Chapter 25 Christmas #2
She looks up at me, tears in her eyes, and whispers, “Thank you.” She closes the book reverently and reaches out, clutching my hand.
“You know the family legacy was never meant to bend and bow you. I’m glad you are standing tall these days as the Jablonski weight sits much better on shoulders that are strong and straight.
That is perhaps the most important trait of us Jablonski’s, eh?
” She smiles and then opens the book and continues flipping the pages slowly.
I straighten my shoulders, looking down at her, now so small and frail in her bed.
She did once stand tall, cherishing her museums, art, painting, and her beloved family.
She was always the most ardent advocate of the legacy, yet it did not constrain her life; rather, it was enriched by it.
Remembering her before my grandfather died, I realize she didn’t shy away from her hopes and dreams. Instead, she embraced her happiness, appreciating it even more because of the legacy.
Wow! I’ve forgotten what she was like before age robbed her of her zest. I wish I paid more attention back then instead of being so miserable and sad about my life.
Quietly, I leave her. She is enfolded in a world she thought she had left behind. Her present was the most expensive of the three, and I hesitated to buy it, but I’m so happy I splurged as the gift she just gave me with her words are of much greater value than she will ever know.
Stepping back into the kitchen, I see my mother taking the pierogis out of the boiling pot of water and Jake, with an old, faded apron on, is ready to start flipping them in the sizzling pan in front of him.
My father is sitting at the table, so I sit down next to him.
Reaching into my bag, I bring out a large package of smoked salmon and slide it toward him.
“Merry Christmas, Papa. Enjoy.”
Picking it up, my father bounces it in his hand as if estimating its weight.
He declares, “Ahh, Emma, my favorite. My Christmas bagel tomorrow is going to be extra special.”
My mother turns away from her pot and eyes the salmon. “That is enough to feed us for a month. You spoil us, Emma.”
Standing, I take a pretty box out of my bag and say, “This is for you, Mama. You deserve something pretty and this will match your eyes.”
Mama slides the top off the box and takes out a dark-blue scarf.
My mother wears scarves on her head when she goes out, and all her scarves are old and as faded as the apron Jake is wearing.
This one has gold thread running through it.
My mother drapes it over her shoulder and rubs it against her face.
She smiles and her eyes sparkle, she sits down and holds the scarf out for my papa to feel.
He smiles into her shining eyes, “Very pretty.”
Jake and I serve the pierogis bursting with potato and cheese paired with sauerkraut that is crisp and tangy.
The table is silent except for the scraping of forks on our simple white plates.
Remembering the tense quiet I experienced across the hall during the last dinner, I am glad I don’t have perspiration dripping down my armpit tonight—but I know soon enough, I will.
When Jake and I step out onto Fifth Avenue, the cold whips through our bulky coats. The air has that expectant heaviness that feels as if it will snow at any moment. We hurry home and make hot chocolate. My boxes of cookies are hidden away, ready for tomorrow.
“I have something for you,” I say shyly as we sit in the living room, sipping our hot chocolate. “I don’t want to give it to you at your parents’. Do you want it now or tomorrow morning?”
Jake looks up from his mug; he has a chocolate mustache. “Now, please,” he blurts.
I go into Vee’s room, where I hid Jake’s present, and pull it out from under her bed. I carry it back to the couch and hand him the wrapped gift, and he grins, “I love surprises.”
He tears open the wrapping, revealing the framed collage inside.
There is a Snowy Owl in the center and then in seven smaller pictures around the edge: there is a yellow-rumped warbler, a palm warbler, a northern cardinal, a white-throated sparrow, a black-capped chickadee and a dark-eyed junco.
The last one is a lovely wood thrush to commemorate the job he got me.
“These are the birds we’ve seen when we were together in the park, not the actual picture as I don’t have a camera, but pictures of the birds plus, of course, the wood thrush,” I babble.
“I know you hate John Foster, but you seem to like birds, and I thought this could be something for you to remember me by—you know, for when this whole thing is over.” I wave my hands nervously then clasp them at my chest, waiting.
Jake tilts his head and replies, “I love it. You are right. I do like seeing birds with you. This is great, but let’s not talk about this whole thing being over. That will just make me sad.”
He actually looks stricken. My heart swells, “Deal.”
We sit sipping our cocoa and talk about each of the birds.
