The Opposite of Loneliness Essays and Stories(34)

“Jules,” I said. The nickname came out by accident. He turned around, looked at me, and we both stared, then grinned.

“Of course,” he said.

“I know.”

“Just—of course,” he said.

“I know.”

We hugged and it was only slightly awkward. We communicated occasionally via e-mail, but I hadn’t told him about Emma yet.

“How are you?”

“Good, good. How are you?”

“Good.”

“Glad we got all those details out of the way,” he said, smiling.

“I uh . . . I saw your Christmas card. Your oldest is getting . . . big.” I was looking down, suddenly. Desperate for the conversation to flow smoothly.

“Yeah,” Julian said. “He’s nearly fifteen.” He was studying me. We stood there for a few more seconds, just taking each other in.

“How’s, uh . . .” I could tell he didn’t know what to ask. “. . . the newspaper. Are you still . . . ?”

I interrupted him. “I’m taking some time off.”

“To work on the book?”

“No, actually, to raise my daughter.” I hardly used that word and it felt strange to say aloud. He looked at me and his mouth hinged open.

“Oh! Oh my gosh. Wow, Audrey, congratulations!”

“Thank you.”

“Who’s the, um, did you . . .” I saw his eyes dart to my left hand and back again.

“Adoption,” I said. Nodding with my mouth closed and then trying a small smile, waving my hands at my sides. “The irony!” But he didn’t laugh, and I could tell it still hurt him like it hurt me. We stood in silence again, rocking.

“What are you looking for?” The subject change was pathetic.

“Coriander,” he said. “Apparently it’s essential, so I offered to run out. You?”

“Eggs.”

“Ah.” Silence again. Then he smiled. “Is her name Emma?”

I nodded.

“You never got your Chloe, did you?” I said.

“I didn’t,” he laughed. “Alexis didn’t like it.” The thought of his wife made me uneasy and I realized, suddenly, that I should say I had to go.

“Listen.” I took a step toward him. “I need to run home, but if you want to meet her, stop by the First Parish service tonight when you leave St. Andrew’s. Nine o’clock. Jared roped me into having her play Jesus. Well, understudy for Jesus.”

“You’re kidding,” he said. “I miss Jared. He’s ridiculous.”

“Everyone does.”

“Well, I’ll be there.” He shifted his bag up on his shoulder. “Nine o’clock First Parish?”

“Nine o’clock First Parish.”

*

I convinced my family, finally, that they didn’t have to come “be supportive,” and I drove Emma alone to the church and held her in the basement amid the sea of swarming children, parents, costumes, and cardboard. Jared arrived a little after I did and led me to my seat in the front pew slightly before the pageant was scheduled to start.

“Hi,” he said, kissing me on the cheek.

“Hi,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.” I waited for a second but then went on with it.

“I ran into Julian at the supermarket today.”

“Of course you did.”

“I know.”

“Was it . . . ?”

I cut him off. “It was fine.”

“Did you . . . ?”

“Yeah.” I took a moment. “He knew her name was Emma.” I decided to leave out the part about inviting him, but I scanned the crowd obsessively as the congregation built like a wave behind me. I was undercover—smuggling a baby Jesus whom no one else could see. I imagined The Tempest, the mythologies, and all the secret sets of twins I’d spent so long assessing in grad school. But then they lit the candles, so I stopped imagining and searching and tried to think about the present.

It was pitiable, pathetic, but I wanted him to come. Wanted him there, badly, to see me and Emma and understand that this was hard but that I wanted it. That it was hard but I was okay. But the pews were nearly filled and I didn’t see him.

They dimmed the lights and I held Emma tight in my arms. I looked behind me and saw an old man writing in a notebook. Behind him, a kid yanking at his mother’s shirt. To their left, shadowed by the balcony, a young couple pressing together and sharing a program. The boy was lanky and freckled and the girl was petite. She traced tiny circles into his palm, toying with his hand on her lap. The girl whispered something in his ear and he shook his head. She offered him a piece of gum and he refused. I looked away as the backlights faded, but I could just make out the boy pulling his hand away. I remembered a party in the city I hadn’t thought of in years when I’d told Julian not to hold my hand because it was juvenile. I remembered wanting both hands that night—for gestures and hugs and brushing back my hair. That’s the feeling I needed to remember, I thought. Not those nights in his car.

*

A small boy walked down the aisle with a giant North Star and the choir began a version of “The First Noel.” I breathed in the pastor and the warmth of the other bodies. The wise men came and the shepherds and the sheep. I looked behind me again but I still didn’t see Julian. The candles on the chalice dripped wax onto the lambs and the songs from the choir made the angels start flying. More angels came, and the kings and the queens. I looked back again but the door was still shut. He wasn’t coming.