Read One Week In December Online
Authors: Holly Chamberlin
One Week In December (24 page)
43
Olivia watched from the window of the room she shared with James as Becca, dressed in so many layers of clothing she looked almost unrecognizable as a human, trudged off in the direction of the neighbor's house and studio. Vaguely she wondered why her sister was visiting Alexâif that's what she was doingâbut the thought vanished as quickly as it had come.
Olivia turned away from the window. Nothing but her own sorrowful predicament concerned her right then. She had been taken entirely by surprise earlier that day. Never in a million years would she have expected James to confront her the way he had. Never. And yet . . . why hadn't she seen this coming?
The cup of tea her sister Lily had made her sat untouched on the dresser. Olivia felt sick. She felt overwhelmed. She felt confused.
For too long now she had been fighting against the feelings of darkness and despair, burying herself in work and in an obsession with family history, frantically moving, afraid that if she stopped for one moment, she would be consumed by the sadness that was welling deep inside her, just waiting for one moment of inattention on her part to spring forward and drown her.
When had it all begun? Olivia knew when. The sadness had come when she had finally been forced to let go of the hope for a biological child of her own.
Olivia began to pace the small room. She felt that no one understood the depth or the nature of her loss, not even James, though he did try to be empathetic. In spite of her despair, she couldn't deny that James had tried to be of help.
And there was no one else to whom Olivia could turn. Who else could empathize? Her mother's experience was too alien to permit real understanding. She had given birth to four children of her own; she had three grandchildren and quite possibly could be given more. Besides, Olivia thought, somewhat bitterly, her mother was the type to resort to a clichéd pep talk rather than engage with anyone on a meaningful level. Maybe that was an unfair judgment, but that was the way Olivia saw it.
And her grandmother . . . Olivia shook her head though no one was there to witness the dismissive gesture. She had never been particularly close to her grandmother. Lily was the favorite there. And that was fine. Really. If her grandmother wanted to play favorites with Lily, like her mother had done with David . . .
Olivia paced more quickly. She knew that some might argue that she had missed an opportunity for understanding and friendship with one or more of the women she had met during the exhausting years spent visiting fertility clinics. But for Olivia, that hadn't been an option. When it was all over, when the final negative verdict had been delivered, she had wanted nothing to do with any of the women she'd met. When it was all over, she'd given up on finding emotional health and friendship at support groups where other women struggling to get pregnant or to sustain their pregnancies shared their trials and tribulations.
And sometimes, their triumphs. The hard-won triumphs had been the most difficult for Olivia to bear. She knew that she should derive some hope for her own situation from the fact of another's success. She knew that as a decent person she should feel glad for another's achievement of happiness. But all she had ever felt was bitter and angry and jealous.
Olivia was facing the dresser. On top of it sat one of the notebooks she used for recording the contents of her grandmother's attic. The blue notebook was for clothing and other linens, like tablecloths or draperies. The red notebook was for furniture and appliances, of which there were disappointingly few. The green notebook was for toysâlike the doll Becca had almost broken the other day!âand other, miscellaneous items.
Olivia abruptly stopped pacing and stared at the notebook. Why was the accumulation of past things, the accumulation of facts, and names, and dates so awfully important to her? How had they become so important?
It had started with a simple curiosity. What had her ancestors looked like? Did she inherit her great-grandmother's hair color or her great-uncle's interest in business? And then, imperceptibly, her interest had grown. She bought books on ancestor research. She contacted the headquarters of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints in Utah for access to their vast stores of genealogical information. She joined chat rooms and spent hours each evening communicating online with other people who shared her interest in the past. She began to catalogue each and every bit of her family's possessions in order to create her own detailed archive.
She hadn't seen a movie in over a year. She hadn't been out with any of her friends for a lunch or a dinner in months.
Olivia sank onto the edge of the bed. If she could be totally honest with herselfâand right at that moment it seemed as if she could beâshe was tired of the control the search for things past had over her. For some time she had been feeling as if she was operating under a compulsion, something she simply could not command. What had once been a pleasurable pasttime was nowâan addiction.
Olivia was startled by the thought. Could it be? Was this what it was like to be addicted to something, to need it and yet at the same time to be repulsed by itârather, repulsed by the need for it?