I made myself the exact same collage so I will have it to brighten my dreary room at my parents’ and will remember each bird sighting once I’m back there, all alone.
I’ll remember this exact moment too. I’m squirreling away each of these memories, to be taken out and examined when my days drag on and my body begins its halting slide to infirmity.
The next morning dawns bright and clear, I catch the rich scent of pancakes, Jake must be making breakfast. Oh, how delightful.
I snuggle under the quilt for a bit. Everything feels .
. . the only word to describe it is happiness.
Lying perfectly still, I work to capture this in my memory bank.
If only I could take a picture of my happiness, like the bird pictures, so it could stay with me forever, reminding me of this Christmas morning when my fiancé was making me breakfast after going to church with my family on Christmas Eve.
I grab my robe and run to the window to peek out.
Frowning, disappointed when I don’t see any magic snow to transform the city.
Quickly washing up, I head down the hallway.
Standing just behind Jake, I say, “Merry Christmas,” and kiss him shyly on his neck.
This is the first time I’ve done something so bold, but it was the feeling I had lying in bed that gave me this newfound surge of courage.
Jake turns and gives me a quick squeeze. “Pancakes are ready, I’ll grab your tea and then we can eat.”
We munch quietly, passing the syrup back and forth. I get up to refill Jake’s coffee, pouring a touch of creamer in it just as he likes. It feels as though we have been doing this for years.
Suddenly, Jake reaches over and pulls out a little blue box hidden behind the napkin holder on the island.
“Emma, here’s your Christmas gift. I want to give it to you now instead of at my mom’s.”
Gazing at the box, I see the name etched on the edge. I clap my hand over my mouth and breathe, “Tiffany’s. Oh, my.”
Jake beams. “Vee told me you’ve never gotten a blue box from Tiffany’s before, and every girl needs to get at least one box once in her life.”
Staring into Jake’s speckled brown eyes, I throw my arms around him. “Thank you, thank you so much.”
Jake peels me off, chuckling, “But you haven’t even opened it. You do know there’s something in the box?”
I swat at his arm and slowly lift the top off the box. Nestled inside are the most delicate pair of diamond earring studs, with a little blue stone on either side of the diamond.
“They are lovely. So beautiful. Oh, I can wear them today. Jake, how can I ever thank you?”
Looking pleased, Jake says, “I thought the blue stones match your pretty blue eyes.”
Carefully, I take them out of the box and try to figure out how to put them on. They have back screws, I guess to make sure they are extra secure. I finally figure them out and do a twirl in the kitchen and then dash off to the mirror in the hallway to admire them.
Yelling over my shoulder, I’m ecstatic, “They are just perfect. I can’t believe I have diamond earrings. I never dreamed of owning such a thing.”
We head over to Jake’s parents at 3:00 p.m. for an early Christmas dinner. Jake and I are each carrying our bags with gifts in them. We walk through the park and we both slow to a crawl, dragging our feet the closer we get to the apartment building.
Suddenly, the first snowflakes start softly falling, and I think my heart is going to split at the seam. Grabbing Jake, I pull him over to my bench, and we silently watch the snow fall.
Every snowfall in my life seemed to send me a message.
A message that transformation and magic are possible, and for me to never stop believing in magic.
I remember when I’d step outside at 4:00 a.m. and discover a city blanketed with fresh snow.
The world transformed in a heartbeat, and one day that same magic will paint my life with its magical brush just as it does the trees and the sidewalks, changing the city from drab to dreamy.
Finally, Jake pulls me up and gives me a kiss on the tip of my nose, stating, “Listen, Emma, we must go, or we both may freeze.”
We run the rest of the way and burst through his parents’ door all red-faced and giggling. The apartment smells delicious. Sandy and Glen are already there, and both are holding glasses with some thick-looking yellow mixture in them.
Jake loudly announces, “We’re here, let the party begin.”
Carol gives Jake a quick look of reproach, but then smiles indulgently, “Merry Christmas, son.”
Jake gives her a long hug and I hang back, feeling uncomfortable. Jake nods his head in Sandy and Glen’s direction and says, “Merry Christmas, guys. What have you got there? Oliver’s famous eggnog?”
They both grimace and nod. Jake calls into the kitchen, “Oliver! Merry Christmas. Emma and I are dying for your eggnog. Is there any left?”