A Christmas Caroline by Camilla Isley

Nine

How’s The Husband?

Breakfast the next morning is a mess. Burned eggs, spilled milk, an empty box of cereal, coffee brewing without water in the tank… My pleas to Will to please eat something mix with his stubborn refusal to taste his oats and Jo’s protests her favorite cereal are over. On top of that, Bram’s wailing because I’m not keeping him in my arms while trying to deal with all of this. And even the house cat—turns out Mr. Whiskers-Winkle is our cat—is against me and vomits on the kitchen floor.

Sam asked me if I could handle stuff on my own for fifteen minutes, and I naively said yes. But when he comes into the kitchen to a scene of total chaos, my husband takes the situation into his hands at once.

He convinces Jo she can survive on regular Krispies for one morning, remakes Will’s oats in the appropriate consistency mixing in the proper amount of apple purée, and gives the cat the right hairball care chews so that he won’t hack and gag in distress all over the kitchen floor. In addition to all of this, he manages to remake the coffee while also scrambling our eggs to perfection.

Once we’re all fed, Sam says, “I forgot to get the paper from the porch.”

“I’ll get it,” I offer.

“Are you sure because I—” he makes to stand up.

“Stay!” I yell louder than I intended, and then in a softer tone, I add, “I could use the fresh air.”

If I don’t get out of this house fast, I might have a nervous breakdown. The noise, the mayhem, the complexity of it all are making me dizzy.

I pull on an old pair of Uggs—no, not even Uggs but a knockoff brand with paper-thin soles, and grab a random coat as I blast past the front door, breathing in the morning air.

I close my eyes and visualize my pristine, stainless-steel kitchen in Manhattan, where the only sound is that of my espresso machine grinding coffee and producing the perfect Italian Ristretto. I imagine the white porcelain cup I drink from that I won’t have to wash because my cleaning lady will. Then my imagination moves to my precisely organized closet, filled with beautiful, stylish clothes and even better shoes. I picture my underwear drawer brimming with La Perla sets. The last comparison is the most staggering contrast, expensive lace and silk, to the stained, plain-cotton flip bra I’m wearing right now.

I’m getting ready to take a fantasy bath in my indoor Jacuzzi when the insistent sound of a basketball bouncing on the floor and off a metal backboard distracts me from the mirage of my old life. I look to my left where the noise is coming from, but a hedge blocks the view on the lower half of my neighbors’ garden. The player remains hidden, I can only see the ball being thrown at the ring and mostly missing the basket.

I’m not sure what prompts me to go investigate, but I move to the other end of the porch and peer over. On the other side of the hedge, in a small, plowed square of concrete in front of the neighbors’ garage, a girl seven or eight years old with white-blonde hair is bouncing the ball on the floor.

“Melodie!”

The girl looks up, startled. “Morning, Mrs. Crawley. Merry Christmas. Do you like my new hoop? I’ve always wanted to learn how to play basketball.”

The dumb act gets even more on my nerves.

“Is the Christmas fantasy over yet?” I snap. “I’m done!”

“Don’t you enjoy the holidays, Mrs. Crawley? It’s said to be the best time of the year.”

“Cut the crap,” I hiss. “You know who I am and that I don’t belong here. Get me out, I want to go back to my old life.”

A sly smile curves Melodie’s lips, and she drops the pretense. “Ah, Caroline, ever the impatient.” She bounces the ball on the ground, passing it from one hand to the other. “You still need a little time. How’s life in the suburbs treating you?”

“Oh, let me see, so far I’ve been milked worse than a dairy cow, regurgitated on, thrown food at, yelled at, my younger kid can’t stay more than half an hour away from me without having an anxiety attack, my middle kid resents me for having had another baby, and my daughter hates me for not buying her a phone when she’s not even seven yet. And did you know it’s normal for babies to poop up to five times a day? I’m living the life!”

Unperturbed, Melodie keeps smiling and bouncing the ball. “And how’s the husband?”

A memory of last night’s hot kiss flashes before my eyes, and I can almost feel Sam’s lips on my neck and his hands moving down my back, so much that an involuntary shiver runs down my spine. But I recover quickly and snap, “Apparently his sole concern is how soon he can impregnate me again, so I’d say we’re even less on the same page than we were seven years ago. Seriously, I never asked for this, I’m ready to go back to the real world. Please tell me what I have to do.”

Melodie shrugs. “Sorry, my hands are tied. When you’re ready, you’ll know.”

I’m about to berate her when the front door opens behind me.

“Charlie Bear,” Sam calls, then he peeks his head out. “Oh, there you are. I was getting worried, I thought you might have slipped again.”

“No, I’m fine, I was just…” I’m about to say I was just talking to the neighbors’ kid, but as I glimpse over the hedge, Melodie and the ball are gone. “I mean, I was…”

Sam is by my side in three quick strides. “Are you okay?” He cups my face and looks me in the eyes—more clinical than romantic, as if searching for clues I might drop dead any minute. “The doctor said to call right away if you showed signs of confusion.”

“I’m not confused,” I say, removing his hands from my face. “I was only checking out the mmm…” I point at the neighbors’ house.

“The Bradys’ house?” Sam asks.

“Right, the Bradys,” I repeat, storing the information. “They’ve mounted a new basketball hoop just underneath Bram’s room. I hope it won’t be too loud.”

Sam looks over at the neighbors’ garage and frowns. “You can’t remember the neighbors’ name, but you know the hoop is new?”

I shrug and tap my temple. “The information must’ve been stored in a different compartment.”

Sam’s features relax. “Okay, it’s good you’re remembering something, it doesn’t matter what. Let’s go inside.” He puts an arm over my shoulder and steers me toward the door. “Or we’re both going to catch a cold.”

