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Chapter no 7 – Holiday Spirit and Christmas Eveโ€Œ

The Wish

Manhattan December 2019

In the glow of the galleryโ€™s Christmas tree lights, the memory of that

kiss remained vivid in Maggieโ€™s mind. Her throat was dry, and she wondered how long sheโ€™d been speaking. As usual, Mark had stayed quiet as sheโ€™d recounted the events of that period of her life. He was leaning forward, forearms on his thighs, his hands clasped together.

โ€œWow,โ€ he finally said. โ€œThe perfect kiss?โ€

โ€œYeah,โ€ she agreed. โ€œI know how it sounds. Butโ€ฆthatโ€™s what it was. To this day, itโ€™s the kiss that all others have been compared to.โ€

He smiled. โ€œIโ€™m happy you had the chance to experience that, but I admit it leaves me feeling a little intimidated.โ€

โ€œWhy?โ€

โ€œBecause when Abigail hears about it, she may ask herself whether sheโ€™s missing outโ€”she might go off in search of her own perfect kiss.โ€

Laughing, Maggie tried to recall how long it had been since sheโ€™d sat with a friend for hours and simplyโ€ฆtalked. Without self-consciousness or worries, where she felt like she could really be herself? Too longโ€ฆ

โ€œIโ€™m sure Abigail melts whenever you kiss her,โ€ she teased.

Mark blushed to his hairline. Then, suddenly serious, he said, โ€œYou meant it. When you said you loved him.โ€

โ€œIโ€™m not sure I ever stopped loving him.โ€ โ€œAnd?โ€

โ€œAnd youโ€™ll have to wait to hear the rest. I donโ€™t have the energy to keep going tonight.โ€

โ€œFair enough,โ€ he said. โ€œIt can hold. But I hope you donโ€™t make me wait too long.โ€

She stared at the tree, inspecting its shape, the glittering and artfully draped ribbons. โ€œItโ€™s hard for me to believe this will be my last Christmas,โ€ she mused. โ€œThank you for helping me make it even more special.โ€

โ€œYou donโ€™t have to thank me. Iโ€™m honored youโ€™ve chosen to spend part of it with me.โ€

โ€œYou know what Iโ€™ve never done? Even though Iโ€™ve lived in New York City all these years?โ€

โ€œSeenย The Nutcracker?โ€

She shook her head. โ€œIโ€™ve never gone ice skating at Rockefeller Center under the giant tree. In fact, I havenโ€™t even seen the tree except on TV since my early years here.โ€

โ€œThen we should go! The gallery is closed tomorrow, so why not?โ€

โ€œI donโ€™t know how to ice skate,โ€ she said with a wistful expression.ย And Iโ€™m not sure Iโ€™d have the energy, even if I did.

โ€œI do,โ€ he said. โ€œI played hockey, remember? I can help you.โ€

She eyed him uncertainly. โ€œDonโ€™t you have something better to do on your day off? You shouldnโ€™t feel like itโ€™s your responsibility to indulge your bossโ€™s crazy whims.โ€

โ€œBelieve me, it sounds a lot more fun than what I usually do on Sundays.โ€

โ€œWhich is what, exactly?โ€

โ€œLaundry. Grocery shopping. A little video gaming. Are we on?โ€

โ€œIโ€™m going to need to sleep late. I wouldnโ€™t be ready until midafternoon.โ€

โ€œWhy donโ€™t we meet at the gallery at two or so? We can catch an Uber uptown together.โ€

Despite her reservations, she agreed. โ€œOkay.โ€

โ€œAnd afterwards, depending on how you feel, maybe you can fill me in on what happened next between you and Bryce.โ€

โ€œPerhaps,โ€ she said. โ€œLetโ€™s see how I feel.โ€

* * *

Back in her apartment, Maggie felt a profound exhaustion overtake her, pulling her down like an undertow. She removed her jacket and lay down in bed, wanting to rest her eyes for a minute before changing into her pajamas.

She woke at half-past noon the following day, still dressed in the clothes sheโ€™d worn the day before.

It was Sunday, December 22, three days before Christmas.

* * *

Even if she trusted Mark, Maggie was nervous about the thought of falling on ice. Though sheโ€™d slept heavily overnightโ€”she doubted sheโ€™d even rolled overโ€”she felt weaker than normal, even for her. The pain was back, too, simmering just below a boil, making even the thought of eating impossible.

Her mom had called earlier that morning and left a short message, just checking in on her, hoping she was doing wellโ€”the usualโ€”but even in the message, Maggie could hear the strains of worry. Worrying, Maggie had long ago decided, was the way her mom showed Maggie how much she loved her.

But it was also wearying. Worrying, after all, had its roots in disapprovalโ€”as though Maggieโ€™s life would have been better if only sheโ€™d listened to her mom all alongโ€”and over time it had become her momโ€™s default position.

While Maggie had wanted to wait until Christmas, she knew she had to call back. If she didnโ€™t, sheโ€™d likely receive another, even more frantic message. She sat on the edge of the bed and, after glancing at the clock, realized there was a chance her parents would be at church, which would be ideal. She could leave a message, say that she had a busy day ahead, and avoid the potential for any unnecessary stress. But no such luck. Her mom picked up on the second ring.

