F*ck Marriage(72)

“Happy Holidays then,” I correct. “What can I do for you?” Behind me I hear the bedroom door open and Billie’s footfalls.

“Power’s out,” she says. “Whole building. I loaned you a flashlight two years ago…”

“Yes, you did,” I say. “Let me grab it for you.” I leave her at the door looking disgruntled while I get the flashlight from the hall closet. No wonder it was so cold. Just for good measure, I flick the light switch in the hall. The light stays stubbornly off. Great. When I hand it to her, she mumbles a comment about it having fresh batteries and shuffles back to her own front door.

“Well,” I say, closing the door behind her and turning to Billie. “Christmas is canceled.”

“It’s always been canceled.” Billie yawns.

“No. Nope. Get dressed. We can’t stay here. We’ll freeze.”

“I’m sure they’ll get it on soon,” she says. “Don’t panic.”

“It’s Christmas and it’s snowing. There’s no way. The owner of this building can barely be reached for emergencies.”

“Okay. So where are we going?” She lifts her hands to rub at her arms, which are scattered with goose bumps like she’s just figuring out it’s cold.

“Somewhere warm,” I tell her.

“Mmm, Florida,” she says dreamily.

Surprisingly, she doesn’t argue; instead, she disappears into the bedroom to get dressed. An hour later, we’re on the road. Billie turns her seat warmer to maximum heat and burrows into the leather like an animal in its nest.

The drive Upstate takes less time than I planned, the highways mercifully empty. We don’t talk much. We listen to Christmas music with an occasional anti-holiday comment from Billie.

“Why are you such a Scrooge anyway?” I say. “From what I recall, you used to love the holidays.”

“You mean when I had a husband and a home and I could cook those stupid meals, and decorate that stupid tree, and pretend I was living in a 1950s sitcom?”

I flinch.

“Point taken,” I say. “But today ... today we celebrate. Consider it your first year back from your Christmas sabbatical.”

“But I don’t want to,” she grumbles.

“Too bad.” I reach over and lower the heat. It’s starting to feel like Florida in here.

“Where are we going anyway?” She sips on the paper cup of coffee she made me stop for before we got on the freeway.

“You’ll see.”

“Why can’t you just tell me?” she gripes.

“Because I don’t want to hear your complaints.”

She grunts like she’s too tired to argue, and I don’t try to stifle my smile. Even when she’s playing the part of the Grinch she’s cute. I immediately toss that thought from my head. I’ve just found out I am going to be a father. I don’t need to be mentally listing all of Billie’s charms.

I park my car against the curb exactly an hour later and glance up at the expansive snow-covered lawn. To the rear of the property sits an impressive Victorian with a wraparound porch. A curl of smoke lifts into the sky from the fireplace, and it seems that all the windows (and there are a lot of windows) are lit by flickering yellow light that I know from experience are tiny faux candles my mother uses to decorate. I hop out of the car and walk around Billie’s side to open her door.

“You didn’t,” she says, eyes large. She studies the house, a look of trepidation on her face.

“I didn’t what?”

“Bring me to your home for Christmas…” she hisses. “Oh my God, oh my God—who is that?”

I look over my shoulder to see my mother standing in the doorway, arms crossed as she waits for us.

Billie slides down in her seat so that her head is resting where her lower back should go. “Is that your mother?” she whispers.

“Yes,” I say, glancing at the door again. “Looks like she’s waiting for us…”

“I didn’t even put makeup on,” she says miserably. “I look like a joke.”

“Well, yes, you do,” I say, eyeing the way she’s slouched down in her seat. “You look like my niece when she’s throwing a tantrum.”

“Ugh!” She scrunches up her nose as I offer my hand to help her out of the car.

I notice as we walk up the path toward the front door that she stops complaining and a look of interest fills her face. There are noises coming from the house: squeals of joy from my nieces and nephews, my eldest sister’s bellowing laugh. They are happy sounds, the kind that fill me with a grateful warmness. We are greeted with the type of enthusiasm saved for holidays. My mother, an elegant woman of fifty-nine, greets Billie with a hug and then holds her at arm’s length, declaring that she’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever brought home. My mother, who is beautiful herself with thick auburn hair she wears in a twist and bright blue eyes, looks like she could be Billie’s mother. Billie blushes furiously at the compliment before it’s my turn to be greeted. I note Mom’s cherry-print apron with fondness as she embraces me, Billie waiting just past her shoulder in the foyer. She’s worn the same apron since I was a child; my sisters ride her for it constantly, but my mother doesn’t care. It’s her apron and she loves it. The real question is how she’s managed to keep it in such good condition for so long. The thing looks brand new.