Alix Ohlin - Inside

He didn’t take up drinking; he didn’t miss a day of work. He wasn’t even sure that other people could see the numbness inside him, the mechanical nature of his commitment to his own life.

There came a time when, without quite noticing at first, he was sleeping through the night. The running helped, and so did work. He wouldn’t have said that his spirits, for lack of anything else to do, were rising; he wouldn’t have wanted to admit that. He would have said that he came from a family where each person had a talent. Their mother’s was to take care of them. Malcolm’s was to be happy. His was to let things go.

When the card came in the mail, a thick white envelope with a Christmas-tree stamp, he recognized Grace’s handwriting with a mix of pleasure, guilt, and regret. She had always loved holidays, every one of them — she gave gifts at Valentine’s Day, Easter, even Memorial Day — and none more than Christmas. She started shopping in September, stashing the presents under her bed. Mitch smiled, thinking of it now. We’re doing great , the card said. Thanks again for your help this year. Love to your family, Grace and Sarah . The card was a picture of the two of them in red sweaters, a blond head and a dark one smiling at the camera. Grace’s eyes were lined and tired, but she looked less frazzled; with her arms around her daughter, she seemed purposeful and amused.

Love to your family , he read again.

He called her, and when she picked up the phone she sounded breathless.

“Oh, Mitch,” she said. “This time of year is always so crazy, isn’t it?”

It was the day before Christmas Eve. He had the following week off, and would spend Christmas itself with Malcolm and his family, returning the next day. It wasn’t, for him, an especially hectic season, but he knew that for others it was.

“Thanks for the card,” he said. “How’s everything?”

“We’re getting by. Leaving tomorrow for Christmas in Vancouver. I don’t know what possessed me to travel. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Vancouver will be nice,” he said. “Warm.”

“I’m sure it’ll be great once we get there. Now I have ten thousand things to get before we go, and no sitter for Sarah. The usual insanity.”

Mitch paused, but only for a second. “Can I help?” he said.

He thought this might provoke an awkward moment, but Grace seized upon the offer.

“That would be amazing ,” she said. “Can you come by in an hour and pick us up? My car’s having issues, by the way. It’s that kind of holiday season.”

“You got it,” Mitch said.

He put on his coat, grabbed his wallet and keys, and turned off the lights, finding himself humming. He could have stopped to tidy things up in his apartment before leaving, but he didn’t have to. Everything was already in order. He didn’t have a single thing to arrange.

He drove them downtown, heading along Sainte-Catherine so Sarah could see the Christmas displays at Ogilvy’s, and parked in a lot on de Maisonneuve. As they walked, the winter air bit their cheeks and noses. He followed Grace and Sarah into the stone church facade at Promenades Cathédrale, descending down the long escalators into the underground city. The neon-lit stores stretched endlessly, each a riot of shoppers, the air hot and close. From every store blasted a new carol. Christmas is coming , the Payolas sang wearily, it’s been a long year . Roving packs of teenagers were jostling around the kiosks. One of them, a boy, almost knocked Sarah over and when Mitch yelled at him he spun instantly away, muttering something. “It’s okay,” Grace said, “let it go.”

Sarah waded through the crowds with her coat unzipped, pointing at the decorations, the gaudy trees, the robot snowman waving his arms and nodding his head, the children lined up to see Santa. After a while she started to get cranky, so Mitch took her to the food court for some ice cream while Grace ran around picking up various purchases.

“What do you think?” she asked Mitch when she came back with a sweater for her uncle. He suspected the man would prefer not to receive a sweater at all, but didn’t say so. He felt a headache coming on and related more to Sarah’s exhaustion — the girl was listing sideways, trawling her plastic spoon through a pool of chocolate sauce — than to Grace’s stress over choosing the right present.

“Listen,” she said, folding the sweater back into its bag. She sat down across from him and put her arms around Sarah, who leaned against her. “I’m sorry about how we left things.”

“It’s okay, Grace. You were right. It was weird.”

She smiled at him. Her coat was open and beneath it she was wearing jeans and an old McGill sweatshirt. She still moved slowly, stepping gingerly as though she were wearing high heels instead of solid, fur-lined, rubber-soled boots. Despite this lingering air of fragility, though, she looked good. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed, and her long hair fell to her shoulders in smooth waves.

“So how are you?” she said.

“I’m good,” he said.

“Are you going to Mississauga for Christmas?”

“Sure. I have to teach Malcolm’s kids new bad habits for 2007.”

Grace cocked her head. “I’m glad. You’re alone too much, I think.”

He let this pass.

“I feel like I never thanked you enough for helping me out.”

“You thanked me plenty,” he said.

When they exited the stores, the day had fled and the streetlights picked out sparkles on the icy sidewalks. The three of them hurried to the car, backs hunched against the cold, the adults laden with presents they stuffed into the trunk. Mitch turned the heat on high, and within a few blocks Sarah fell asleep in the back, her face practically hidden by her hat and hood.

He drove west on Sherbrooke toward Grace’s neighborhood. Beyond the McGill campus, the rounded shadow of the mountain hulked on the horizon with its illuminated cross. Grace turned the dial to a classical music station, and the soft ripples of a piano concerto filled the car. They didn’t talk. Her face was turned away and she was looking out the window, which grew opaque with condensation. Like a child, she pulled off one of her gloves and with her fingertip wrote some illegible letters on it, then wiped it all away with the flat of her hand and put the glove back on. He kept taking his eyes off the road to glance at her, wondering at her silence, so notable after her animation in the mall. She was probably exhausted too. Drawn to the sight of her strong, thin frame in the passenger seat, her burgundy-colored hat, her dark hair spilling out from underneath, he felt a flicker of unaccustomed energy shiver across his skin. He’d missed her.

Ten minutes later, he pulled up to her apartment building and parked. Sarah was still asleep in the back.

Grace rubbed her eyes, then turned to him. “You saved my life today,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

“It was nothing,” Mitch said.

“No, it wasn’t.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, an ex-wife’s kiss, friendly, sexless.

Yet something in it washed over him and he found himself holding her hand, their gloved fingers intertwined. He could just barely detect the contours of her hand beneath the leather and fleece, its muscles and heat. “I’m glad you’re doing better,” he said.

Grace nodded, her eyes grave and tender in the shadowy interior. Whatever she heard in his voice must have registered on her, because she squeezed his hand. She seemed to know exactly what he needed, and he couldn’t figure out how, unless maybe this was her talent. She got out of the car and gathered her daughter in her arms. Mitch opened the trunk, unloaded the many gifts, and stood there in the street, the handles of the shopping bags cutting into his gloves, waiting.