Chapter 9
Later that afternoon Jill stopped by to return a book she had borrowed. She had been in the house only a moment before Nell told her about Mick’s “Twelve Days of Christmas” scheme, to which Jill replied: “Ouch. This could very well be a train wreck.”
“Felicity thinks it’s sweet, and of course so would I in other circumstances. I don’t know what to do,” Nell admitted. “My heart broke watching Mick all excited and Molly standing there like a statue.”
“There’s nothing you can do,” Jill pointed out. “This is Molly’s potential train wreck, not yours.”
“Yes, but you know how it is when your child is making a mess of things. The urge to step in and fix everything is so strong.”
“I certainly do know,” Jill said shortly. “That’s a new apron, isn’t it?”
“I couldn’t resist. It was only three dollars, so I got matching ones for Molly and Felicity.” Nell lifted the bottom of the apron and looked at the upside down images of chubby bunnies and pert-faced foxes wearing winter garb. “Kind of silly, I guess.”
Jill shrugged. “Whatever makes you happy.”
Nell looked closely at her friend. “Something’s bothering you, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Jill said with a sigh. “I’ve been thinking about Brian all morning. I’ve been remembering the way he’d rattle the ice in his drink and the way his knee bounced when he was forced to sit for too long. Both habits used to drive me crazy, but I’d do anything to have Brian back, making my nerves stand on end.”
“I’m sorry, Jill,” Nell said with genuine sympathy.
“I suppose I should be thankful the end came so soon. Brian would have hated a long, drawn-out illness. Still, it seems so unbelievably unfair . . . But why should death be fair? Life isn’t. Anyway, this is the first Christmas in seventeen years I’ll be without him. I’d be lying if I said it’s going to be easy. I’ll miss the old routine of Brian going to see Charlie in Augusta, my going to see Stuart in Connecticut, and our reuniting the day after Christmas to celebrate, just the two of us.”
“At least you’ll be spending time with Stuart.” Nell grimaced. “Sorry. One person doesn’t replace another. I don’t know why I said that.”
“It’s okay. Anyway, Charlie sent me a lovely Christmas card with a heartfelt message thanking me for being so good to his father through the years we were together. It made me cry, and I don’t cry easily.” Jill nodded toward the counter. “On another note, what’s that you’re hiding?”
Nell lifted the large dishtowel that was covering a baking pan. “I made gingerbread people.”
Jill peered down at the pan. “This one looks suspiciously like me.”
“It’s meant to. See the yellow dots around her neck? That’s the strand of citrine beads you bought in Portland last month.”
Jill put a hand to the silver-and-lapis necklace she was wearing that afternoon. “I didn’t know my jewelry had become a hallmark.”
“Your jewelry is one of your signatures. And this one is Molly and this one is Fliss.”
“Obvious from the glasses and the ponytail respectively. So, where’s the cookie that’s meant to be you?”
Nell laughed awkwardly. “It never occurred to me make one in my own likeness,” she said. And she wondered why. Was it a mother’s ingrained habit of self-effacement? Or was it something else, a long-standing inability to accord herself the respect and recognition she was due as a unique individual, not just someone’s daughter, wife, or mother? What are my signatures? she wondered. What do people see when they look at me? What do they remember when I’m gone?
“Nice work with the icing, by the way,” Jill said, interrupting Nell’s unsettling musings.
“I made it from scratch and used food coloring to get exactly the shades I wanted.”
Jill laughed. “Better woman than I am. Are we actually supposed to eat these cookies? I’m not sure how I feel about biting off my own head, or Molly’s or Felicity’s for that matter.”
“I hadn’t really thought about anyone eating them. You could take an anonymous gingerbread person instead,” Nell suggested.
“I think I’ll pass on devouring anyone, thanks. I’ve been eating enough sugar these days. Those butter cookie sandwiches with chestnut cream almost did me in.”
“They were pretty decadent, weren’t they? But they weren’t a big hit with the girls.”
“Maybe they’re sated, too.”
Nell looked down at the baking pan of gingerbread figures. Sated might be another way of saying the girls were fed up. Bored. Ready to move on.
“Don’t you think you’re overcompensating just a wee bit this holiday season?” Jill asked quietly.
“Overcompensating for what?” Nell asked, looking back to her friend, aware of her defensive tone.
“Let me rephrase the question. Don’t you think you might be trying a bit too hard to prove to the girls that Christmas here at home with you is better than Christmas in the Swiss Alps or in Boston or indeed anywhere else they might choose to wander?”
For a moment Nell didn’t reply. There had been mention of overcompensating behaviors on a few of those websites dedicated to dealing with empty nest syndrome. There had been mention of a tendency in the mother anticipating a child’s departure to ignore her own needs and desires more so than she ever had before. No Christmas decorations in my room, Nell thought. No cookie in my image. No . . .
“Maybe I am overcompensating a little,” Nell said finally, “but what’s wrong with trying to make this Christmas truly memorable?”
Jill shook her head. “Sorry. There’s nothing wrong with it, and I have no right to judge when my one concession to holiday decorations has always only been a single white candle in every window. So, are you still on for the reading tomorrow night? I’ll drive.”
“Sure,” Nell said with more confidence than she felt. And she was grateful that Jill had offered to drive. She wasn’t at all sure what kind of state she would be in after the reading, a weeping, nostalgic mess, devoid of any feeling at all, overcome by regret. Whatever state she was in, it probably would not be conducive to getting them home safely.
“Maybe I’ll take the gingerbread me after all,” Jill said suddenly. “I’ll bite off my own head so no one else has to.”
Nell managed a smile. “Thanks, Jill,” she said.
“For what?” Jill asked.
“For keeping me honest.”