Foolishly Hopeful

I'm dead on my feet, my head still buzzing from endless hours of whining jet engines. Stiff and numb from what seems like days waiting and sitting in narrow and uncomfortable seats. Exhausted from lack of sleep, dehydration and too many peanuts.

It's been years since I've been home. My job has taken me all over the world. I enjoy my work but flitting about doesn't lend itself to making friends. That's okay, I tell myself. I'm not very good at making and keeping friends. I've learned that it's less painful to say goodbye with a smile, than wondering what I've done to be left sitting by myself.

For the past ten or twelve years, since dad passed, mom and I have met up somewhere in the world for the holidays. We'd alternate picking our destination and have spent Christmas and often New Year's in places like Tahiti, New Orleans, the Serengeti, Melbourne and Oslo. Yes, we realize the latter should have been visited in summer. Mom is getting older and just doesn't feel up to traveling anymore so, this year I'm coming home for Christmas.

About forty minutes after securing my rental, I pull into my mother's driveway. My carry-on bag weighs heavy on my shoulder, but I'm otherwise unencumbered by luggage. My suitcase is on its way to Sri Lanka, for all I know. That thing is becoming way too independent.

While stretching my back, I notice that mom has put the Christmas lights around the porch roof. This is both encouraging, for now I don't have to do it, and disturbing. Did she do that herself and if so, does she need a minder to keep her from doing potentially dangerous things? After two drinks and a hearty helping of mom's mac'n cheese, I ask her about the porch lights, especially since I don't see any decorations inside.

"Yes, a nice young man down the street did it for me, but I do need you to climb up to the loft and get the rest of the decorations down."

"The loft over the garage?" I ask as I get ready to go upstairs.

"Of course." As if everybody stores their decorations up there. Well, maybe they do. What do I know, right?

"Have you missed having them up?" We're halfway up the stairs.

"No. After all, I wasn't home to see them, was I?"

"Right." I nod. "I'll go up there first thing tomorrow. Good night, mom."

I fall asleep almost at once and wake up refreshed four hours later. Reall? It's the middle of the night. Let me go back to sleep, please. But neither my body nor my brain cooperates. Scrounging through the closet in my old room, I find a beat-up pair of slippers and some sweats that are at least one size too small. To be honest, I bought them two sizes too big in college. So...

Downstairs, I turn on the coffee machine and stare bleary-eyed at the side door and the garage beyond, "Hm. No time like the present." Once I've finishes my coffee, I pull down the ladder to the loft and on admittedly shaky legs I climb up. A lot of junk has been shoved up here since the last time the Christmas decoration were used. I bravely plough through the detritus of a dozen years.

Ah, there! One, two boxes labeled tree, three boxes with ornaments, one wreath, a messy bundle of lights. I think I have it all.

As I slowly crawl backwards, pushing and shoving boxes hither and yon, I shake my head at the stuff we accumulate for what is essential a pagan feast. The one encouraging the sun to come back to the northern hemisphere. The Church merely manipulated the date of the birth of Christ to coincide with that old ritual. Instead of gifts, there used to be more symbolic gestures. The lighting of a neighbor's candle with one's own was like passing on the hope that the light would return. The sharing of a branch of evergreen meant wishing that nature would reawaken and once again give its bounty to us. Really! There used to be not an Xbox or Barbie in sight.

I shake my head and manage to get all the boxes and myself safely down the rickety ladder and into the kitchen. "Bet one of us will be going into town before the day is out, to add to this collection." I mumble to myself.

"I'm sure I will." Mom says cheerfully. "So, what 's your pleasure today? Pancackes or waffles?"

"Waffles, please. And maybe some bacon?" I ask hopefully.

I'm carrying some boxes into the livingroom when I hear her talking. "Sorry. What did you say?" I ask as I walk back into the kitchen.

"I said, there will be a block party tonight. At Victor's, next door. It was supposed to be my turn, but I didn't want to spring that on you on your first day."

"Yeah, thanks. Much appreciated. What time will you be home?" I know what the answer will be, but hope springs eternal, doesn't it?

"Oh no! You're coming too. You know most everybody. And they've been asking about you."

I suppress a whimper. "Oh, goody."

After breakfast, I assemble the tree. Whatever happened to life trees? Or rather dead trees that used to be alive? Yeah, I get the convenience of these things, but the others smelled so much better. I don't know why, but you put green and red together and mix in a little tinsel and I become snarky. Okay, fine. More snarky. Then add a helping of singing chipmunks and I turn in to a second cousin once removed to Scrooge.