James. The memory of James's face as he'd left their room earlier came to Olivia now and it saddened her deeply. He had looked soâmiserable.
The awful fact was that she had been spending so much time avoiding a confrontation with her own deep unhappiness, largely by redirecting her energies into her research, that she'd become blind to the obvious unhappiness of her husband, the person who had vowed to stay by her side for better or worse, through sickness and in health. . . .
The person who now wanted to break that vow. Or, at least, to put that vow on hold. She couldn't even be mad at him. She had been, briefly, when he'd talked about a separation. . . but now . . . No. How could she be mad at someone for trying to help herâand for trying to save himself?
She knew there was no other woman in James's life. She also knew that he could hardly be blamed for finding love elsewhere if their marriage continued on in the cold and strained way it was going, if it continued on in the alienating way she'd been directing it.
Oh, what was wrong with her!
Olivia felt tears come to her eyes. She hadn't cried in what seemed like years. Now the tears came freely and though Olivia had never felt so desolate, she was aware on some deep level that the tears were those of relief as well as of pain.
She knew that she needed help. And she knew, finally, that she very much needed James, in whatever way she could have himâin whatever way he would have her.
Olivia looked around the room for her bag. It was on the floor by her side of the bed. She dug around in it until she found the small notebook she kept there. The thin, lined paper was nothing like the thick, beautiful paper on which James had written his Christmas letter to her, but it would have to do. On a clean page, Olivia wrote three simple words to her husband. She felt that her message was complete. And she hoped he thought so, too.
44
Alex had been right. His house was not as large or as prettyâat least on the outsideâas her parents' house. There were similarities, of course, the houses having been built around the same time and, quite possibly, by some of the same people. Like the Rowans' house, Alex's had two stories, an attic, and four-over-four windows. From what Becca could tell, no additions had been added over time. A quick peek in a window allowed her to see that the ceilings were lower than those in her parents' home. Beyond that detail she couldn't tell much else. Sections of the exterior paint were peeling, and the small front porch, which might not have been original to the house, looked slightly lopsided. Still, Becca smiled to see a simple but elegant pine wreath on the house's front door. Maybe Alex was just very busy and not negligent about home repair.
Becca went around the house to the old barn. This, too, was smaller than her parents' barn, and the exterior was not as well kept. Becca knocked loudly on the weathered wooden door.
“Come in!” a voice boomed.
She pushed open the door just a bitâit was heavier than she had imagined it would beâand peered inside. “Are you busy?” she asked.
Alex was bent over a long wooden trestle table, but he looked up at her briefly. “I am busy but I can talk. Or listen. If you don't mind my working while I do it.”
“No, of course not,” she said. “Work is important.”
Becca came all the way into the barn and closed the door behind her.
“Yes, it is,” Alex was saying. “And so are deadlines. I'm afraid I've been dragging my feet with this commission. But I need the money and, more importantly, I made a promise soâhere I am.”
It was cold in Alex's studio. Colder than it should be, Becca thought, given the working woodstove and the fiberglass “batts” stapled to the walls. (She had learned a lot during the construction of her condo and the other condos in the building.) She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.
“Sorry about the cold,” he said, noting her discomfort. “I try to keep my heating costs as low as possible. Of course, I can't go without heat out here entirely. I'd never be able to hold a gouge, even with work gloves.”
Alex held up one work-gloved hand, in which he held the gouge, as if to prove his point. Hs jeans were splattered with paint and messily tucked into partially laced work boots. A long red scarf was wound several times around his neck, the ends tucked into his heavy corduroy jacket to keep them out of the way of his work.
“I like your wreath,” Becca said, suddenly unsure of what she had come here to sayâif anything. “The one on the front door.”
“Thanks. Free materials all around, you know. And yes, I know the house needs repainting. It's happening next spring.”
Becca smiled. “And a new porch?”
“Oh, yeah. It's been rotting away since I bought the place three years ago. At least the plumbing is intact. Otherwise I'd have to call a plumber, and they can be pretty expensive.”
“You're no good with a plunger?”
Alex just grinned.
Becca pointed to the trestle table on which sat a piece of wood (Becca didn't know which kind), which was screwed to the table, and a variety of tools (few of which she recognized). “What is it?” she asked. “I mean, what are you making?”
