Title: The Same Day, Every Year
Author: Pene
Email: penelopody@hotmail.com
Things you might want to know: CJ/Toby, post admin.
Summary: She was expecting him
Thanks: To Luna, for whom I capitalise.

For International Princess.

***

A year later:

She'll stretch her legs, flex bare feet in an early pool of sun on her
balcony. She'll lean back. And her phone will start its plastic rendition of
Ave Maria. Whatever the day of the year, she won't yet be rid of the sense
that a phone call means a disaster on some front. She'll answer before the A
minor.

"Merry Christmas." He will ever be an optimist where she's concerned.

She won't try not to smile. "Do you know what time it is here?"

"You were up," he'll say comfortably.

"And aren't you supposed to be Jewish?"

"Every year. But you're not."

She'll hear his kids in the background. "Get back to your family, Toby, it's
Christmas."

It will have been three weeks since last they spoke. She'll avoid saying,
"It's good to hear your voice."

After he's hung up she'll stretch out again. She'll let the alone, the sleek
clean of her latest apartment, the rub of traffic below and the thin LA sun
above, she'll let all these things run hot in her. She'll wriggle her toes.
And she'll think of him in the suburban snow.


Two:

There'll be a beautiful man in her bed. The kind of man people watch walk
by, the kind who talks with his eyelashes and hands. A kind of distraction.
She'll be awake when the phone rings from the bedside table. The man beside
her will stir.

"Merry Christmas," Toby will say.

"Did you get the thing?" she'll ask quietly as she leaves the bedroom.

"The-"

"Package."

"You sent me something?"

"Just a- you seemed sorta low at the thing last month. I was worr--" She'll
feel the almost unkindness and stop, too late.

"Don't be, I'm fine. How's Alex?"

It'll be Alex on her skin, Alex's hair sticking in all directions from her
creamy sheets. "Good," she'll say. "He's good." In her head she'll watch the
words oscillate across the continent. She won't ask after his wife.


Three:

"Your phone's ringing." It'll be one of her brothers. Maybe only one is
still alive.

"You're late this year," she'll say as she carries the phone onto the back
lawn. She won't want him to hear her relief that he called at all. The
grass will be crisp with frost under her feet, and she'll look over the
stretching valley. It will fall away from her, that winter green and peat
brown, the vines near black.

When he speaks she'll almost know what to expect. "She left me." Still the
breath will seep out of her.

"Oh god," she'll say, "oh god, I'm sorry."

"She couldn't stand to fake her way through another Christmas. She couldn't
stand it. To lie there next to me with all her nieces and nephews down the
hall and the holly and bells and 'tis the season."

"I-"

"The twins are with her."

CJ will think of the carefully wrapped presents already sitting under the
tree in the corner of their living room. And there'll be nothing to say.

Some cousin's little girls will scamper by in their footsie pajamas, leaving
fairy-green footprints on the grass. He'll say, "I'll go."

"Toby-"

"I'm fine. I'm fine. I'll call you soon."

He'll hang up in the middle of her, "I can get a flight-". So she'll assume
he didn't hear. She won't go, in case he's looking for someone to blame.


Four:

She'll fumble under her pillows and find the phone wrapped in her sheets.
After blinking halfheartedly at the buttons, she'll find the right one and
mumble something that made sense in sleep. Then she'll open her eyes to the
dark. "Every year, every fucking year."

"Well, Merry Christmas to you too. Late night?" he'll ask.

"You could say that."

"Do you want me to say I'm sorry I woke you?"

She'll likely chuckle. "I knew you'd call, I slept with the phone."

"Lucky phone," he'll say roughly and she'll feel brave, or lost. Brave.
She'll rub her feet against one another before pushing the covers off and
standing, naked, to walk to the kitchen. "Come with me," she'll say. The
first blue-gray glow of another LA Christmas will finger her kitchen
windows.

"So, how's your day shaping up?" she'll ask.

"Strangely warm," he'll say and only then will she realize where he is. She
won't take the time to wonder if she's altogether glad.

"So, you want me to let you in?"

"I wish you would."


Five:

There'll be a triangle of sun falling from the window. Even in the shade the
air will hang heavy, will drip from her limbs. She'll wear some sort of
creamy cotton dress unbuttoned to her thighs, and a red swimsuit underneath.
He'll be parked on the wicker lounge in the corner of the cabin, fiddling
with the antenna on the radio.

Amused, "Leave that thing. We've only got--" she'll have to think, "three
days
left."

He'll mutter, won't look at her until "Merry Christmas," breaks through the
static on the radio. He'll look up to grin smugly and she'll feel his eyes
catch on her bare legs. He'll stand slowly, his eyes still.

"You only get more beautiful," he'll say without awkwardness. "Every year,
CJ."

He'll taste like the tropics, strange to both of them. Maybe she'll make him
wait to lick the salt and the warm soft air from her skin. "Come on, time
for a swim before breakfast," she'll say.

There will be fish and turtles in the blue beneath the blue but even his
pale skin won't mind them watching. It will be a shameless day, suddenly.


Six:

She'll lie awake, watch that first hint of pink across the sky. She'll reach
between the sheets for his hand. He'll open his eyes and roll toward her,
his face creased. "It's going to snow," she'll say. Or else, "remember the
waterfall last year?" and you, peeling my swimsuit from me, ignoring the
curiously attentive birds and the heat. You with sand between your white
toes.

He'll blink a little. "Remember the turtles," she'll say, instead, and he'll
smile and run a hand along her side.

She'll offer him tea. "When are the twins calling?"

She won't want to think less of this because they're not on vacation. She
won't want to think less because she says, "remember" before she kisses him.
But he'll roll over in the bed and she'll wish it summer, she'll wish the
air scorching and herself sure in it. She'll get up and walk to the kitchen.

Then behind her he'll say, "Time for presents," in a voice no one else
hears. And as they unwrap this book, this tie, that harmonica, he'll leave a
hand on her knee.


Seven:

A room anywhere, could be her apartment in LA, could be his in D.C. she'll
say, "Look at me when you're talking to me." He'll turn blandly in the desk
chair. Its wheels will scrape on the hardwood. She'll hate the tears at the
back of her throat. She'll hate that she has no power in this room. She'll
almost hate him.

"Just fucking look at me."

But you can't leave someone you love, even like this, on Christmas day.


Eight:

There'll be a needlepoint twist in her every time she answers the phone and
it's a brother or a niece. She'll drive home late, the thin white line of
the road before her, headlights flying the other direction. A long drive and
her speakerphone will answer his, "Merry Christmas, CJ."

She was expecting him, but she won't know what to say.


Nine:

Perhaps there is a future that does not already exist in his mind, or hers.
Perhaps there is a future that does not end somewhere they have already been
together. Could be his hands are in her hair, indistinguishable, and a storm
outside. His eyes bright on her in all the light as she accepts some award.
An airport, him scouring the waiting crowd for her height and dress. A house
with walls of books and a grey cat he pretends to hate.

In any case, nine years later he will still be an optimist where she's
concerned.

And she will always answer the phone.

********