"Here, you wear this." As we're getting ready to go next door, mom hands me a cardigan. I look at myself in the mirror and see one reindeer dodging sleigh bells while galloping toward my belly button. Another reindeer is rooting at a sleigh bell over my left nipple.

"Do you have another one?" I ask.

"No, why?"

"Well, then. You wear this one. It'll look so much better on you."

"Are you sure? Did you bring anything Christmassy?"

Luckily my suitcase has found its way back to me, this afternoon. "I take it you don't think much of these black slack, my green sweater or the red scarf."

"Well, if you're sure. But you're not going to win a prize." She predicts.

I ponder that for half a second. "Hm, yes. I can live with that." I smile to try and soften the blow for her.

Mom just shakes her head and mumbles something about letting go. I briefly wonder whether she means letting go of the topic, or for me to let go of my snarkiness for at least one night. Probably both.

We each carry a covered dish with home-made delicacies as we cross the yard to the house next door. I voted for bringing a bag of Fritos and leaving the good stuff at home for us. You can see how the Christmas spirit has overwhelmed me, can't you?

"Merry Christmas." Victor Rowan, our neighbor and tonight's host, gives mom a big hug. "And her wayward daughter." Being the great host he is, Victor apparently has personally taste-tested each bottle he set out on the bar. I grin and give him a hug. "Welcome home, kid. You know everybody, I think. Oh, wait a minute. You may not have met Byron and Marilyn Brecket. I'll see if I can find them."

I freeze.

That can't be right. The Byron I used to know would never come back. It can't be the same one, can it? But what are the odds that he is my Byron?

Where is the bar? I think I may need some Dutch courage. As I hastily weave around the fifteen or twenty people hovering near the food, I flashback to college.

I remember the first time I saw Byron. He just sat down at our table in the student union at lunch time. He grinned and hooked me. His penetrating, yet laughing blue eyes reeled me in and captured me. He seemed to be utterly comfortable with himself. A friend of mine said he looked like the Campbell's Soup Kid. I didn't see it. I just saw Byron.

I was a sophomore; he had already graduated with a BA in philosophy. Right. You want fries with that? So, he was taking some classes to get the right credits to apply to grad school. He and I were taking the same history class from the same nitwit instructor. Since we had a test every Friday, Byron and I would 'study' together on my couch every Thursday evening. I don't know how, but I passed the course.

Byron only lasted two quarters. He said he had enough of school. I knew there were some rumors about his father. Byron had planned to follow in his father's footsteps. I don't know what the real reason was why he dropped out. He never said, I never asked. But he moved to Atlanta and for a while he held a series of odd jobs. For the better part of a year and a half I traveled to Atlanta most weekends.

"Hey." His voice is still the same.

With my heart in my throat, I turn around. "Hey." I squeak. He still looks the same. If his gaze has lost a few rads in intensity, it can't be much. If his blond hair has some grey in it, I can't see it. His smile is still the same engaging, open grin. His body has not softened or thickened, unlike mine.

"How are you?" "Good, you?" Who said it? Does it matter? We're just making sounds, following rituals, testing the waters.

Wordlessly we stare at each other till one of us takes a step toward the French doors at the back of the house, away from the rest of the guests. The other follows.

"What are you doing back in town?" I ask.

"He grins. "Yeah, didn't think I'd ever be back. But you know..." He shrugs. "I am teaching a class. Just one of those throw-away courses, but it's enough to keep me busy." He shrugs again.

"Wow!" I snort a laugh. "If anyone had asked me back then, what you would be doing thirty, almost forty years later, teaching would not have been in my top ten." I shake my head. "Or even the top twenty. But I bet you're good at it." I nod.

He looks surprised. "How so?"

I cock my head and smile. "You never did know your own charisma, did you? You don't say much, but when you do, you speak with passion." I chuckle. "You made me listen to the Brandenburg concertos and pointed out each nuance. You explained the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Universe to me. With mixed success." I grin. "You even managed to get Richard to try and learn to play chess. " We laugh. "He was too stoned, but he tried. People listen to you."

He laughs. "You remember all that." He shakes his head and changes the subject to my work. "And what do you do for fun?" He asks when talking about my work becomes too boring even to me.