They spoke for twenty minutes. Maggie asked about her father and Morgan and her nieces, and her mom dutifully filled her in. She asked Maggie how she was feeling, and Maggie replied that she was doing as well as could be expected. Thankfully, it stopped there and Maggie breathed a sigh of relief, knowing sheโ€™d be able to hide the truth until after the holiday. Toward the end of the conversation, Maggieโ€™s father got on the line, and he was his normal laconic self. They spoke about the weather in Seattle and New York, he updated her on the season the Seahawks were havingโ€”he loved footballโ€”and mentioned that heโ€™d purchased a set of binoculars for Christmas. When Maggie asked why, she was told that her mom had joined a bird-watching club. Maggie wondered how long the interest in the club would last and assumed it would go the same way as other clubs her mom had joined over the years. Initially there would be a lot of enthusiasm and Maggie would listen to raves about how fascinating the members were; after a few months, her mom would note that there were a few people in the

club she didnโ€™t get along with; and later, sheโ€™d announce to Maggie that sheโ€™d quit because most of the people were just awful. In her momโ€™s world, someone else was always the problem.

Her dad said nothing else, and after hanging up the phone, Maggie wished again that she had a different relationship with her parents, especially with her mom. A relationship characterized more by laughter than by sighs. Most of her friends had good relationships with their moms. Even Trinity got along with his mom, and he was temperamental when compared to other artists. Why was it so hard for Maggie?

Because, Maggie silently acknowledged, her mom made it hard, and sheโ€™d done so for as long as Maggie could remember. To her, Maggie was more of a shadow than a real person, someone whose hopes and dreams felt incomprehensibly alien. Even if they shared the same opinion on a particular subject, her mom wasnโ€™t likely to find comfort in such a thing. Instead sheโ€™d focus her attention on a related area of disagreement, with worry and disapproval as her primary weapons.

Maggie knew her mom couldnโ€™t help it; sheโ€™d probably been the same way as a child. And it was childlike in a way, now that Maggie thought about it.ย Do what I want, or else.ย For Maggieโ€™s mom, tantrums were sublimated into other, more insidious means of control.

The years after returning from Ocracoke, before sheโ€™d moved to New York, had been particularly trying. Her mom had believed that pursuing a career in photography was both silly and risky, that Maggie should have followed Morgan to Gonzaga, that she should try to meet the right kind of man and settle down. When Maggie had finally moved away, sheโ€™d dreaded speaking to her mom at all.

The sad thing was that her mom wasnโ€™t a terrible person. She wasnโ€™t necessarily even a bad mom. Thinking back, sheโ€™d made the right decision to send Maggie to Ocracoke, and she wasnโ€™t the only parent who cared about grades, or worried that her daughter was dating the wrong kind of guys, or believed that marriage and having children were more important than a career. And, of course, some of her other valuesย hadย stuck with Maggie. Like her parents, Maggie drank infrequently, avoided recreational drugs, paid her bills, valued honesty, and was law-abiding. She didnโ€™t, however, attend church any longer; that had ended in her early twenties when sheโ€™d had a crisis of faith. Well, a crisis of pretty much everything, in

fact, which led to her spontaneous move to New York and a series of awful relationships, assuming they could be called relationships at all.

As for her dadโ€ฆ

Maggie sometimes wondered whether she had ever really known him. If pressed, she would say that he was a product of another era, a time when men worked and provided for their family and went to church and understood that complaining seldom offered solutions. His general quietude, however, had given way to something else since heโ€™d retired, a near reticence to speak at all. He spent hours alone in the garage even when Maggie visited, and was content to let his wife speak for him during dinners.

But the call was completed, at least until Christmas, and it made her realize how much she was dreading the next one. No doubt, her mom would demand that Maggie return to Seattle, and sheโ€™d use every guilt-based weapon at her disposal to try to get her way. It wasnโ€™t going to be pretty.

Pushing that thought away, she tried to focus on the present. She noted that the pain was getting worse and wondered whether she should text Mark and cancel. With a grimace, she made her way to the bathroom and retrieved the bottle of pain pills, remembering Dr. Brodigan telling her that they were addictive if used inappropriately. What a silly thing to say. What did it really matter if Maggie became addicted at this point? And how much was inappropriate? Her insides felt like a pincushion and even touching the back of her hand triggered little flashes of white in the corners of Maggieโ€™s eyes.

She swallowed two pills, debated, and then took a third, just in case. She decided to see how she felt in half an hour before making a final decision about today and went to sit on the couch while they took effect. Though sheโ€™d wondered whether the pills would work as usual, like magic, the pain began to fade. When it was finally time to go, she was floating on a wave of well-being and optimism. She could always watch Mark skate, if it came down to it, and it was probably a good idea to get some fresh air, wasnโ€™t it?

She caught a cab to the gallery and spotted Mark standing outside the doors. He was holding a to-go cup, no doubt her favorite smoothie, and when he saw her, he hailed her with a wide grin. Despite her condition, she was certain sheโ€™d made the right call.

