A Christmas Caroline by Camilla Isley
Eight
Presents
On Christmas night, once all three kids are miraculously fed and asleep, I collapse on the bed ready to sink into a coma again. Gosh, being a mother is like having a full-time job. No, correction, it’s like having three full-time jobs with a house to manage, a husband, and another actual job on the side.
My eyes are already half-closing when Sam comes into the room, holding a large present. A thirty-by-twenty-inch rectangular box wrapped in shiny gold paper and with a silver ribbon on top.
My husband smiles in a goofy way. “We usually exchange presents on Christmas morning, before the kids get up and the whole circus begins, but we never got a chance today.”
When he drops the gift on the bed, I notice a smaller red box sitting on top of the larger one.
Thank goodness in this universe I’d already bought something for him.
I smile, because, heck, what girl doesn’t enjoy opening a present from her loving husband? I know the situation is weird, with this Christmas ghost reality, but I can’t help myself from enjoying being with Sam again, at least in these private moments.
“Which one is mine?” I ask.
Sam sits on my side of the bed. “Big one.”
I pick up the smaller red box and hand it to him. “Gosh, yours weighs a ton.”
He takes his present and rattles the package. “Mmm, wonder what it is, you go first.”
I pull on the silver ribbon and tear the gold paper underneath to reveal a plain white box. Inside, wrapped in white tissue paper, lies a silver evening gown. I scoop the dress up, and the fabric is like liquid in my hands—silk.
I stare at the label, and my eyes goggle. For all his talks about mortgages and college funds, he sure didn’t pull punches in choosing my present.
I stand up and lay the evening gown against my body. The line is simple with spaghetti straps and no decorations, but the front and back are beautifully draped, and the long skirt reaches to my toes.
“Sam, this is beautiful. Thank you.”
“You’re beautiful. You shouldn’t have let the dress go, it was made for you.”
I walk up to the closet and stare at myself in the mirror.
“I did?” I ask, trying to remember the last time I saw something I liked and didn’t buy it for myself. “Why?”
“Well. We can’t really afford it, but it’s Christmas…”
I turn and smile at Sam, feeling more emotional than I should, considering I’ve been able to afford the most expensive fashion for a while now. And while this dress might not be as pricey as some of the items in my real closet, it feels all the more precious.
“Is it for a special occasion?” I ask. The silk dress is definitely not everyday wear.
“Yes, New Year’s party.”
I can’t help my curiosity. “Where?”
“New York City, baby.”
I force myself to keep smiling. Has New York, my beautiful city, become a fancy destination in this life?
“Go on,” Sam says. “Try it on.”
I consider for a second moving into the bathroom to change. In my head, Sam hasn’t seen me naked in seven years, but in this reality, he probably knows my body better than I do. Still, I turn away shyly as I shimmy out of the black leggings and breastfeeding dress. Sam’s eyes burn a hole in my back all the same, so to distract him from my semi-nakedness, I say, “Go on, open yours, I’m curious to see what it is.”
I pull on the dress straps and admire the final result in the mirror. Wow, Sam is right, this dress was made for me. It fits like a glove and it holds onto my mommy curves in all the right places. My boobs look majestic in this universe. Must be all that breast milk.
I turn to thank Sam once again and find him staring down at my present with tears in his eyes. Oh, gosh, is Jersey Caroline so unskilled at gifting that she made a grown-ass man cry?
“Was my gift that awful?” I ask.
Sam looks up at me. “To the contrary.”
He drops the box on the bed and stands up. His muscular arms wrap around me and he gives me one of those Hollywood kisses that don’t belong in the real world. And good thing he’s supporting me because my knees buckle under the heat of his mouth. I’d forgotten what it was like to be kissed by Sam, and this kiss might surpass all the ones I do remember. I’m his wife now, and we’re a couple who must’ve shared many struggles and grown into a solid team battle after battle.
When Sam lets me go, I stare into his dark eyes. Why did I ever give him up?
The level of intensity is too much too soon. I pull away, blushing like a schoolgirl while trying not to freak out from the unusual intimacy.