In the hall, he helps me remove the coat and hangs it on the overstuffed rack mounted on the corridor wall.

“Hey, I was thinking,” Sam says. “The bookshop is closed today being Sunday and all. Would you like to go see it? I thought it might be good for your memory and your…” he hesitates.

“My what?”

“Well, your morale.”

Apparently, I’m supposed to enjoy myself while I deal with baby poop, cat vomit, soggy oats, and missing cereals… Boo-hoo grumpy me.

“What about the kids?” I ask, sulking even more.

“I texted your mom. She can keep Jo and Will and we’d only have to bring Bram with us, but he’s probably going to sleep the entire time.”

Having to deal with “just” one kid is better than having to take care of the fool roster, so I promptly agree. Plus, if anything could cheer me up on this crappy day it’s a visit to a bookstore, even if I had to give up my publishing company to start it.

“Let me just take a quick shower,” I say, pointing at the apple puree staining my T-shirt.

“Okay.” Sam kisses me on the forehead. “I’ll bring the kids to your mom in the meantime and I’ll catch you down here in a bit.”

In the shower, I comb the conditioner through my hair. When I finish, I look down at the knot of hair in the bristles, panicking. I remove the excess shedding and pull the shower curtain open to throw it in the toilet. I pass the comb through my locks once more, and again, it comes down loaded with hair. Too much hair. At this rate, I’ll go bald.

I throw the second handful of hair in the toilet as well, just as an unexpected sob shakes my shoulders. Before I know what’s happening, I’m standing under the hot water jet, crying like a crazy person. Hard, desperate sobs shake my entire body. I rinse the conditioner away, but as I pass my hands through my scalp, yet more hair falls off.

The hair loss is so upsetting I don’t even rinse properly. I hurry out of the shower and sit on the toilet, still crying uncontrollably.

That’s how Sam finds me. He comes into the bathroom—I must’ve forgotten to lock the door, having lived alone for several years I never do it anymore—and reels in shock at the scene before his eyes.

He’s by my side at once. “Charlie Bear, what’s happened?”

I can’t stand to tell my gorgeous husband who, quite unfairly, still has all his beautiful hair that I’m going bald. His attempts to comfort me only make things worse, so I forcefully push him out of the bathroom and lock myself in.

Sam spends a good fifteen minutes knocking and whispering soothing words behind the closed door. Then he must decide he can’t handle Crazy Caroline on his own and must go search for help because the bedroom goes quiet.

Alone, I manage to reduce the uncontrollable sobbing to a hiccuping wailing. When a knock comes on the door a while later, I’m almost calm.

“Caroline,” Fan says. “What’s going on?”

“Is Sam with you?” I wail.

“Yes?” my sister confirms.

“Ask him to leave, I don’t want him to hear.”

A whispered argument ensues on the other side, and even if I can’t see him, I can feel Sam’s frustration. But in the end, the bedroom door shuts and Fan says, “We’re alone.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. “He didn’t just pretend to go away and is still next to you listening quietly?”

“No, Caroline. Sam is gone. Now tell me what’s happening.”

Chest already shaking, I half cry out, “I’m going bald,” and begin sobbing again.

“Caroline,” Fan says authoritatively. “Stop crying, you’re not going bald.”

“No, I am, and there’s nothing you can do, there’s nothing anyone can do.”

“Caroline, you just had a baby, a little hair loss is perfectly normal. You’re not going bald, I promise!”

“A little hair loss? I’m shedding worse than an Alaskan Malamute, Fan.”

“Still normal.”

A flicker of hope surfaces in my chest. It gives me enough strength to open the door and talk to Fan face to face.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” My sister smiles.

“But my hair is falling by the lock, you should’ve seen. How can it be normal?”

“Do you want the technical explanation?”

“Yes, please.”

“Well, your body has been pumped full of estrogens for nine months, preventing your hair from falling throughout the pregnancy. And now that your estrogen levels have dropped, you’re shedding your normal quantity plus the nine months of backlog all at once. And you’re breastfeeding, so the process is happening faster.”

“But will my hair grow back?”

“Totally,” Fan announces confidently.

“Ah.”

Super relieved, I hug her, and the floodgates open again. “Sorry, I don’t know why I can’t stop crying.”

My sister pats my shoulders affectionately. “Still the hormones.”

“Why?” I wail. “Why would any sane woman put herself through this process, and three times no less?” Not to mention the fourth I’ve already agreed to—in stone.

“Come on.” Fan squeezes my shoulders and forces me to look at her. “You just had a crash course in all the negatives of motherhood with none of the positives.”

“What positives?”

“The overwhelming love you feel for your kids, the way they surprise you every day, the sense of purpose, of fulfillment.”

I must look at her with a very dubious expression because she adds, “Wait until Jo tells you something impossibly clever for her age, or for Will to smother you with kisses, or for Bram’s first word. Trust me, it’s the little moments that make every sacrifice worth it.”

I still don’t believe her, but I sniffle and nod. “Please go tell Sam I’m not about to have a nervous breakdown and that I’ll be down in ten minutes. And, Fan.” I take her hands and squeeze them. “Thank you. I’ve always looked down my nose at you for being”—I make air quotes—“only a stay-at-home mom when I didn’t know your job is the hardest in the world.”

Fan shakes her head, smiling. “What are you talking about? You never looked down your nose at me, not once in your life.”

Oh, Fan, I only wish that were true.

I give her a long, loaded hug and let go only because she has to put Sam out of his misery. “Now go reassure my husband before he cracks.”

“Yeah,” Fan laughs. “Or before my house burns down or something. I left Elijah alone with the fantastic four.”