* * *

โ€œDo you think weโ€™ll be able to skate?โ€ Maggie asked when they arrived at Rockefeller Center and saw the crowds overflowing the rink. โ€œI didnโ€™t even consider the idea we might need reservations.โ€

โ€œI called this morning,โ€ Mark assured her. โ€œItโ€™s all set up.โ€

Mark found a place for her to sit while he went to wait in line and Maggie sipped her smoothie, thinking the third pill had done the trick. She felt a bit loopy but not as ebullient as earlier; in any case, the pain had diminished to an almost tolerable level. Moreover, she actually felt warm for the first time in what seemed like forever. Though she could see her breath, she wasnโ€™t shivering and her fingers didnโ€™t ache, for a change.

The smoothie was going down easily as well, which was a relief. She knew she needed every calorie, and wasnโ€™t that ironic? After a lifetime of watching what she ate and groaning every time the scale ticked a pound upward, now that she actually needed calories, they were almost impossible to ingest. Lately, she was afraid to get on the scale because she was terrified to see how much weight sheโ€™d lost. Beneath her clothes, she was turning into a skeleton.

But enough of the doom and gloom. Mesmerized by the mass of moving bodies on the ice, she only vaguely heard her phone ding. Reaching into her pocket, she saw that Mark had texted, saying that he was on his way back so he could escort her to the rink and help her with her skates.

In the past, his offer of assistance would have humiliated her. But the fact was, she doubted sheโ€™d be able to put on the skates without his help. When he reached her, he offered his arm and the two of them walked slowly down the steps to the changing area, where theyโ€™d don their skates.

Even though he was supporting her, she felt like the wind would topple her over.

* * *

โ€œDo you want me to keep holding you?โ€ Mark asked. โ€œOr do you think you have the hang of it?โ€

โ€œDonโ€™t even think of letting go,โ€ she replied through gritted teeth.

Adrenaline, amplified by fear, had a way of clearing the mind, and she decided that ice skating was much better as a concept than in practice. Trying to stay upright on two thin blades over a slippery sheet of ice while in her condition hadnโ€™t been the brightest of ideas. In fact, a pretty strong case could be made that it was idiotic.

And yetโ€ฆ

Mark made it as easy and safe as possible. He was skating backward in front of her, both hands firmly on her hips. They were near the outer edge of the rink and moving slowly; inside, pretty much everyone from little old ladies to toddlers was zipping past, looking carefree and joyous. But with Markโ€™s help, at least, Maggie was gliding. There were a few people who, like Maggie, clearly had never donned ice skates before, and they gripped the outer wall with every slow shuffle, their legs occasionally shooting out in unpredictable directions.

Ahead of them, Maggie witnessed just such an incident. โ€œI really donโ€™t want to fall.โ€

โ€œYouโ€™re not going to fall,โ€ Mark said, his eyes fixed on her skates. โ€œIโ€™ve got you.โ€

โ€œYou canโ€™t see where youโ€™re going,โ€ she protested.

โ€œIโ€™m using my peripheral vision,โ€ he explained. โ€œJust let me know if someone takes a tumble right in front of us.โ€

โ€œHow long do we have?โ€ โ€œThirty minutes,โ€ he said.

โ€œI donโ€™t think Iโ€™ll be able to last that long.โ€ โ€œWeโ€™ll stop whenever you want.โ€

โ€œI forgot to give you my credit card. Did you pay for this?โ€ โ€œIt was my treat. Now stop talking and try to enjoy yourself.โ€ โ€œAlmost falling every second isnโ€™t enjoyable.โ€

โ€œYouโ€™re not going to fall,โ€ he said again. โ€œIโ€™ve got you.โ€

* * *

โ€œThat was fun!โ€ Maggie exclaimed. In the changing area, Mark had just helped her remove her skates. Though she hadnโ€™t asked, heโ€™d also helped her put her shoes back on. In all, theyโ€™d circled the rink four times, which had taken thirteen minutes.

โ€œIโ€™m glad you enjoyed it.โ€

โ€œNow I can say I actually did the big New York tourist thing.โ€ โ€œYes, you can.โ€

โ€œDid you have a chance to see the tree? Or were you too busy keeping me from breaking my neck?โ€

โ€œI saw it,โ€ he said. โ€œBut barely.โ€

โ€œYou should go skate. You still have a few minutes.โ€

To her surprise, he actually seemed to consider it. โ€œWould you mind?โ€ โ€œNot at all.โ€

After helping her upโ€”and offering his armโ€”he walked her to the side of the rink and made sure she could support herself before letting go. โ€œYou okay?โ€

โ€œGo ahead. Letโ€™s see how you do without a sick old woman slowing you down.โ€

โ€œYouโ€™re not old.โ€ He winked, and duckwalking over to the ice, he took three or four quick steps, speeding into the turn. He jumped, rotating in the air, and started skating backward while accelerating even faster, flying beneath the tree on the far side of the rink. He spun again, speeding forward into the next curve, one hand nearly at the ice, then flew past her. Almost automatically, she retrieved her iPhone from her pocket. She waited until he was beneath the tree and snapped off a couple of photos; on the next lap, she shot video.

