A Christmas Caroline by Camilla Isley
Ten
Memories
As I head downstairs, I’m embarrassed at my quasi meltdown.
Sam is in the living room with his coat already on and with Bram strapped to his chest in a reverse koala position where the baby faces forward. The hubby is holding both of Bram’s little hands, waving his arms in a little dance in synchrony with his feet, and humming. Bram is laughing his head off, Sam is smiling, and they’re just too cute a sight.
Something must be terribly wrong with me, I’ve gone soppy, I’m losing my cool because I feel like crying again. To stop the tears, I take a step back up the stairs and consciously inhale. And why is it that even happy moments threaten to have me break down into a sobbing heap?
One, two, three deep, steadying breaths, and I’m ready to enter the living room.
Even if Fan must’ve already reassured him I’m okay, Sam’s eyes light up when he spots me across the room.
“Look who’s here,” he tells Bram. “Mommy has arrived.”
“Dah, dah, dah,” Bram agrees.
I go to them. “I’m sorry for freaking out on you and for pushing you away, I was just too embarrassed.”
“No worries, Baldy.” He ruffles my hair.
“Not funny.”
“Too soon?”
I lift on my toes and kiss him on the lips. Bram chuckles, delighted at being squeezed between us, and I kiss him on the head too. There’s something about babies’ heads that just compels kisses.
“Shall we go?” I ask.
Outside, the sky is ashen and mottled with clouds, and a few lazy snowflakes are drifting down in irregular swirls. The weather is not so bleak that we can’t walk, but Sam goes back into the house and carries out a gigantic black umbrella. He checks that Bram’s hat is covering the baby’s ears, opens the umbrella, and offers me his arm.
The curbs have been plowed, and ours are the first footprints on the thin layer of dusty fluff already covering the cleared path. This is my hometown, but oddly enough, it is Sam now that guides me through its streets, pointing out buildings of interest as we go: Jo’s elementary school, Will’s kindergarten, our favorite restaurant—a new one that hadn’t opened yet when I left for college fifteen years ago, and so on. Until finally, we head up Market Street toward Russell Square.
Sam has chosen the angle of approach so that when we reach the square, the bookshop is standing on the opposite side, giving us a “wide-angle” view of its large windows filled with multicolored books. I stop in my tracks as I see my childhood fantasy materialized before my eyes as if by magic. The shop is where the old Stansfield Pharmacy used to be. Whenever I played librarian as a kid, this is the spot I always pictured.
The store sits on the corner of Russell Square and Greenbrook Road on the ground floor of one of the oldest buildings in town, quaint with its wooden slating and turrets. The main window has maintained the old dark-wood and slightly undulated old-glass paneling original from the time of construction, and the storefront is concave, following the gentle curve of the square. I look up at the name painted on the top wooden panel, scratched and discolored as if it were as old as the rest of the shop.
“Oh my gosh,” I gasp. “I called it Rumpelstiltskin Bookshop.”
Sam smiles next to me. “You said you wanted an important name, and that Rumpelstiltskin is as familiar with the concept of name importance as it gets.”
I’m so eager to get closer to the shop, I jay-walk, cutting across the square. As I glue my nose to the old glass like a toddler would do with a toy store, I recognize most of the novels on display. A few titles I’m a little ashamed to admit are excellent books I passed over in my universe to pursue more lucrative new releases. In fact, none of the books on display are published by Wilkins and Marley. But that’s probably because, in this universe, Wilkins and Marley doesn’t exist since the Wilkins part is stuck running a small-town bookshop. But the novels ought to have been written and then published by someone else, which makes me wonder why none of them made the cut to be in the window.
After scanning the covers, I take in the rest of the display, the old-fashioned Christmas decorations, and the faux-snow bedding. It’s beautiful.
I wait impatiently for Sam to arrive with the keys. He unlocks the front door and holds it open for me, making the small bell atop jingle.