“It's going to be a bird. Rather, a representation of a bird, for a private client. It's a pay-the-bills kind of job, not something I'm particularly enjoying but . . .”
Yes,
thought Becca.
I know all about pay-the-bills kinds of jobs.
And about the clientsâsome bearable, others not so bearableâwho made them possible.
thought Becca.
I know all about pay-the-bills kinds of jobs.
And about the clientsâsome bearable, others not so bearableâwho made them possible.
“Make yourself at home,” Alex said. “I'll be able to be a better host once I finish this step. It's still early in the process. . . .”
Arms folded across her chest against the cold and damp of the studio, Becca strolled around the old barn. Against one wall stood a large wooden cabinet of no particular style; Becca thought it looked as if it had been cobbled together long ago, maybe by the former owner of the house. On its open shelves were several booksâmostly spy novels, Becca noted; a stack of art-related magazines from years earlier; a can of paintbrushes of various sizes; a vase of pussy willows in fuzzy water that should have been changed some time ago; and an old transistor radio of the sort Becca remembered her father having kept from his childhood.
Becca moved on, interested in her finds. In one corner of the studio, laid out on the floor, Becca counted five copper weather vanes, including one, fairly traditional in style, that depicted a running horse, and another more quirky one that depicted a Halloween-style witch, complete with beaked nose and high, pointy hat, soaring on her broom. It made Becca smile to think about who might choose such a weather vane as a year-round decoration, and as a symbol of her home.
An oil paintingâat least, Becca thought the painting was done in oilâdepicting what looked like the rocky Maine shore during a summer storm was propped on a wooden easel near the collection of weather vanes. Becca didn't know a lot about painting, but she thought that this one was rather good. She felt almost as if she were right there on the blasted shore, awed by the storm-tossed sea, her skin prickled with drops of salt water.
A wheelbarrow held a pile of what looked like giant wooden spools. Becca made a mental note to ask Alex what exactly they were or had been used for. On another table were displayed several chunks of wood of various types and sizes. From the roof hung a collection of old tools used in farming; Becca recognized the tools as such but had no idea what exactly they were used for. A collection of cast-iron horses and buggies stood in a row on a shelf close to the door through which she'd entered the old barn-turned-artist's-workspace.
Alex's studio was a hodgepodge of items, random but not without coherenceâif that made any sense. And Becca couldn't help but note the vast difference between Alex's personal spaceâhis studio, yes, and not his living quarters; she wondered what they would be likeâand her own. Alex's studio was so . . . personal. It was quirky and, she guessed, informative about his personality, his likes and tastes and preferences. While her home . . . Well, her home was not. She'd furnished her new, high-end condo on Washington Avenue entirely from a Pottery Barn catalogue. Everything, from the furniture to the framed art on the walls, was preselected by the Pottery Barn buyers. It could be said that yes, Becca had chosen particular pieces from their inventory, but still . . . There were no tokens of travel on an end table, no knickknacks spotted at a flea market, no collections of seashells or ceramic frogs or glass figurines. The only items that betrayed Becca Rowan's presence in the apartment and not the presence of some other woman were several photographs of Rain. And, out of a sense of family duty, a few photographs of the twins, school pictures that Naomi had sent, thinking that Becca would actually want them.
As for her office, well, that was even more nondescript, even more impersonal. To avoid questions that might betray her own anxiety about exposure, she had no photographs at all on her desk, not even one of Rain. Her assistant, Mary, had brought her a potted plant once, but it had died within a week. Becca had neglected to water it.
And what did that say about me?
Becca wondered now. Nothing good, it seemed.
Becca wondered now. Nothing good, it seemed.
Becca walked over to the only item she hadn't yet explored. There was a large corkboard on the far wall, and tacked to it were a jumble of imagesâsome were obviously torn from magazines; some were postcards; some were photographs; a few were rough sketches in charcoalâand quotations, the latter printed in a strong, vertical hand that Becca assumed was Alex's hand.
“What's all this?” Becca asked, gesturing to the display.
Alex glanced over his shoulder to where she stood. “Food for thought. Words and pictures to keep the mind alive and well. Inspiration, if I'm lucky. A way to kill time if I'm not.”
Becca walked closer to the wall. Her eye was immediately caught by a phrase printed on a three-by-five index card. She proceeded to read aloud.
