Tara Quinn - The Holiday Visitor

“I didn’t say I’m in love. I said I love her as much as I love anyone.”

“Does she know that?”

“Of course. It’s the same with her. Our passion goes into our work. By the time we get to the people in our lives, there’s not much left.”

The theory had merit. It was obvious Craig believed what he was telling her. And just as clear to her that he was one hundred percent wrong.

Which left her wondering—needing to know—why he had to believe it.

“When she’s in the throes of creation, Jenny doesn’t have anything left for herself. She’ll forget to eat, to sleep, to lock the door if she happens to take a walk. That’s where I come in. I make sure she eats.”

Surprised by the prick of jealousy she felt, Marybeth tried to imagine a life with someone watching her back the way she’d watched her father’s. And now her guests’.

Mostly she envisioned herself being irritated, feeling smothered. And yet as she pictured this virtual stranger there, concerned that she wasn’t getting enough rest, strange things happened to her.

Dangerous things.

“Jenny and I are honest with each other,” he was saying, “which is part of what makes us work so well.”

She got that. And wanted to believe that his choices had no correlation with her life. She wasn’t envious. She’d rather be alone than settle for less.

Wouldn’t she?

“I’ve got to get going.” Marybeth stood, gathering things carefully as she tried to put life—him—in perspective before she went down a path to destruction. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Can I tag along with you to church?”

She’d told him the day before that she’d be going, offered to direct him to a congregation of his faith, if he attended at all. She’d not expected this.

There was something intimate about the thought of sitting in church with a man. Attending with him.

She liked the idea too much.

But it was Christmas Eve.

And he was alone.

“Sure. We can have something to eat around five, if you’d like, and go to the early service at seven.”

“I’d like that.”

She nodded. Watched him watching her. And when she made herself leave, she took the memory of his smile with her.

Sunday, December 31, 2006

Will I always be as I am now, moving through life without ever being fully engaged? Is there something I’m doing that keeps me trapped? Am I sabotaging myself? Or is this the inevitable result to what happened when we were kids and a way of life for me that I can do nothing about—much like if I’d been in a skiing accident and lost a leg.

Putting down the letter, Marybeth stared at the hand-writing through eyes blurred from lack of sleep. And maybe a few tears, as well.

Craig McKellips was gone. Finally. And nothing had happened. Oh, he’d helped her deliver Christmas dinner to the nursing home, visited with residents while she did the same. While she’d been at the Mathers’s, exchanging gifts, on Christmas Eve day, he’d bought a miniature Victorian Santa lamp for the sideboard, had it wrapped and under the tree when she got home. He’d watched the original version of Miracle on 34th Street with her. Eaten voraciously and appreciatively all week.

They’d talked, incessantly it seemed at times, about the world, global warming and politics and same-sex marriage.

They’d exchanged long looks, and sat not far from each other on the couch.

And they never so much as shook hands.

He’d been gone for twelve hours—left that morning to make it home in time to pick Jenny up from the airport and spend New Year’s Eve with his wife—and she was relieved.

No more pressure to save herself from disaster. No more temptation to want more than was her right to have.

But he’d be back.

In June.

She had a feeling she’d be waiting.

She’d told him to bring Jenny with him next time.

He’d said she didn’t really like bed-and-breakfasts—preferring the anonymity of hotels. And room service available in the middle of the night.

He’d be coming alone.

His glance had promised her something she needed.

Craig had looked her straight in the eye when he’d stood at the door with his bag, having already taken care of his bill. Then he’d left without saying goodbye.

Dear James,

Putting the pen she’d been holding for more minutes than she cared to count to the paper in front of her, Marybeth didn’t think, didn’t analyze, didn’t calculate.

As always when she came to this place, with pen and paper, no computers, no outside world, she was herself.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the questions you asked in your last letter. You wanted to know if you’d lost something vital because of what happened, if somehow your ability to love fully had been amputated. You seemed to think that I’d have answers for you.

I don’t.

Do you remember when I wrote to you on my sixteenth birthday and told you that I wasn’t dating at all? I told you I was too busy. Playing tennis (a mostly individual sport), taking care of the house and cooking and laundry, babysitting Wendy next door, getting A’s in college prep classes…

Well, you know all that; I don’t have to repeat it all.

Then in college when you asked I told you I wasn’t dating because there was no spark. Guys asked me out, they liked me, but I didn’t ever return their feelings. I was fine to be friends. And nothing more.

Does this sound like someone who understands or experiences the fullness of loving?

Do I think what happened to my mom had anything to do with this? Of course, I do. And for you, too.

But do I think it’s for life? I used to think so, but I don’t know anymore. I can only tell you I hope not.

I spent my senior year in college fearing that I was going to be alone for the rest of my life. And the more frightened I got the more I became certain that I needed to meet you. I really believed that if we could stand face-to-face, if we could bolster each other in real life instead of only in this fantasy world we inhabit, we would be able to free each other from the binds that keep us hostage. Or, at the very least, to share the experience of being bound.

It took months for me to get up the courage to ask you to see me. And you said no. I don’t disagree with your reasons. Of course there would be some level of awkwardness—at least at first. We know so much about each other that we’d never have told anyone we had to see again. And yes, life and society would intervene. Judgments might creep in. Maybe wewould start filtering our words to each other. Maybe wewould lose this safe place.

But maybe, just maybe, we’d finally be fully alive.

You ask about your lack of ability to love completely? Maybe this is part of it.

I don’t know, maybe it’s the holidays, my first Christmas without my dad, and I’ll feel better again, soon, but I’m really kind of angry with you, my friend. I needed you this week. I needed a real flesh-and-blood friend. Someone who could cry with me. We’re adults now, not kids.

I needed something more personal than your handwriting. (Although the familiar script still brings joy to my life.)

Yet you have a life I know nothing about. Very likely you’re involved with someone. Guys don’t live celibate forever. I know that it’s not a mistake that the entire tone of our relationship changed since I pushed for that meeting. You backed away. We haven’t spoken of anything personal to our daily lives in a couple of years. And while I love the philosophical discussions, while I desperately need what we have, this safe place to talk, to say anything and know that there will be automatic acceptance, I also think we’re doing ourselves a disservice.