A few minutes later, after the session ended and Mark was in the changing area, she took a peek at the photos and found herself thinking about the shot sheโ€™d taken of Bryce on the ladder. Just as sheโ€™d done back then, sheโ€™d seemed to capture the essence of the young man sheโ€™d come to know. Like Bryce, Mark had also become strangely important to her in a relatively short period. And yet, as sheโ€™d had to with Bryce, she knew sheโ€™d eventually have to say goodbye to Mark as well, which suddenly made her ache in a way that eclipsed the physical pain lurking in her bones.

* * *

Once they were back on solid ground, she texted the pictures and video to Mark and they had a stranger snap an additional shot of the two of them with the tree in the background. Mark immediately began fiddling with the phone, no doubt forwarding the images.

โ€œAbigail?โ€ Maggie asked. โ€œAnd my parents.โ€

โ€œIโ€™m sure theyโ€™re missing you this Christmas.โ€ โ€œI think theyโ€™re having the time of their lives.โ€

She pointed to the restaurant adjacent to the rink. โ€œIs it okay with you if we swing by the Sea Grill? I think Iโ€™d like a hot tea at the bar.โ€

โ€œWhatever youโ€™d like.โ€

She hooked her arm through Markโ€™s and walked slowly to the glass- enclosed restaurant. She told the bartender what she wanted and Mark ordered the same thing. When the teapot was placed before her, she poured some of the tea into her cup.

โ€œYouโ€™re an excellent skater.โ€

โ€œThanks. Abigail and I go sometimes.โ€ โ€œDid she like the photo you texted?โ€

โ€œShe replied with three heart emojis, which I take as a yes. But Iโ€™ve been wonderingโ€ฆโ€

When he paused, she finished for him. โ€œAbout the story?โ€ โ€œDo you still have the necklace that Bryce gave you?โ€

Instead of answering, Maggie reached behind her neck and unhooked the clasp before sliding the necklace off. She handed it to him, watching as he carefully took it. He stared at the front before flipping it over and examining the engraving on the back.

โ€œItโ€™s so delicate.โ€

โ€œI canโ€™t think of a day I havenโ€™t worn it.โ€ โ€œAnd the chain never broke?โ€

โ€œIโ€™m pretty careful with it. I donโ€™t sleep with it on or shower with it. But other than that, itโ€™s part of my everyday ensemble.โ€

โ€œAnd whenever you put it on, you remember that night?โ€

โ€œI remember that night all the time. Bryce wasnโ€™t just my first love.

Heโ€™s the only man Iโ€™ve ever loved.โ€

โ€œThe kite was pretty cool,โ€ Mark conceded. โ€œIโ€™ve done the campfire- and-sโ€™mores thing with Abigailโ€”at the lake, not at the oceanโ€”but Iโ€™ve never heard of a kite strung with Christmas lights. I wonder if I could build one.โ€

โ€œThese days, you can probably Google it, or maybe even order one.โ€

Mark appeared contemplative as he stared into his own cup of tea. โ€œIโ€™m glad you had a night like that with Bryce,โ€ he said. โ€œI think everyone deserves at least one perfect evening.โ€

โ€œI think so, too.โ€

โ€œBut you do understand you were falling for him all along, right? It didnโ€™t start when the storm rolled in. It started on the ferry, when you first saw him in that olive-green jacket.โ€

โ€œWhy do you say that?โ€

โ€œBecause you didnโ€™t walk away and you clearly could have. And when your aunt asked if Bryce could be your tutor, you agreed pretty quickly.โ€

โ€œI needed help in school!โ€

โ€œIf you say so,โ€ he said with a grin.

โ€œNow itโ€™s your turn,โ€ she said, changing the subject. โ€œYou took me skating, but is there anything you really want to do now that weโ€™re here in Midtown?โ€

He swished the tea around in his cup. โ€œYouโ€™ll probably think itโ€™s silly.

Since youโ€™ve been living here so long, I mean.โ€ โ€œWhat is it?โ€

โ€œI want to see some of the department storesโ€™ window displays on Fifth Avenueโ€”the ones that are all decorated for Christmas? Abigail told me it was something I have to do. And in an hour and a half, there will be a choir performing outside St. Patrickโ€™s Cathedral.โ€

The choir she could understand, but window displays? And why did it not seem out of character that heโ€™d want to do something like that?

โ€œLetโ€™s do it,โ€ she agreed, forcing herself not to roll her eyes. โ€œIโ€™m not sure how much Iโ€™ll be able to walk, though. I feel a little wobbly.โ€

โ€œGreat,โ€ he said, beaming. โ€œAnd weโ€™ll travel by cab or Uber whenever we have to, okay?โ€

โ€œOne question,โ€ she said. โ€œHow do you know a choir will be performing today?โ€

โ€œI did some research this morning.โ€

โ€œWhy do I get the sense youโ€™re trying to make this Christmas special for me?โ€

When his eyes flickered with sadness, she knew he didnโ€™t have to explain.

* * *

After finishing their teas, they stepped outside into the chilly air and Maggie felt a sharp pain deep in her chest, one that continued to flare with every heartbeat. It was blinding whiteโ€”knives, not needlesโ€”worse than ever. She froze, closing her eyes and pressing hard with a fist, right below her breast. With her free hand, she gripped Markโ€™s arm and his eyes went wide.