Hesitant now and a little overwhelmed, I step in. The wooden paneling inside is original from the old pharmacy but stocked with books instead of vials and potions. The registry is where the old counter used to be, while the rest of the space is a maze of tall bookshelves crammed with so many books, books, books. A jigsaw of colored rugs covers every inch of the original hardwood floors. The rugs have rich colors that make the interior glow with coziness despite the gray sky and falling snow.
Whereas the wood paneling is as dark as it was a century ago, the bookcases installed in the middle are painted in the same rich colors as the rugs.
The store is a mix between an old library and a Middle Eastern bazaar, and I love it.
I move through the shelves, entranced, running a finger across the spines, smiling at certain books as if I was being reunited with old friends. I move across the wilderness of genres: poetry, classics, romance, history, travels, mystery, fantasy, children’s books. You name it, the shop has it. Cozy armchairs are scattered around to allow customers to sit awhile and read. In the back, a miniature café is surrounded by chairs and tables and, best of all, a colossal fireplace, with an antique white marble mantelpiece. The wall above is decorated with mosaic tiles in the same colors as the rugs. At first, the tiles appear to form a random arrangement of colors, but as I step in front of the fireplace and take a few steps back to see the complete picture, I gasp in delight once again. At once, I recognize Sam’s artistry in a reproduction of my favorite scene from Little Women. The one where the girls wake up on Christmas morning to find books concealed under their pillows as their sole present for that year. Jo is holding a red book, and Meg with a green one, Beth with a blue book, and Amy, gray. The sky is “rosy with the coming day” just as in the book.
I turn around to go find Sam and bump into him and Bram already standing behind me.
“You made that!” I say. “It must’ve taken you forever.”
I realize now with shame that when Sam told me about our third mortgage being for his studio, I didn’t even ask about his work. I was too absorbed in the revelation of being a small-time bookshop owner instead of a powerhouse publisher.
“You started a mosaic business as you’ve always wanted,” I say.
Sam inches his chin at the mosaic. “Yep, we’re both doing our dream job.”
“And mosaics pay the bills?” I ask, bewildered.
Sam shrugs. “Some years are better than others, but we make a good living.”
A suspicion tarnishes my good mood. “Has your business been supplementing mine?”
“No, honey, the shop is very successful. The business stands on its own.”
“Then why are we so strapped for money? Why don’t we have a nanny?”
Sam laughs. “A nanny? You? You’re so jealous of your kids you have trouble leaving them with a babysitter for one night, let alone a nanny. Trust me, you’re not the nanny type.”
That doesn’t sound like me at all, but I refrain from commenting.
I’m about to go explore a little further when Bram starts to fuss. Sam takes him out of the sling and pragmatically smells his bottom. “Nope,” he says. “He must be hungry.”
“Do we have time to go back home or do I have to feed him here?” I ask, looking dubiously at the reading armchairs. Will they be comfortable enough for breastfeeding?
Sam’s lips curl in an enigmatic little grin. “Mrs. Crawley, please follow me.”
He guides me down a short corridor further to the back of the store, to what must’ve been the old pharmacy’s storage room. Sam opens a door and flips on the lights. Then he gestures for me to remove my shoes, doing the same, and guides me into an airy room decorated in pastel tones. A blue sky is painted on the ceiling, dotted with white fluffy clouds, and on the walls, various scenes from The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter.
I turn to my husband. “Did you paint this, too?”
Sam nods.
“What is this room?” I ask.
“Mommies’ Heaven, a space you set up where moms can come and feed their babies in a separate room, talk, and,” he points at the light-wood bookcases, “of course, buy books on every topic ever written on motherhood.”
I study the room more in depth, besides the four large rocking chairs, and scattered toys on the floor, the shelves brim with instructional manuals. From the obvious What to Expect When You’re Expecting, to breastfeeding guides, books on self-weaning, potty training, sleep training, and all other parenting topics. I check out a few titles: Mommy Burnout; Breathe, Mama, Breathe—I ought to read these two. Then I pick up an orange paperback whose title makes me arch an eyebrow: How Not to Hate Your Husband After Kids.
