Maybe Next Year

Maybe Next Year

Some people avoid the number thirteen. They don’t get on an airplane on Friday the thirteenth. They don’t’ stay on the thirteenth floor of a hotel, if there is one. Some cross every number thirteen off their calendar or literally rip the page right out.

Me, I avoid New Year’s Eve. It’s a reminder of failure and loss. The books I didn’t publish. The job I quit. The weight I didn’t lose. The marriage that failed.

The child who no longer plays in the backyard.

I’m not sure which came first, but I know all were exacerbated the day my child’s soul left this earth.

My marriage was already on rocky ground. Brad and I argued over money, lack of money, work schedules. When we argued, I ate. And gained weight. The look of disgust I saw as Brad looked at my ever-increasing hips had me eating more.

“Get a real job” he said when ends didn’t meet.

“Writing is my job,” I shouted back. “If you were home to spend more time with Charlie I could write more,” I argued.

I scheduled play dates so Charlie could spend time at Marshal’s house next door in exchange for Marshal and Charlie playing here on other days. It gave me time to write. It gave Marshal’s dad time to sell real estate while his wife spent long hours at her office or out of town on business trips. On days when I had the kids, I would take them to the park and watch them play while I stole snatches of time write.

 I wrote short romance despite the lack of romance in my own life. I wrote children’s stories and read them to Charlie before bed.

In better times, when Brad was home I would sit on the arm of his chair and read chapters from my latest love story hoping to rekindle any romantic fire left between us only to see his head nod, showing his disinterest.

I was beginning to see more of Marshal’s dad during the exchange of kids at play dates than I was seeing of Brad.

Marshal’s dad became a character in my first novel. It was his blue eyes that came alive in the story. The soft, innocent hug he gave me when I was feeling down became the caress that held the woman against his bare chest in my story. And I became the woman in the story. Fantasy was much more fulfilling than my stale life and boring marriage.

When Marshal’s dad dropped him off, it was easy to imagine how I would describe his bulging biceps, his radiant smile, or kind eyes.

Was I falling in love with the character or was I falling in love with the man himself?

Charlie had been excited for Marshal to come over for a New Year’s sleepover the year they both turned six. Brad promised he would bring pizza home in time for an early celebration with the boys before sending them to bed and then a quiet night at home watching the ball drop.

Mitch dropped Marshal off right at four and helped him out of his coat and boots.

“It’s warmer out today than it has been,” said Mitch. “Even the snow on the driveway melted off.” 

“Come see the new racetrack Santa brought,” said Charlie. He took Marshal by the hand and they ran down the hall to his room.

“Like brothers,” said Mitch.

“Not like my brothers,” I said. “They fought all the time. Drove mom crazy.”

Mitch had one hand on the door to leave when the boys came running back to the kitchen. “We’re going to go play out in the back yard,” said Charlie.

“What about the racetrack?” Mitch asked. He stepped out of the way of the flurry of hats and mittens.

“We can do that later,” said Charlie. “We’re going to take my new sled in the back yard.”

“Just come in before dark,” I told them.

“That should wear them out,” Mitch said. “Well, I should get going. If they cause any trouble, just give me a call. Lisa and I don’t have any plans. Less plans if she stays late at work again.”

My heart fell a notch at the mention of her name. The story I had written did not include the other woman. It was an innocent love story. “And I should get back to my writing while the boys are out playing,” I said.

“How is the writing going?” asked Mitch, showing genuine interest. “I’ve got time if you want an unprofessional critique.”

I glanced through the house and could see the boys through the living room window. “Well, it’s still a very rough draft,” I said.

“I don’t mind.” He slipped off his boots before I could say more.

I sat at my desk while Mitch looked at me from the couch. He leaned forward, his hands on his knees, a kind smile on his face. I felt heat rush to my face.

I took a deep breath and began reading.

Before I got to the second chapter, the back door flew open and Marshal came stumbling in, eyes wide, cheeks red from the cold.

“Charlie fell in!” he finally managed to say.

My mind went wild and scenes of the frozen pond flashed before my eyes. “It’s warmer today than it has been,” I mumbled, repeating Mitch’s earlier words.

It’s been six years since that New Year’s Eve. Brad blames me for Charlie’s death, and I blame myself.

Mitch and his family eventually moved to another town to help Marshal through the grief of losing his best friend.

Brad moved out.

I quit writing.

I tried going to work but couldn’t focus on my job and quit within a month. I stayed home, barely able to pull myself from bed each morning.

Like other years, there are no party hats or loud horns for me this New Year’s Eve. Instead, I go where my son is laid to rest. I sit on the cold snow and tell him how sorry I am that I wasn’t watching him that day. That I didn’t tell him to stay off the pond. That I couldn’t reach him soon enough. I pull a paper from my coat pocket and read to him. It’s the only writing I do now. Stories to my little boy. Stories about two little boys who loved each other like brothers. My tears fall onto the paper before rolling off and disappearing into the snow. I want to wish him a happy new year. But I stole all his new years from him. Instead, I fold the paper and tuck it back into my pocket. I’ll take it home and store it with the rest of them. Some day when I pull my soul out of the pond that sits frozen now behind the house, I’ll put all these stories into a book, and dedicate it to Charlie. I already have the title. ‘A New Year for Charlie.’