The Wish(79)
Hearing his tone, she forced a smile. “Really. I’m okay now.”
A lie, she thought, but who’s counting?
“Maybe I should take you home.”
“I want to see the windows and listen to the carols.”
Which, oddly, was the truth, even if it was kind of silly. If she didn’t go now, she knew she never would. Mark seemed to be trying to read her.
“Okay,” he finally said. “But if it happens again, I’m bringing you home.”
She nodded, knowing he might need to.
*
They rode first to Bloomingdale’s, then over to Barneys, then to Fifth Avenue, where every store seemed to be trying to outdo the next with its window decorations. She saw Santa and his elves, polar bears and penguins with holiday-themed collars, artificial snow in rainbow colors, elaborate installations highlighting selected apparel or items that probably cost a fortune.
By Fifth Avenue, she’d begun to feel better, even a little floaty. No wonder people got addicted to the pills; they actually worked. She clung to Mark’s arm as people swarmed past them in both directions, carrying bags bearing the labels of every brand on the planet. Many of the stores had long lines of people waiting to enter, last-minute shoppers hoping for the perfect gift, none of whom appeared happy in the slightest to be standing in the cold.
Tourists, she thought, shaking her head. People who wanted to go home and say things like You wouldn’t believe how crowded it was or I had to wait an hour just to go inside the store, like it was a badge of honor or act of courage. No doubt they would tell that same story for years to come.
And yet she found the stroll curiously pleasant, maybe because of the floatiness, but mostly because Mark was so clearly gobsmacked. Though he kept a firm grip on her hand, he was constantly straining to see over the shoulders of the crowds, eyes widening at the sight of Santa crafting a Piaget watch, or smiling in delight at oversize reindeer decked out in Chanel harnesses, all of them wearing Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses. She was used to grimacing at the crass commercialization of the holiday, but observing Mark’s sense of wonder made her regard the stores’ creativity with new appreciation.
They finally reached St. Patrick’s Cathedral, arriving with pretty much everyone else in the vicinity who’d come for the same reason. The crowd was so large that they were stranded halfway down the block, and though Maggie couldn’t see the singers, she could hear them thanks to the large speakers they had set up. Mark, though, was disappointed, and she realized she should have warned him this would happen. She’d learned upon moving to New York that attending an event in the city and really seeing the event were often two entirely different things. In her first year here she’d ventured out to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. She’d found herself wedged against a building, surrounded by hundreds, and stuck in place for hours, her primary view the backs of people’s heads. She’d had to crane her neck to see the famous balloons and had awakened the following morning so sore that she’d had to visit a chiropractor.
Ah, the joys of city living, right?
The choir, even if unseen, sounded rapturous to her ears, and as she listened, Maggie found herself reflecting back on the last few days with a light sense of wonder. She’d seen The Nutcracker, decorated a tree, shipped gifts to her family, skated at Rockefeller Center, seen the window displays on Fifth Avenue, and now this. She was checking off once-in-a-lifetime experiences with someone she’d come to care about, and sharing the story of her past had lifted her spirits.
But as the floatiness started to fade, she felt fatigue setting in, and she knew it was time to go. She squeezed Mark’s arm, signaling that she was ready. They’d listened to four carols by then, and turning, he began leading her back through the crowd that had formed behind them. When they finally had breathing space, he stopped.
“How about some dinner?” he asked. “I’d love to hear the rest of the story.”
“I think I need to lie down for a while.”
He knew enough not to argue with her. “I can ride with you.”
“I’ll be okay,” she said.
“Do you think you’ll make it to the gallery tomorrow?”
“I’ll probably stay home. Just in case.”
“Will I see you Christmas Eve? I want to give you your gift.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Of course I did. It’s Christmas.”
She thought about it, finally deciding Why not? “Okay,” she offered.
“Do you want to meet at work? Or have dinner? Whatever is easiest for you.”
“I tell you what—why don’t I have dinner delivered to the gallery? We can eat under the tree.”
“Can I hear the rest of your story?”
“I’m not sure you’ll want to. It’s not really a holiday story. It gets very sad.”
He turned, raising his hand to hail her an oncoming cab. As the taxi pulled over, he glanced at her without pity. “I know,” he said simply.
*
For the second night in a row, Maggie slept in the clothes she’d been wearing.
The last time she’d peeked at the clock, it was a few minutes before six. Dinner hour in much of America; still-at-the-office hour in much of NYC. She woke more than eighteen hours later feeling weak and dehydrated, but thankfully pain-free.