"Me? I travel." I shrug. "I usually take a week or so between assignments and go somewhere. Anywhere I fancy."

"Why?"

I'm surprised. "Nobody has ever asked me that. Most people are envious, assume I need to decompress. But then you always did ask the hard questions." I sigh. "Honestly? To escape from myself." I admit. "Pretty useless, I know." I look away. "It's just my way of hitting my head against a wall." I fake a smile. "And you? What do you do to unwind?"

"Birdwatching." He chuckles when he sees the surprise on my face.

"You're kidding, right?" He shakes his head. "Okay, I'm a big fan of National Geographic, don't get me wrong. But Byron, you were never able to sit still. Oh, your concentration was out of this word, but something was always moving. You either jiggled your foot, or twiddled your fingers, or bopped your head. I can't see you sitting still, waiting for some bird to come and eat whatever you put out for it. Why?" I counter. "What do you get out of it?"

His smile fades a little. "It's relaxing. I don't have to interact, talk or listen to anyone. You were always so calm and still, like an anchor for me. This comes close." He pauses and looks at me with the same intensity he used to have. "Sometimes, when it rains, I let myself think about my losses. Nobody can tell you're crying in the rain."

I swallow a gasp and start to raise my hand to touch him but drop it. I no longer have the right to give him a hug. I want to hold him till he is healed. But even if I had the right, I don't think either one of us will live long enough.

I've always felt guilty over our break-up. It was my fault; I take full responsibility. For being a coward. He was so much smarter. He had thoughts and opinions about concepts I had never even heard of. His ability to concentrate, analyze problems and retain information was phenomenal. At the time I couldn't put it into words, and even if I could have, I wouldn't have admitted it, but I was afraid. I felt I would never measure up and he'd become bored with me. I knew his loyalty would prevent him from walking away, like everybody else I had ever known, and he'd be stuck with me. I couldn't stand the thought of watching him just go through the motions. So, I did the hardest thing I've ever done and walked away.

I look away to gather myself and see a woman wearing a Santa hat. Her eyes are glued to us. She is slowly making her way toward us, but is stopped for hugs, whispers and laughs by practically everybody. Though she talks, listens and smiles, her eyes are sending daggers at me. I assume she's Mrs. Brecket and I'm running out of time.

"Are you..." Byron starts.

"Please. Let me. I've got to say this." I take a deep breath.

"I've done many things wrong in my life, but my biggest mistake was leaving and hurting you. I'm sorry. Oh, I could give you hundreds of reasons why I walked away, but the truth is cowardice." I shrug.

"I was afraid. Afraid to trust that you could and would love me. Because I feared that sooner or later you would see that I was not all that loveable." I pause, try to swallow a lump in my throat. The woman, whose eyes are drilling holes into me is getting closer.

"I have missed you every day, but that's my own fault. I'm not asking for forgiveness; I don't deserve it. I just hope that you have found happiness." I blink away my tears, they have no business here. "Because you deserve that." My voice has dropped to a whisper.

"Excuse me." She tries to sound aggressive, yet I hear her chemo-induced hoarseness. My father had sounded like that. "You have monopolized my husband long enough."

The woman in the Santa hat is leaning against Byron, her arm possessively around his waist. She's my height, her eyes, unnaturally big in her gaunt face, are grey green, like mine. Her upper lip has the same cupid's bow as I have. She's skinny emaciated, really. The Santa hat cannot disguise her baldness. I look from her to Byron. He's still looking at me, seems to barely notice his wife leaning into him. I suddenly know that he has given up everything he had in Atlanta to be here near the medical college for her treatments. And yet, he seems to be detached, merely going through the motions.

I swallow, nod and force a smile. "You're right. Of course. Happy Christmas."

I turn, try and fail to keep my head up as I walk away. Within seconds I'm out the door, have crossed the yard and am reaching into the cabinet where my mother keeps her liquor. I look at two fingers of her finest scotch and don't wait for rain, I let the tears flow. Did I imagine it, or does she look like me? Is that why he married her? Or am I being fanciful? Did I sentence him to the life I tried to safe him from? I'm not that important to anyone, to him, am I?

I drain my glass and refill it.

Will I spend the rest of the night mourning that one decision? No doubt.

Will I again, uselessly imagine that road no taken? Probably.

Will I resolve, but once again fail to abandon my hopes? Absolutely!

After all, if you can't be foolishly hopeful at Christmas, when can you?