โ€œAre you okay?โ€

She tried to breathe steadily, the pain continuing to flash and burn. She felt Markโ€™s arm wrap around her. โ€œIt hurts,โ€ she rasped out.

โ€œDo you need to go back inside and sit? Or should I take you home?โ€

With clenched teeth, she shook her head. The thought of moving at all seemed impossible and she concentrated on her breathing. She didnโ€™t know if that would do any good, but it was what Gwen had told her to do when

she was suffering through the agony of labor. After the longest minute of her life, the pain finally began to fade, a flare slowly dying out as it sank to the horizon.

โ€œIโ€™m okay,โ€ she finally croaked, even though her vision seemed to be swimming.

โ€œYou donโ€™t seem okay,โ€ he countered. โ€œYouโ€™re shaking.โ€

โ€œPac-Man,โ€ she muttered. She took a few more breaths before finally lowering her hand. Moving slowly, she reached into her bag and pulled out her prescription bottle. She tapped another pill free and dry-swallowed it. She squeezed her eyes shut until she was able to breathe normally again, the pain finally receding to a bearable level.

โ€œDoes this happen a lot?โ€

โ€œMore than it used to. Itโ€™s becoming more frequent.โ€ โ€œI thought you were going to pass out.โ€

โ€œImpossible,โ€ she said. โ€œThat would be too easy, since then I wouldnโ€™t feel the pain.โ€

โ€œYou shouldnโ€™t make jokes,โ€ he chided. โ€œI was just about to call for an ambulance.โ€

Hearing his tone, she forced a smile. โ€œReally. Iโ€™m okay now.โ€

A lie, she thought,ย but whoโ€™s counting?

โ€œMaybe I should take you home.โ€

โ€œI want to see the windows and listen to the carols.โ€

Which, oddly, was the truth, even if it was kind of silly. If she didnโ€™t go now, she knew she never would. Mark seemed to be trying to read her.

โ€œOkay,โ€ he finally said. โ€œBut if it happens again, Iโ€™m bringing you home.โ€

She nodded, knowing he might need to.

* * *

They rode first to Bloomingdaleโ€™s, then over to Barneys, then to Fifth Avenue, where every store seemed to be trying to outdo the next with its window decorations. She saw Santa and his elves, polar bears and penguins with holiday-themed collars, artificial snow in rainbow colors, elaborate installations highlighting selected apparel or items that probably cost a fortune.

By Fifth Avenue, sheโ€™d begun to feel better, even a little floaty. No wonder people got addicted to the pills; they actuallyย worked. She clung to Markโ€™s arm as people swarmed past them in both directions, carrying bags

bearing the labels of every brand on the planet. Many of the stores had long lines of people waiting to enter, last-minute shoppers hoping for the perfect gift, none of whom appeared happy in the slightest to be standing in the cold.

Tourists, she thought, shaking her head. People who wanted to go home and say things likeย You wouldnโ€™t believe how crowded it wasย orย I had to wait an hour just to go inside the store, like it was a badge of honor or act of courage. No doubt they would tell that same story for years to come.

And yet she found the stroll curiously pleasant, maybe because of the floatiness, but mostly because Mark was so clearly gobsmacked. Though he kept a firm grip on her hand, he was constantly straining to see over the shoulders of the crowds, eyes widening at the sight of Santa crafting a Piaget watch, or smiling in delight at oversize reindeer decked out in Chanel harnesses, all of them wearing Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses. She was used to grimacing at the crass commercialization of the holiday, but observing Markโ€™s sense of wonder made her regard the storesโ€™ creativity with new appreciation.

They finally reached St. Patrickโ€™s Cathedral, arriving with pretty much everyone else in the vicinity whoโ€™d come for the same reason. The crowd was so large that they were stranded halfway down the block, and though Maggie couldnโ€™t see the singers, she could hear them thanks to the large speakers they had set up. Mark, though, was disappointed, and she realized she should have warned him this would happen. Sheโ€™d learned upon moving to New York thatย attendingย an event in the city and reallyย seeingย the event were often two entirely different things. In her first year here sheโ€™d ventured out to see the Macyโ€™s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Sheโ€™d found herself wedged against a building, surrounded by hundreds, and stuck in place for hours, her primary view the backs of peopleโ€™s heads. Sheโ€™d had to crane her neck to see the famous balloons and had awakened the following morning so sore that sheโ€™d had to visit a chiropractor.

Ah, the joys of city living, right?

The choir, even if unseen, sounded rapturous to her ears, and as she listened, Maggie found herself reflecting back on the last few days with a light sense of wonder. Sheโ€™d seenย The Nutcracker, decorated a tree, shipped gifts to her family, skated at Rockefeller Center, seen the window displays on Fifth Avenue, and now this. She was checking off once-in-a-lifetime

experiences with someone sheโ€™d come to care about, and sharing the story of her past had lifted her spirits.

But as the floatiness started to fade, she felt fatigue setting in, and she knew it was time to go. She squeezed Markโ€™s arm, signaling that she was ready. Theyโ€™d listened to four carols by then, and turning, he began leading her back through the crowd that had formed behind them. When they finally had breathing space, he stopped.