I show the book to Sam. “Is this a thing?”
He chuckles mysteriously. “Let’s say we’ve had an adjustment period after Jo was born, and, yes, you’ve made me read it.” Sam smirks in that irresistible way of his. “I’m a good boy now.”
Bram lets out an indignant scream at being ignored. I exchange the paperback for my son and sit in one of the rocking chairs. I fumble with my clothes as per the usual unbuttoning, shifting of hidden pockets, and opening of secret bra flaps and give the little mothersucker his breast.
Sam replaces the book on its shelf and sits across from me.
“I’m usually not allowed in here.”
“And how do you feel being one of the mommies?”
Sam smiles and reclines in his armchair. “Pretty great, actually.”
A while later, Bram lets go of breast number two and burps and poops at the same time.
I lift the baby and hand him to Sam. “Well, here comes one joy of motherhood for you.”
***
That evening we eat Christmas leftovers kindly provided by my mom—thank goodness, as I’m no cook and I doubt Nobu takeout is an option in this zip code or on this household’s budget.
Afterward, Sam offers to put the kids to bed and I gladly accept. I go lie on the couch in a rare moment of silence. Unable to relax, I stare at the ceiling filled with dread for tomorrow when Sam will go to work and I’ll be left alone with the three little monsters. He warned me the next couple of weeks won’t be indicative of our usual setup, not with Jo’s school and Will’s kindergarten both being closed for winter break.
“It’s going to be harder than usual, but it’s manageable,” Sam explained, his words tinged with an ill-concealed undertone of anxiety that basically told me I’m toast.
My good husband offered to stay back and help, even if his jaw kept twitching with anxiety. After some prodding, I wrestled out of him that he is five days away from the inauguration of a new hotel he’s designed murals for and really can’t be staying home helping me.
After a few more protests, Sam accepted my refusal and told me my mom would do her best to help. Now I see why my sister may have a point in living next door to Mom and Dad.
Sam comes down the stairs now, after using his magical powers to put the kids to sleep, and sits at the other end of the couch. He lifts my legs on his lap, grabbing my ankles for a rub.
I close my eyes and recline my head on the armrest. I’m in heaven.
“That good, uh?” he jokes.
I hum. “You’re hired as my personal masseuse. You can never let my feet out of your hands.”
“Sorry, but I’m heading to bed soon, early rise tomorrow.”
“How come?”
“I have to go to the Koi,” he says, mentioning the hotel he’s working at. “To supervise the finishing touches on the foyer mosaic, this week’s going to be hectic before the grand opening on Friday.”
“I can’t wait to see the design,” I say, remembering Sam wouldn’t let me see even a sketch before one of his masterpieces was completed. “I’m sure it’ll be fabulous.”
Sam gets up and kisses me on the forehead.
“Hey, I found this under the bed upstairs.” He reaches into his sweatpants pocket and takes out a phone. “Battery’s dead, though.”
“Is this my phone?”
“Yep, the charger’s right behind you. Are you coming up to bed?”
I cradle the phone in my hands, eager to spy on the life of this alternative version of myself.
“I’ll just have a quick look and I’ll be up in a minute.”
Sam kisses me on the forehead. “Okay, good night, baby.” Halfway to the stairs, Sam stops and turns to me. “Oh, the passcode is 1234.”
Ah, we’re one of those couples who know each other’s passwords.
I wait until Sam’s footsteps have reached the landing to plug in the charger and wait with a trembling heart for the phone’s screen to light up.
1234, and I’m in. The home screen is littered with the standard apps: camera, calendar, mail, contacts, Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, settings, clock, maps, a bank app, period tracking, and a purple ominous What to Expect, which apparently, I haven’t deleted after Bram because we’re not done having kids.
I’ve always been a visual person, so I open Instagram first. My handle is @RumpelstiltskinBookshop, a business account. I scroll both my feed and that of people I’m following and, yep, it’s one pretty book picture after the other. I’m a solid bookstagrammer, makes sense. Facebook and Twitter are the same. When I open the photo library app, I almost expect it to be all books as well, but that’s where family life comes into focus.
