In my room, by the light of the electric Christmas candle Mom has stuck in my window for the holiday season, I unfold the note Tiffany passed me.
Letter #8-December 24, 2006
Dear Pat,
I won’t be coming on Christmas. I won’t be coming ever. Move on. Start over. Tiffany and your family will help you through this. Goodbye for real this time. I will not be writing more, nor will I be taking any more calls from Tiffany, because I do not appreciate her yelling and cursing at me on your behalf. Do not try to contact me. The restraining order is still in effect.
Nikki
An Episode Seems Inevitable
I rise before dawn on Christmas morning and begin my weight-lifting routine. I am nervous about being reunited with Nikki today, so I double-time my exercises in an effort to work off my anxiety. I realize the note Tiffany gave me last night suggests that Nikki might not be interested in meeting me at that special place once dusk rolls around, but I also know that in the movies, just when the main character is about to give up, something surprising happens, which leads to the happy ending. I’m pretty sure that this is the part of my movie when something surprising will happen, so I am trusting in God, who I know will not let me down. If I have faith, if I go to that special place, something beautiful will happen when the sun sets—I can feel it.
When I hear Christmas music, I stop lifting and go upstairs. My mother is cooking eggs and bacon. Coffee is brewing. “Merry Christmas,” Mom says, and gives me a little kiss on the cheek. “Don’t forget your pills.”
I take the orange bottles from the cabinet and twist off the lids. As I swallow my last pill, my father comes into the kitchen and throws the newspaper’s plastic cover into the waste bucket. When he turns and heads for the family room, my mother says, “Merry Christmas, Patrick.”
“Merry Christmas,” Dad mumbles.
We eat eggs and bacon and toast together as a family, but no one says much.
In the living room we sit around the tree. Mom opens her present from Dad. It’s a diamond necklace from some department store—tiny diamonds in the shape of a heart on a thin gold chain. I know for a fact that Mom has a similar necklace, because she wears it almost every day. My father probably gave her the same thing last year, but Mom acts really surprised and says, “Patrick, you shouldn’t have,” before she kisses my father on the lips and then hugs him. Even though Dad doesn’t hug Mom back, I can tell he is happy, because he sort of smirks.
Next, we give Dad his present, which is from both Mom and me. He tears off the wrapping paper and holds up an authentic Eagles jersey, not one with iron-on decals. “Why doesn’t it have any numbers or a name on it?” he asks.
“Since McNabb went down, we thought you’d want to pick a new favorite player,” Mom says. “So when you do, we’ll have the correct number and name sewn onto the jersey.”
“Don’t waste your money,” Dad says, putting the jersey back into the box. “They won’t win today without McNabb. They’re not going to make the play-offs. I’m done watching that lousy excuse for a football team.”
Mom smiles at me because I told her that Dad would say as much, even though the Eagles have been playing pretty well. But Mom and I both know Dad will be watching the Eagles play the Cowboys later today and will pick a new favorite player late next summer—after watching one or two preseason games—at which time he will say something like, “Jeanie, where’s my authentic Eagles jersey? I want to get those numbers sewn on before the season starts.”
A few dozen presents are for me, all of which Mom bought and wrapped. I get a new Eagles sweatshirt, new running shoes, workout clothes, dress clothes, a few ties, a brand-new leather jacket, and a special running watch that will help me time my runs and will even calculate the calories I burn while running. And—
“Jesus Christ, Jeanie. How many presents did you buy the kid?” Dad says, but in a way that lets us know he is not really all that mad.
After we eat lunch, I shower and put on underarm deodorant, some of my father’s cologne, and one of my new running outfits.
“I’m going to try out my new watch,” I tell Mom.
“Caitlin and your brother will be here in an hour,” Mom says. “So don’t be too long.”
“I won’t,” I say just before I exit the house.
In the garage, I change into the dress clothes I hid there earlier in the week—tweed pants, a black button-down shirt, leather loafers, and the expensive overcoat my father no longer wears. Next, I walk to the Collingswood PATCO stop and catch the 1:45 train to Philadelphia.
It begins to rain lightly.
I get off at Eighth and Market, walk through the drizzle to City Hall, and catch an Orange Line train headed north.
Not many people are on the train, and underground it does not feel like Christmas at all. But the trash-smelling steam that wafts in at every stop when the doors open, the marker graffiti on the orange seat across from me, the half-eaten hamburger lying bunless in the aisle—none of it brings me down, because I am about to be reunited with Nikki. Apart time is finally about to end.
I get off at Broad and Olney and climb the steps up into North Philly, where it is raining a little harder. Even though I remember being mugged twice near this subway stop when I was a college student, I do not worry, mostly because it’s Christmas and I am a lot stronger than I used to be when I was an undergraduate. On Broad Street I see a few black people, which gets me thinking about Danny and how he always used to talk about going to live with his aunt in North Philly just as soon as he got out of the bad place—especially whenever I mentioned my graduating from La Salle University, which is apparently close to where Danny’s aunt lives. I wonder if Danny ever made it out of the bad place, and the thought of him having Christmas in a mental institution makes me really sad because Danny was a good friend to me.