โ€œHow about some dinner?โ€ he asked. โ€œIโ€™d love to hear the rest of the story.โ€

โ€œI think I need to lie down for a while.โ€

He knew enough not to argue with her. โ€œI can ride with you.โ€ โ€œIโ€™ll be okay,โ€ she said.

โ€œDo you think youโ€™ll make it to the gallery tomorrow?โ€ โ€œIโ€™ll probably stay home. Just in case.โ€

โ€œWill I see you Christmas Eve? I want to give you your gift.โ€ โ€œYou didnโ€™t have to get me anything.โ€

โ€œOf course I did. Itโ€™s Christmas.โ€

She thought about it, finally decidingย Why not?ย โ€œOkay,โ€ she offered. โ€œDo you want to meet at work? Or have dinner? Whatever is easiest for

you.โ€

โ€œI tell you whatโ€”why donโ€™t I have dinner delivered to the gallery? We can eat under the tree.โ€

โ€œCan I hear the rest of your story?โ€

โ€œIโ€™m not sure youโ€™ll want to. Itโ€™s not really a holiday story. It gets very sad.โ€

He turned, raising his hand to hail her an oncoming cab. As the taxi pulled over, he glanced at her without pity. โ€œI know,โ€ he said simply.

* * *

For the second night in a row, Maggie slept in the clothes sheโ€™d been wearing.

The last time sheโ€™d peeked at the clock, it was a few minutes before six. Dinner hour in much of America; still-at-the-office hour in much of NYC. She woke more than eighteen hours later feeling weak and dehydrated, but thankfully pain-free.

Not willing to risk a relapse, she took a single pain pill before wobbling her way to the kitchen, where she forced down a banana, along with a piece of toast, which made her feel slightly better.

After taking a bath, she stood in front of the mirror, barely recognizing herself. Her arms were stick thin, her collarbones bulged beneath her skin like tent supports, and her torso sported numerous bruises, some of them deep purple. In her skeletal face, her eyes resembled an alienโ€™s, bright and bewildered.

What sheโ€™d read about melanomaโ€”and it felt like sheโ€™d read just about everything on the subjectโ€”suggested that there was no way to predict her final months. Some people had significant pain, requiring morphine via an IV drip; for others, it wasnโ€™t debilitating. Some patients had worsening neurological symptoms while others were clear-headed up until the end. The location of the pain was as varied as the patients, which she supposed made sense. Once cancer metastasizes, it can go anywhere in the body, but Maggie had been hoping for the more pleasant version of dying. She could handle the loss of appetite and excessive sleep, but the prospect of excruciating pain frightened her. Once she moved to IV morphine, she knew she might never get out of bed again.

But the actually-being-dead part didnโ€™t frighten her. Right now, she was too busy being inconvenienced for death to be anything but hypothetical. And who knew what it was actually like? Would she see the bright light at the end of a tunnel, or hear harps as she entered the pearly gates, or would she simply fade away? When she thought of it at all, she imagined it as akin to going to sleep without dreaming, except sheโ€™d never wake up. And, obviously, she wouldnโ€™t care about not waking up becauseโ€ฆwell, because death made caringโ€”or not caringโ€”impossible.

But yesterdayโ€™s last-ditch holiday celebrations drove home the fact that she was one seriously sick woman. She didnโ€™t want more pain, and she didnโ€™t want to sleep eighteen hours a day. There wasnโ€™t enough time for those things. More than anything, she wanted to live normally up until the very end, but she had a growing suspicion that it wasnโ€™t going to be possible.

In the bathroom, she slipped her necklace back on. She pulled a sweater over a set of thermal underwear, and thought about putting on jeans, but what was the point? Pajama bottoms were more comfortable, so she stuck with those. Finally, she donned warm fuzzy slippers and a knit hat. The thermostat was set in the midseventies, but still a little chilly, she plugged in a space heater. There was no reason to care about the electricity bill; it wasnโ€™t as though she had to save for retirement.

She heated a cup of water in the microwave, then wandered to the living room. She sipped at it, thinking about where sheโ€™d left off in her story with Mark. Reaching for her phone, she texted him, knowing he would already be at work.

Letโ€™s meet at the gallery at six tomorrow, ok? Iโ€™ll tell you the rest of my story and then we can have dinner.

Almost immediately, she saw the dots indicating that he was responding to the text, and his reply popped up in bubble form.

Canโ€™t wait! Take care of yourself. Looking forward to it. All good at work. Busy today.

She waited, seeing if he would add anything else, but he didnโ€™t. Finishing the hot water, she reflected on how her body was choosing to defy her. Sometimes it was easy to imagine that the melanoma was speaking to her in a haunted, creepy voice.ย I shall take you in the end, but first? I shall make your insides burn and force you to waste away. Iโ€™ll take your beauty and steal your hair and deprive you of conscious hours, until thereโ€™s nothing left but a skeletal shellโ€ฆ

Maggie gave a morbid chuckle at the thought of that imagined voice. Well, it would be silenced soon enough. Which raised the questionโ€ฆwhat was she going to do about her funeral?