The first picture was taken on December 22nd and is one of me and Will; we both have our faces painted as reindeers with red noses, white contouring around our eyes, and we’re wearing matching antler headbands.
I scroll back and find mostly pics of the kids engaged in various activities: running, playing, making angels in the snow, eating, sleeping. There are some hilarious ones of Bram and Will crying and scrunching their faces in the most ridiculous pouts. Jersey Caroline appears in a few selfies and in every single photo, she’s smiling. Even in the video where Will is making a tantrum about eating, she laughs as he takes a stand about not eating his vegetables. My skin crawls at the idea I’ll have to feed the brat three times tomorrow all on my own. What humor she found in the hissy fit is beyond my comprehension.
I keep leafing through the photos and find one of Sam sleeping in our bed, submersed in a mound of kids. All three are on top of him napping in the billowy blankets. Sweet.
I scroll down to see our family Halloween portrait. Jersey Caroline is a witch with white and red striped stockings, curly pointed shoes, and a witch hat. Jo is dressed similarly, but her stockings are white and purple. Sam is a vampire and the personification of how I imagined Eric Northman the first time I read True Blood, tall, irresistible, deadly handsome—no matter that his fangs are visibly rubber gum and that he’s the dark-haired, brown-eyed version. Will is a cute mini zombie, and Bram is wearing a wolf onesie, which I suppose makes him the family’s werewolf.
I scroll even further into the past and stop when I find a picture of Jersey Caroline at the hospital, she’s holding Bram in her arms and looks tired but beautiful, exhausted and ecstatic, sporting a smile as intimate and secretive as the Mona Lisa. Motherhood summed up in a picture full of joy and pain and contradictions.
I continue the stalking of myself, watching in wonder at my nine-month pregnant self. I’m the size of a small whale, as far away from a size four as I’ve been in my entire life, and yet so beautiful.
I go back in time with the pictures until it’s just Sam and me—no kids.
The first wedding photo catches me by surprise and almost gives me a heart attack. We’re on a beach somewhere exotic. In front of a rudimental gazebo made of three sun-bleached wooden poles tied together and decorated with white flowers and with white veils floating in the wind. I’m wearing a simple white silk dress that reaches to my bare feet. My hair is up, collected on one side with a giant white flower. Sam is wearing a white linen shirt and pants and is barefoot, too.
In the picture, we’re clasping hands, staring into each other’s eyes. The minister must’ve just reached the “you may kiss the bride” part, because it sure looks like we’re about to kiss.
We—they look so happy.
My pulse gets slightly tachycardic and I have to lower the phone and go to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. I’m not even sure what’s making me anxious, that I might be stuck in this life forever, or that I might have to go back.
I splash my face with water and, once I’m calm enough, I go back to the couch. The photo is still there waiting for me. The date stamped above the pic informs me it was taken on February 22nd. In this life, we got married two months after we broke up in reality. I must’ve already been pregnant with Jo even if the bump didn’t show yet. I wonder why I stopped taking the pill in this world. Did I just give in to Sam’s demands or was it my decision, too?
I scroll through the wedding pictures, drinking them in. The sun. The beach. I can almost feel the sea breeze on my face and the sand between my toes, and the warmth of Sam’s love surrounding me, engulfing me in a warm embrace
I’ve scrolled through seven years of life together, and the sum of it all is that I look disgustingly happy year in, year out.
This isn’t real,I repeat to myself.
Real people are never that happy. Such contentment is relegated to family commercials and Hallmark movies. And Jersey Caroline’s smiles must be as fake as those As Seen on TV ads.
I leave the phone on the couch, plugged into its charger, and tiptoe upstairs.
In the bedroom, I stop at the edge of the bed and watch Sam sleep. I don’t care if it’s wrong or if I’m not supposed to. I scoot under the covers with him and mold my front to his back. Sam stirs without waking up and takes my arm under his.
Not real,I repeat one last time before falling asleep.