you Daddy had to work tonight? He didn’t want to, but he had to. I don’t think he’s going to be here to play Ping-Pong.”

  James smiles at her reassuringly. “Yeah, I remember, but he’ll come after he’s done working. I know he will. He’ll make it in time.”

  Kate’s eyes cloud with worry, because she doesn’t want our little boy disappointed. Not on Christmas Eve. And sure as hell not because of his father.

  “Can I play with you?” she offers. “I play a mean game of Ping-Pong.”

  James giggles. “Thanks, Mommy, but I want to wait for Daddy.”

  Kate tries again. “But what if he can’t come, honey?”

  James gazes back at her calmly, confidently, because he believes every word he’s saying. “Daddy told me that ‘can’t’ isn’t a real word. That anything someone wants to do badly enough—they’ll do. He said ‘can’t just means they won’t,’ or that they don’t want to. So that’s how I know he’s coming. Because it’s Christmas Eve, and there’s nowhere Daddy wants to be more than here with us. So he’ll be here.”

  Guilty pain lances my heart, and I cover it with my hand. I think I might actually fucking cry.

  “Ouch,” my spirit sister says beside me. “That’s gotta hurt. And you thought the mother guilt was bad.”

  I shake my head. “I’m such a dick. How can I be such a giant asshole and not know it?”

  Christmas Alexandra takes pity on me. She pats my shoulder. “You’re not really that bad. You’re just a little self-absorbed sometimes. You don’t see things from others’ perspectives—how your actions may affect them.”

  Back in the apartment, Kate brushes back the locks of James’s hair that have fallen over his forehead. “You are the smartest, sweetest little boy ever, you know that?”

  He grins. “Yeah, you’re pretty lucky.”

  My wife laughs. Then she kisses his forehead and moves back to the love seat, next to her best friend. She glances worriedly down the hall toward the front door, and there’s sharp anger in her tone when she whispers to Delores, “If James gets hurt tonight because of Drew, he and I are going to have a major problem.”

  Delores nods. But then—maybe Christmas really is magic, because she defends me. Kind of. “Don’t give up hope, Katie. Dipshit may actually pull his head out of his ass long enough to realize where he should be. He’s come through before when I didn’t think he would. So . . . keep the faith. You never know.”

  Kate sips her wine, looking distinctly uncomforted.

  Then the Ping-Pong participants shout loudly as Michael gets the ball past his uncle—scoring the winning point. His father gives him a high five and a hug.

  “Well played, sir,” Steven congratulates.

  “Nice shot,” my son calls sincerely.

  Then he sighs. And goes back to watching the door.

  Though I know he can’t hear me, I start to move toward him so I can explain how crucial tonight’s conference call is. So he’ll understand. But even in my head, the justifications sound pretty fucking hollow.

  And I don’t get the chance to, anyway. My sister’s hand on my shoulder stops me. “Come along—we still have another stop to make.”

  “So I can feel even worse than I do right now?” I give a sarcastic two-thumbs-up. “Yay.”

  She takes my hand and I reluctantly follow her out the front door.

  And we step seamlessly into my apartment.

  There’s a fire burning in the living room fireplace but the lights are turned down low. And it’s quiet—the only sound to be heard is Kate’s singing voice floating softly down the hall from James’s bedroom. She does that sometimes—sings him to sleep. At the moment, she’s doing a fucktastic rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” I imagine her running her fingers through his soft hair as his eyes grow heavy. Then, when he’s finally out—she’ll kiss his forehead and smell the still-child-sweet scent of his skin.

  “This is later tonight,” my sister informs me. “While you’re at the office on your video business meeting.”

  A few seconds later, the song ends and Kate comes walking down the hall. Her hair is pulled up and she’s wearing a dark green silk nightshirt that accentuates the green flecks in her eyes. With white socks, because hardwood floors are freaking freezing in the winter.

  In her hands, Kate holds a bottle of wine and a single glass. She uncorks it on the coffee table and pours a double serving into the glass. Then she opens the hall closet and sticks her head inside. As she rummages around, pulling out baseball bats and ski jackets that I astutely used to camouflage the presents inside, the back of her nightgown starts to ride up, and the “Ho, ho, ho” written across the ass of her red panties peeks out.

  I tilt my head for a better angle of the luscious sight.

  Addiction is an illness. But there are times—like this one—that it’s an enjoyable one. I can’t help myself, and if I’m being honest, I don’t really want to.

  Alexandra frowns at me. “Focus, please.”

  I clear my throat and nod.

  Eventually, Kate succeeds in dragging out two boxes that are longer than she is.

  She opens them, lays out all the pieces neatly, and settles herself among them on the floor. She takes a sip of her wine, opens the instruction manual, and gives herself a pep talk.

  “If Drew wants to work, he can work. I got this
covered. How hard could it be?”

  We should pause here briefly and think about that statement. How hard can putting a child’s toy together really be?

  Past experience tells me—pretty fucking hard. If you have kids, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

  I don’t get it. Clear illustrations, simple direct steps—is that really too goddamn much to ask for? And don’t get me started on the packaging. I realize that shoplifting is a drain on stores, but is it necessary to wrap every single fucking component in plastic, wire, and industrial-strength tape? The only people that deters are the parents trying to put it together.

  I’ve wondered who makes that call at the toy companies. Who decides which pieces get tied down and at what potency. Whoever it is—I bet he was bullied in high school. Or maybe he was poor and didn’t get to play with any toys when he was a kid. So now—every day—he takes his sick, twisted revenge by making it as difficult as humanly possible for anyone to put together a toy that should be a piece of fucking cake.

  I feel better now that I got that off my chest. Thanks.

  So, back to Kate: fifteen minutes after getting started, she’s got all of three pieces put together on James’s bicycle.

  She picks up the instructions and turns them sideways. Then she holds them upright and tries turning her head sideways.

  “Are you kidding me?” she yells at the paper, flinging it to the ground. Then she speaks threateningly to the bike parts as she tries to force them to connect. “Just. Go. In. You. Bastard!”

  When that doesn’t work, she takes a breath and a sip of wine. She brushes the wisps of hair that’ve escaped her bun away from her face. Then she picks up a blue metal rod. “You are component A. You need to be inserted into component B’s hole. Work with me, here.”

  And now she’s back to shoving.

  I squat down next to her. “It looks like rod A is too well endowed for B’s hole. Maybe they need some lube.”

  If she could hear me, Kate would chuckle. And she’d look at me like I was the cleverest man in the world.