Sheโ€™d been thinking about it on and off since her last meeting with Dr. Brodigan. Not frequently, just every now and then when the thought suddenly surfaced, often in the most unexpected moments. Like right now. Sheโ€™d done her best to ignore itโ€”death still being hypothetical and allโ€”but yesterdayโ€™s pain made that impossible.

Whatย wasย she going to do? She supposed she really didnโ€™t have to do anything. Her parents or Morgan would no doubt take care of it, but she didnโ€™t want them to have to assume that burden. And since it was her funeral, she certainly deserved some say in the matter. But what was it that she wanted?

Not the typical funeral, she knew that much. She had no desire for an open casket, or sappy songs like โ€œWind Beneath My Wings,โ€ and definitely no long eulogy from a priest who didnโ€™t even know her. That wasnโ€™t her style. But even if it had beenโ€”where would the funeral take place? Her parents would want her to be buried in Seattle, not New York, but New York was her home now. She couldnโ€™t imagine forcing her mom and dad to find a local funeral home and cemetery, or to arrange for a Catholic service

in a strange city. Nor was she sure her parents could even handle such a thing, and while Morgan was more capable, she was already overwhelmed with young children at home. All of which left only one option.

Maggie had to arrange everything in advance.

Rising from the couch, Maggie found a pad of paper in the kitchen drawer. She made some notes about the kind of service she wanted. It was less depressing than sheโ€™d imagined, likely because she rejected outright all the somber stuff. She reviewed what sheโ€™d written, and while it wouldnโ€™t make sense to her parents, she was glad sheโ€™d thought to express her dying wishes. She made a note to herself to contact her attorney in the new year so it could all be finalized.

Which left only one more thing to do.

* * *

She needed to get Mark something for Christmas.

Though sheโ€™d given him a bonus earlier in December, just as sheโ€™d done for Luanne, she felt like something more was warranted, especially after these past few days. But what to get him? Like most young people, especially those who intended to go to graduate school, heโ€™d probably appreciate an additional gift of money more than anything else. Lord knows, when she was in her twenties, thatโ€™s what she would have wanted. It would also be easyโ€”all she had to do was write a checkโ€”but it didnโ€™t feel right to her. She sensed that his gift for her was something personal, which made her think she should reciprocate in a similar vein.

She asked herself what Mark enjoyed, but even that didnโ€™t lead to many answers. He loved Abigail and his parents, he intended to lead a religious life, he was interested in contemporary art, and he grew up in Indiana and played hockey. What else did she know about him?

She flashed back to their first interview, remembering how prepared heโ€™d been, and the answer finally presented itself. Mark admired the photographs sheโ€™d taken; more than that, he thought of them as her legacy. So why not give Mark a gift that reflected Maggieโ€™s passion?

In the drawers of her desk, she found several flash drives; sheโ€™d always kept plenty on hand. For the next few hours, she began to transfer photographs onto the drives, choosing her favorites. Some of them hung on the walls of the gallery, and though the photographs wouldnโ€™t be part of the limited-edition runsโ€”and thus without monetary valueโ€”she knew that Mark wouldnโ€™t care about that. He wouldnโ€™t want the photographs for

financial reasons; heโ€™d want them because sheโ€™d taken them, and because theyโ€™d meant something to her.

* * *

When she was finished, she dutifully consumed some food. Salty cardboard, as disgusting as ever. Throwing caution to the wind, she also poured herself a glass of wine. She found a station playing Christmas music on the radio, and she sipped her wine until she became drowsy. She traded her sweater for a sweatshirt, put on socks in place of the slippers, and crawled into bed.

She woke at noon on Christmas Eve, feeling rested and, miracle of miracles, completely pain-free.

But just in case, she took her pills, washing them down with half a cup of tea.

* * *

Knowing that it would most likely be a late night, she lounged most of the day. She called her favorite neighborhood Italian restaurant, where until recently she had been a regular, and learned that a delivery for two shouldnโ€™t be a problem despite the large crowd expected for dinner that evening. The manager, whom she knew well and who she guessed knew of her illness due to her appearance, was particularly solicitous. He anticipated what she might enjoy, remembering the dishes she frequently ordered and suggesting a few specials as well as their famous tiramisu. She thanked him warmly after reading him her credit card number and scheduling the delivery for eight p.m.ย And who said New Yorkers were callous?ย she thought with a smile as she hung up.

She ordered a smoothie, drank it while taking her bath, and then reviewed the flash drives sheโ€™d created for Mark. As always, when revisiting her past work, her mind re-created the particulars of every shot.

Losing herself in the memories of so many exhilarating trips and experiences made the hours pass quickly. At four, she took a nap, even though she was still feeling pretty good; after she woke, she slowly got ready. As she had in Ocracoke so long ago, she chose a red sweater, albeit with more layers underneath. Black wool slacks over tights, and a black beret. No jewelry except for the necklace, but enough makeup so she wouldnโ€™t frighten the cabdriver. She added a cashmere scarf to hide her gangly neck, and then put her pills in her bag, just in case. She hadnโ€™t had time to wrap Markโ€™s gift, so she emptied a tin of Altoids and used the

container for the drives. She wished she had a bow but figured Mark wouldnโ€™t care. Finally, with a sense of dread, she retrieved one of the letters her aunt Linda had written, which she kept in her jewelry box.

