Gwendy's Magic Feather

33

WITH ALL OF HER Christmas shopping completed and the bulk of her work correspondence caught up, Gwendy spends the Monday and Tuesday before Christmas settling into an almost scandalously lazy routine. For her, anyway.

On Monday morning, she sleeps in (waking almost ninety minutes later than her usual 6:00 AM, having forced herself not to set her alarm the night before) and remains in bed until nearly noon, catching up on news programs and movies on cable. After a luxuriously long bubble bath, she makes a light lunch and retires to the sunroom, where she stretches out on the loveseat and alternates between staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows and daydreaming, and reading the new Ridley Pearson thriller deep into the afternoon. Once the December sun begins its inevitable slide toward the horizon, she marks her page, leaves the thick paperback on an end table, and goes upstairs to change clothes. Then she grabs her keys and heads to her parents’ house for dinner.

After nearly three months of being waited on in her own kitchen, Mrs. Peterson is finally feeling strong enough to cook again. Under the watchful eye of her husband, Mrs. Peterson prepares and serves a steaming hot casserole of beef stroganoff and a Christmas tree-shaped platter stacked with homemade rolls. The food is delicious, and Mrs. Peterson is so openly and endearingly pleased with herself, her smiles bring tears to her husband’s eyes.

After dinner, Gwendy and her father shoo Mrs. Peterson into the den while they clear the table and wash the dishes. Then they join her in watching A Christmas Carol on television and crack open a new jigsaw puzzle.

At a few minutes before nine, Gwendy bids her folks goodnight and drives back to the condo. She considers going for a run, but decides against it, working the three-digit combination on the safe instead, and taking out the button box.

It keeps her company at the foot of the bed while she changes into a nightgown and brushes her teeth. She finds herself talking to it more and more now, just as she did when she was younger. The box doesn’t answer, of course, but she’s almost certain that it listens—and watches. Before she puts it away for the night, she sits on the edge of the mattress, places the box in her lap, and pulls the lever by the red button. The narrow shelf slides out and on it is a tiny chocolate monkey. She admires the fine detail, and then slowly lifts it to her nose and inhales. Her eyes flutter closed. When she opens them again, she gets up and walks at a deliberate pace to the bathroom where she flushes the chocolate down the toilet. Unlike last time, there is no panic and there are no tears. “See?” she says to the box as she reenters the bedroom, “I’m in control here. Not you.” And then she returns the button box to the safe and goes to sleep.

Tuesday is more or less a repeat performance of the day before, and there are moments when Gwendy can’t help but think of scenes from Groundhog Day, that silly movie Ryan likes so much.

She starts the day by again sleeping in and lounging in bed for most of the morning. Then she takes a long bath, finishes the Pearson novel shortly after lunch, and devours the first four chapters of a new John Grisham.

She’s not in much of a holiday mood, but she forces herself to haul out the artificial tree and boxes of ornaments from the crawlspace. She sets up the tree in the corner of the family room and hangs last year’s wreath on the front door. When dusk descends upon Castle Rock, she goes upstairs to change and heads to her parents’ for another dose of Mom’s home cooking. Lasagna and salad are on the menu tonight, and Gwendy eats two generous servings of each. After dinner, she and her father once again take care of the dishes, and then join Mrs. Peterson in the den. Tonight’s feature is White Christmas, and when the movie’s over and the credits are rolling, Mr. Peterson shocks both his wife and daughter by rolling up his pant legs, doing his best Bing Crosby imitation, and performing the “Sisters” routine in its entirety. Mrs. Peterson, hardly believing her eyes, collapses onto the sofa laughing so hard she ends up having a coughing fit, prompting her husband to hightail it into the kitchen for a glass of cold water. She takes a big drink, starts hiccupping, and lets out a tremendous belch—and the three of them burst out in delirious laughter all over again. The party breaks up a short time later, and Gwendy heads home, snow flurries dancing in the beams of her car’s headlights.

She takes her time driving across town and walks into her condo at precisely nine-thirty, juggling and almost dropping the stack of Tupperware containers her mom sent home with her. There’s enough leftover lasagna, stroganoff, and cheesecake in there to last well into the New Year. She’s struggling to open the refrigerator when her cellphone rings. Gwendy glances at the counter where she left the phone next to her keys and turns her attention back to the refrigerator. She slides the largest container onto the top shelf next to half-empty cartons of milk and orange juice, and is trying to make room on a lower shelf when the phone rings again. She ignores it and jams in the other two containers, one after the other. The phone rings a third time as Gwendy is closing the refrigerator door, and it’s almost as if a lightning bolt reaches down from the heavens and strikes some sense into her.

She lunges for the cellphone, knocking her keys onto the floor.

“Hello? Hello?”

At first there’s nothing—and then a burst of loud static.

“Hello?” she says again, disappointment washing over her. “Is anyone—”

“Hey, baby girl… I was just about to hang up.”

Every muscle in her body goes limp, and she has to lean against the table to keep from falling. “Ryan…” she says, but it comes out in a whisper.

“You there, Gwen?”

“I’m here, honey. I’m so happy to hear your voice.” The tears come now, gushing down her face.

“Listen… I don’t know how long this line’s gonna last. We haven’t even been able to file our reports with the magazine or any of the newspapers… yesterday… fires all over the place.”

“Are you okay, Ryan? Are you safe?”

“I’m okay. I wanted to tell you… taking care of myself and doing my best… get home to you.”

“I miss you so damn much,” she says, unable to keep the emotion from her voice.

“I miss you, too, baby… know when I’ll be able to call again, but I’ll keep trying… by Christmas.”

“You’re breaking up.”

Staccato bursts of static hijack the line. Gwendy pulls the phone away from her ear and waits for them to decrease in intensity. Amidst the noise, she hears her husband’s faint voice: “…love you.”

She presses the phone back to her ear. “Hello? Are you still there? Please take care of yourself, Ryan!” She’s nearly shouting now.

The line crackles and then goes silent. She holds it tight against her ear, listening and hoping for one more word—anything—but it doesn’t come.

“I love you more,” she finally whispers, and ends the call.