The tradition in my family had been to gather at my parents’ on Christmas Eve. My mom would make an elaborate dinner and afterward, we’d allow London to open gifts from the relatives while It’s a Wonderful Life played on television. On Christmas morning, at our house, Vivian and I would have London to ourselves.
“We haven’t gotten into the specifics yet,” I said. “She doesn’t come in until tomorrow. We’ll figure it out then.”
“You probably need to get her something,” Marge pointed out. “For London’s sake, so she can see her mom opening some gifts. It doesn’t have to be anything big.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I didn’t think of that.”
“What did you get Emily for Christmas?”
“Nothing yet,” I admitted.
“Any thoughts yet? You’re cutting it a little close…”
“I don’t know,” I said, looking to Marge and Liz for inspiration. “A sweater, maybe? Or a nice jacket?”
“Those could be part of it, but she told me what she’s getting you, so you’ll have to do better than that.”
“Like jewelry or something?”
“If you want, I’m sure she’d appreciate that, too. But I was thinking that you need to do something from the heart.”
“Like what?”
“I think,” she said, drawing the words out, “that you should write her a letter.”
“What kind of letter?”
Marge shrugged. “You write for a living, Russ. Tell her how much she’s meant to you these past months. How much you want her to remain in your life. Tell her…” Marge said, lighting up, “that you want her to take a chance on you again.”
I squirmed. “She already knows how I feel about her. I tell her that all the time.”
“Write her a letter anyway,” Marge urged. “Trust me. You’ll be glad you did.”
I did as Marge suggested. With London in tow-piano lessons weren’t until the New Year-I drove directly from school pickup to the mall, where I found some gifts for Vivian: her favorite perfume, a scarf, a new novel by a writer she liked. I also picked out an embroidered silk jacket for Emily, one that I was sure would complement her rich coloring and slightly Bohemian style, and a gold chain with an emerald pendant that would accent the color of her eyes. Later, after London had gone to sleep, I sat at the kitchen table and wrote Emily a letter. It took more than one draft to get it right; despite the wordsmithing I did for my job, writing from the heart was entirely different, and I found it difficult to strike that delicate balance between raw emotion and maudlin sentimentality.
In the end, I was happy with the letter, and grateful that Marge had made the suggestion. I sealed it in an envelope and was about to put the pad and pen back in the drawer when I suddenly realized that I wasn’t yet done.
Working until long past midnight, I wrote Marge a letter as well.
Vivian got in a little past noon the following day, not long after I’d returned from dropping off the gifts at Emily’s. With the tree already trimmed, London and I had spent the morning decorating the mantel and hanging the stockings. It was a little late in the season, but London didn’t mind at all. She was proud to be old enough to help.
I let Vivian visit with London for a while before signaling my desire to speak with her. Retreating to the kitchen while London watched TV in the living room, I asked her what she wanted to do for Christmas Eve. At my question, she stared at me as though it were obvious.
“Well, aren’t we going to your parents’ place, like we always do? I know that it might feel a little strange considering what’s going on, but it’s Marge’s last Christmas and I want London to spend time with her and the family, like she always has. That’s why I came home in the first place.”
Even though we weren’t in love anymore, I thought to myself, there were still moments when I was reminded of some of the reasons I’d married Vivian in the first place.
Christmas Eve and Christmas Day unfolded much like they always had.
The atmosphere was a bit stilted on Christmas Eve at first, for obvious reasons. Everyone was polite to each other and there were kisses and hugs all around when Vivian, London, and I showed up at my parents’. But by the time I finished my first glass of wine, it was clear that everyone’s sole aim that evening was to make the gathering enjoyable for London’s sake-and Marge’s.
Vivian appreciated the gifts I’d gotten her; for me, she’d bought some running gear and a Fitbit. Marge and Liz oohed and aahed over the vase that London made for them, especially marveling at the colors of the fish that London had painted. Tears shone in their eyes when they opened the framed photos that had been taken in New York, and my sister took the envelope containing the letter I’d written with a tender smile. London received a bunch of Barbie stuff from pretty much everyone, and after the gifts were opened, we put on the movie It’s a Wonderful Life while London played with her new toys.
The only truly notable event of the evening took place after we’d finished opening the gifts. From the corners of my eyes, I watched as Marge and Vivian slipped from the living room, sequestering themselves in the den. The low hum of their voices was barely audible behind the partially closed door.
It was odd to see the two of them speaking so intimately, let alone in private, but I knew exactly what was happening.
Vivian, like all of us, had wanted the chance to say goodbye.
On Christmas Day, once London had opened the rest of her gifts, I left the house so Vivian could have some time alone with London. To that point, we’d been together almost continuously during the previous forty-eight hours, and if I needed a break from her, I was certain that Vivian felt the same way. Cordiality, let alone forced gaiety, in the midst of a divorce and custody dispute, wasn’t easy for anyone to maintain.
I texted Emily, asking if I could drop by and received a quick response, urging me to do so. She had a gift for me, she said, and she wanted me to see it.
Even before I got out of my car, she was skipping off the porch toward me. Up close, she threw her arms around me, and we held each other in the pale sunlight of a cool December day.
“Thank you for the letter,” she whispered, “it was absolutely beautiful.”
I followed Emily inside, picking my way through a maelstrom of new toys and torn wrapping paper, at the center of which stood Bodhi’s shiny new bicycle. She led the way toward the Christmas tree, and reaching behind it, pulled out a flat, rectangular package.
“I thought about giving this to you before Christmas, but with Vivian staying at the house, I thought it would be best to give it to you here.”
I tugged at the wrapping paper and it came off easily. As soon as I saw what Emily had done, all I could do was stare, the memory coming back to me in a rush. Overwhelmed, I couldn’t speak.
“I had it framed, but you can change it to something else,” Emily said in a shy voice. “I wasn’t sure where you might want to hang it.”
“This is incredible,” I finally said unable to tear my eyes from the image. Emily had painted the photo of London and me dancing outside the aquarium, but it seemed even more real, more alive than the photo somehow. It was by far the most meaningful gift I’d ever received, and I wrapped my arms around Emily, suddenly understanding why Marge had been so insistent that I write Emily a letter.
She’d known that Emily was giving me a gift from the heart, and Marge wanted to make sure I matched it with one of my own. Once again, Marge had been looking out for me.