Outside, the weather was bone-chilling and damp, the sky promising snow. In the short cab ride to the gallery, she passed a Santa Claus ringing a bell, soliciting donations for the Salvation Army. She saw a menorah in an apartment window. On the radio, the cabdriver was listening to music that sounded Indian or Pakistani. Christmas in Manhattan.

The door to the gallery was locked, and after entering, she locked it again behind her. Mark was nowhere to be seen, but the tree was glowing, and she smiled when she saw that he had set up a small fold-out table flanked by two fold-out chairs in front of the tree and covered it with a red paper tablecloth. On the table was a gift-wrapped box and a vase with a red carnation, along with two glasses of eggnog.

He must have heard her enter because he emerged from the back as she was admiring the table. When she turned, she noticed that he, too, wore a red sweater and black slacks.

โ€œIโ€™d say you look fantastic, but I think that might come across as self- serving,โ€ she observed as she removed her jacket.

โ€œIf I didnโ€™t know better, Iโ€™d think you came by earlier to see what Iโ€™d be wearing,โ€ he countered.

She motioned toward the table. โ€œYouโ€™ve been busy.โ€ โ€œI figured weโ€™d need a place to eat.โ€

โ€œYou do understand that if I have the eggnog, I wonโ€™t be able to eat at all.โ€

โ€œThen just think of it as table decoration. Can I take your jacket?โ€

She handed it over and he disappeared into the back again while Maggie continued to survey the scene. In no small way, it reminded her of the Christmas sheโ€™d spent in Ocracoke, which had no doubt been his intention.

She took a seat at the table, feeling content, as Mark emerged from the back with a coffee cup in hand. He set it before her.

โ€œItโ€™s just hot water,โ€ he explained, โ€œbut I brought a tea bag if youโ€™d like a little flavor.โ€

โ€œThank you.โ€ Because tea sounded good, and the caffeine even better, she added the bag to her water, letting it steep. โ€œWhere did you get all this?โ€ She swept her arm over the scene.

โ€œThe chairs and table are from my apartmentโ€”itโ€™s actually my temporary dining set. The cheap tablecloth came from Duane Reade. More importantly, how are you doing? Iโ€™ve been worried about you since I saw you last.โ€

โ€œIโ€™ve slept a lot. I feel better.โ€ โ€œYou look good.โ€

โ€œIโ€™m a walking cadaver. But thank you anyway.โ€ โ€œCan I ask you a question?โ€

โ€œHavenโ€™t we moved beyond that yet? Where you have to ask permission to ask me something?โ€

He stared into his cup of eggnog, his brow creased by a slight frown. โ€œAfter we finished skating, you know, whenโ€ฆyou started feeling bad. You said something likeโ€ฆPac-Man? Or Packmin? Orโ€ฆโ€

โ€œPac-Man,โ€ she said. โ€œWhat does that mean?โ€

โ€œHave you never heard ofย Pac-Man? The video game?โ€ โ€œNo.โ€

Dear God, he really is young. Or Iโ€™m getting old.ย She pulled out her phone, went to YouTube, selected a quick video, and handed the phone to him. He started the video and began watching.

โ€œSo Pac-Man moves through a maze eating dots along the way?โ€ โ€œExactly.โ€

โ€œWhat did that have to do with the way you were feeling?โ€

โ€œBecause thatโ€™s sometimes how I think about cancer. That itโ€™s like Pac- Man, moving through the maze of my body, eating all my healthy cells.โ€

As she answered, his eyes went wide. โ€œOhโ€ฆwow. Iโ€™m so sorry I brought this up. I shouldnโ€™t have askedโ€ฆโ€

She waved a hand at him. โ€œItโ€™s not a big deal. Letโ€™s just forget about it, okay? Are you hungry? I hope you donโ€™t mind, but I went ahead and ordered from my favorite Italian restaurant. The food should arrive by eight.โ€ Even if she couldnโ€™t eat more than a few bites, she was hoping to enjoy the smell.

โ€œSounds great. Thanks for that. And before I forget, Abigail told me to wish you a merry Christmas. She said she wishes she could be here with us and that she canโ€™t wait to meet you when she comes to New York in a few days.โ€

โ€œLikewise,โ€ Maggie said. She gestured at the gift. โ€œShould I open it now, since the food wonโ€™t be here for a while?โ€

โ€œWhy donโ€™t we wait until after dinner?โ€

โ€œAnd until then, let me guessโ€ฆYou want to hear the rest of my story.โ€ โ€œIโ€™ve been thinking about it ever since you left off.โ€

โ€œItโ€™s still better if we end with the perfect kiss.โ€ โ€œIโ€™d rather hear it all, if you donโ€™t mind.โ€

She took a swallow of tea, letting it warm the back of her throat while the years rolled in reverse. She closed her eyes, wishing she could forget, but knowing she never would.

โ€œLater that night, after Bryce brought me home, I barely slept at allโ€ฆโ€

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