“I must give superb gifts in the future, if this is the reaction I get,” I joke, and go pick up my present for Sam.
The red wrapping paper is discarded to the side, and a plain black box about the size of a book sits on the comforter, a flat round stone inside it. A single word is etched on the stone’s surface: yes.
I pick up the engraved stone. “And you could make sense of this?”
“Mm-hm.”
“What is it?”
Sam takes the rock from me, smiling and shaking his head as he sits back on the bed. “It’s a yes, written in stone.”
I blink, still confused. “Care to explain?”
Sam caresses the stone with his thumb and looks up at me. “A while ago, I told you I wanted to try for another girl. And you were skeptical because, you know, another pregnancy, we’d have to clear the attic, start another college fund… You said you’d have to think about it; that it wasn’t a definitive no, but that I shouldn’t get too excited because it wasn’t a yes written in stone, either.” Then he shows me the rock. “Guess you made up your mind.”
Another baby? They—I mean, Jersey Caroline and Sam—want another kid? Aren’t three enough? Are they nuts? I’ve been a mother for less than a day and I’m already more exhausted than after a one-hundred-hour week.
Sam must read the terror in my eyes. “Don’t worry, we don’t have to try to get pregnant at least for another year. Doctor’s orders are to wait for a minimum of eighteen months between pregnancies. And I know you’ve gone from being single and twenty-five to being in your thirties and married with three kids overnight, but I’m sure your memory will come back.”
No, Sam, my memory won’t come back because this place isn’t real. I’m probably just dreaming about you while lying in a coma in a hospital bed in Manhattan.
Given the circumstances of this fake world, I don’t see the harm in making Sam happy.
I go to him and bury my hands in his hair, lifting his head up to look at me. “I’m sure it will. Thank you for being so patient with me.” I kiss him on the forehead. “Now, I’d better get changed before I ruin the dress.”
I change quickly, replacing the dress on its hanger with extra care and hanging it outside the closet so as not to wrinkle it. Sam changes T-shirts and I steal the warm one, putting it on just like I used to do when we were together.
As I join him in bed, he eyes my PJ of choice and smiles. “Some things at least never change.”
I scoot under the covers and kiss him on the cheek. Sam cups my face and kisses my mouth, then my jaw, my neck, and collarbone.
While my body comes alive under his touch, my mind is screaming at me to pull the brakes. I’ve had plenty of casual, meaningless sex in the past seven years with strangers I can’t remember. But the last time I’ve made love was with Sam on Christmas Eve, all those nights ago. I’m not sure if I’m ready for the intensity of it.
But then Sam’s hands sneak under the T-shirt, caressing my upper thighs, and all reason flies out the window. I’m about to rip the clothes off his back when Bram starts cry-screaming in the adjoining room.
“Oh, oh,” Sam says, letting me go. “Someone’s ready for his midnight feeding.”
I curse under my breath and get off Sam, pulling on a robe.
In the nursery, Bram is waiting for me, kicking his tiny legs and arms up in the air. I tap the cactus night-lamp to increase the level of luminescence and pick him up.
“Hello, little mothersucker, you know you just prevented Mommy and Daddy from having the best I-haven’t-seen-you-in-seven-years sex?”
Bram gurgles, satisfied.
“Happy are you, uh?”
I sit us in the rolling armchair, open the top of my robe, pull up the T-shirt, unhook the bra flap, and offer him my nipple.
Bram latches on with the voracity of a piranha. The usual initial pinch comes, followed by the tingling response as the milk flows.
My son places his little hand on my breast and looks up as he suckles.
“Nu-uh, not working,” I say. “I don’t think you’re cute.”
I rock in the chair, and after a while, his eyes close.
As with Will before, I can’t resist the impulse to bend down and smell his head while planting a kiss on the small whiff of hair that grows on top.
“Don’t get any ideas in this little head of yours,” I whisper. “I don’t like babies.”
I rock on and study his peaceful face now that he’s asleep in my arms. The straight nose, long black lashes, plump, kissable cheeks, and perfect lips.
“I don’t like you.”