“ âWe are by nature our own enemies . . . we seek events that unconsciously befit us, which consciously we fear. Richard Ellmann,
OSCAR WILDE.
' ”
OSCAR WILDE.
' ”
Alex seemed to have completed the immediate task that had required most of his attention. Now he put down his gouge and perched on a paint-spattered stool. “It's a wonderful biography,” he said. “Have you read it?”
Becca shook her head. “No. So what he's saying, this Ellmann, is that a person's greatest strength is his greatest weakness.”
Alex considered. “I'm not sure that's quite what he's saying, but yes, I think your observation is probably true for most people. Maybe all people. People who are super-organized might be missing out on the creative aspects of chaos. Someone who's always nurturing others might be emotionally starving inside.”
The thought scared Becca because she suspected its truth. She liked things to be obvious and clear; she liked things to mean what they were supposed to mean and nothing else. The fact that one traitâgenerosity, for exampleâcould mean something both positive and negative within the one person who owned the trait, well, that was disconcerting.
“I'm uncomfortable with paradox and uncertainty,” she said abruptly.
Alex looked at her, as if wondering what had been going on in her head in the last few seconds. “As an artist,” he said finally, “I dwell almost exclusively with paradox and uncertainty.”
“Do you think there's any way to avoid yourself?” she said, not in response to Alex's statement, but struck by the quote tacked to the wall. “What I mean is, do you think it's inevitable that everyone betrays himself in the end? Is it inevitable that, for example, my generosity is going to be my downfall?”
That if I'm always and exclusively concerned with another personâmy daughterâI'm going to live and die unfulfilled?
This last question Becca posed to herself.
That if I'm always and exclusively concerned with another personâmy daughterâI'm going to live and die unfulfilled?
This last question Becca posed to herself.
“I think,” Alex said with a smile, “that I'm going to have to give that question some consideration. It's a complex question with, no doubt, a complex answer.”
Becca turned back to the board and read aloud another quote, this one also by this Richard Ellmann person. “ âTo replace a morality of severity with one of sympathy.' ”
“What are your thoughts about that?” Alex asked.
“I doubt that sympathy is always appropriate,” Becca said quickly, turning to face him. “I mean, some people make their own unhappiness and I can't feel much sympathy for that.”
Like my older sister,
Becca thought.
And like me?
Like my older sister,
Becca thought.
And like me?
“That's where we're different,” Alex replied. “I'm not claiming to be a saint, but I do urge sympathy at all times. Sometimes, I'm wrong, but I'd rather start from a place of kindness than one of judgment. Maybe that unhappy person isn't able to be otherwise. Maybe he simply can't be other than who and what he is. And for that, I can feel sympathy.”
Becca looked closely at this man working on his pay-the-bills project. She found herself admiring his dedication, and his competency. And more than that, she found herself admiring his kindness. “I think,” she said, after some time, “that you're a much better person than I am.”
“Don't say that,” he replied quickly. “You don't know me very well. Besides, I also don't believe in putting oneself down, even in a roundabout way. Which is not to say that a person shouldn't hold himself accountable to good behavior. But that's another topic.”
Yes, she thought. One should hold oneself accountable to good behavior. Otherwise, there would be chaos all the time. No relationship would ever be safe. “Alex,” she said, “do you ever regret something you did? Or something you didn't do?”
“No,” he said firmly. “To both questions. I believe that regret is useless. More than that, I believe that it's poisonous. I just can't see anything constructive about it. Which is not to say that I don't try to learn from my mistakes. I do try to learn. I just try not to regret.”
“Oh.” Could regret really be avoided? Becca wondered.
Alex shifted on the stool, which was not the most comfortable perch he'd ever sat on. “Why did you ask?” he said. “Are you suffering regrets about something?”
“Maybe,” she said. “But not about something I did or didn't do. I think I might be regretting something I plan to do. Rather, something I'd planned to do.”
Alex raised an eyebrow at her. “You know that makes no sense. You can't regret the future.”
“Intentions,” Becca argued. “You can regret or feel bad about intentions. You can feel bad about having announced your intentions and maybe having hurt people by announcing them. You can feel bad about revealing thoughts and feelings you should have kept to yourself or conquered or . . . or maybe never had in the first place.”
Alex folded his armsâdamn, it was cold in that barnâand looked at Becca with concern.
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