Christmas, Present by Jacquelyn Mitchard Read Free Book Online Page B

again within two years. It’s people who don’t like being married who stay widowers.”
    “And furthermore, with all this, there’s no time for me, for us. I want to hold you, forever. I want to tell you all the things I’ve thought about, when I see you

    making dinner, how sexy it is to me that you know where everything is, how you sing when you fold the laundry, always the same song, did you know that?”
    “I didn’t,” Laura replied suddenly. “What is it?” “It’s ‘Hey, Big Spender,’ ” Elliott said, nearly laugh-
    ing. “That’s what it is.”
    “Huh,” Laura said, her eyes welling, as she took Elliott’s arm. “It probably looks like I care about you less than I do about all these others. I know I’m wheel- ing from one thing to another . . . but Elliott, it’s not that I love you less, I love you more . I guess I expect you to be another me, part of me. To understand more. I . . . I was going to ask you if you wanted to make love—it wouldn’t hurt me, and it would be our last chance.” Elliott winced, caught his breath. “I knew you’d react that way, sweetie. I understand. It probably would be too . . . appalling. Like making love to a—”
    “No, not that! Not at all. But I . . . couldn’t, Laura,” Elliott told her. “I would be afraid to hurt you. What I wanted was to be alone. Hold you . . . to sleep. No more rushing around.”
    “And, Ell . . . we have time. But now we’ll have to

    wait before we talk anymore,” Laura said, with a sig- nificant and patently phony brightening of her eyes as she glimpsed her daughters, huddled at the doorway, Amelia still in her Clifford pajamas. Miranda, exquis- itely turned out in camel and taupe Saturday elegance, stepped into the opening behind the girls.
    “She wouldn’t change,” Miranda apologized to Elliott, gesturing at Amelia, then leaning down to kiss his cheek. He hoped his mother-in-law did not notice how he flinched. She kissed Laura’s cheek and said, “I wrestled with her for thirty minutes.” How inappro- priate Miranda must have felt dragging a rumpled child in pajamas into a hospital, Laura mused.
    Amelia would not cross the room to her mother’s bed. Annie hung back, as well. It was Rory who cried, “Mommy!” and flung herself on top of Laura.
    “Don’t!” Elliott cried, as Rory froze.
    “It’s okay, Ell,” Laura told him. “She can’t hurt me. It’s okay, Rory, Rory, morning glory, sun queen of the balance beam. This is so terrible, if I had a million bucks, I would give it away if you didn’t have to see me like this.”

    “You don’t have a million bucks,” Rory said. “You don’t look sick, Mommy.”
    “But I am, honey,” Laura said slowly. “It doesn’t show. It’s inside.”
    “Like cancer?”
    “Sort of, but no.” Laura sighed, thinking she was possibly the only person in the entire United States tonight who actually wished she did have cancer. “Hand me that sticky paper, honey, will you?” Laura asked Rory. “I don’t want to forget everything.” She printed, Coat moisturizer for dog all gone. Cleaning to be picked up at Cantorini’s. Save one of my rings for each of the girls— my grandmother’s for Annie. Find a grief group, one for each age. Ask the woman I know, Paula Miles, at Hospice. The impossibility of compressing an entire lifetime of routines and assumptions so instinc- tive they were like swallowing, not something she had to remind herself to do, was like describing the color orange to a person blind from birth. But had they been struck and killed in the tunnel, somehow all of them would have grown up. Laura’s sister Angela was

    their legal guardian. But of course, they’d no need of a guardian.
    They had a father. She’d grown up.
    She’d had a mother.
    Hastily, she scribbled: Find daycare provider IN HOME. Advertise through the college. Emphasize child- development training with children who have problems. She could think of no other thing to add