Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [91]
I pick up the only other noncatalog letter for the day, running my fingers underneath the lip of the envelope, which whispers out a crackle in exchange. An unfamiliar Christmas card awaits inside. Hand-cut snowflakes and silver sparkles dot the front, and some of the glitter sticks to the tips of my fingers as I flip the card open.
“To Jillian,” it says in the ballooning scrawl of a child who hasn’t quite mastered her cursive. “Happy New Year!! I hope this is the year of your dreams!!! Love, your sister, Izzy.”
Below it, my mother has written, “Thank you for your note. It is enough to know that you’re out there. And I hope you don’t mind the card. She wanted to.”
I stare at the card for so long that eventually the writing and the sparkles and the snowflakes blend into themselves, creating a master composite of light and color that is only broken when I wipe away my tears and catch my breath. Then, I walk into the bedroom and slip that card into my sock drawer because I don’t know where else it might belong.
THOUGH MY NEW black dress, short and flirty, is crying to be worn, the weather mocks me and doesn’t surrender, and trodding through foot-high snow simply doesn’t seem survivable in such a getup. Besides, I tell myself, as I wade through my closet, you are not going for alluring tonight. You are going for “we’re friends,” tonight, and friends don’t let friends wear skimpy black dresses.
I settle on a black V-neck sweater and jeans. Innocuous enough. Deflecting enough. I stare at myself as I dot my eyes with liner and float mascara over my lashes and peck my cheeks with blush and convince myself that I am not nervous. My sweaty palms and moist underarms, however, plead to the contrary, and I swipe on an extra layer of deodorant, like that can somehow calm my sticky dry mouth and my tumbling stomach.
The snow has finally ceased when I make my way out of my building. Though it’s stopped, the damage it has left is remarkable: Cars are buried so deeply that they simply look like lumpy igloos on the side of the street; store owners and doormen are bundled like Eskimos, shoveling their sidewalks, virtually in vain, in an attempt to make them passable; pedestrians, the few of us who are braving it, are slipping and stomping and nearly hiking their way down the block. The city is at a quiet standstill: There are no cars or buses or taxis on the roads, no airplanes overhead, nothing but a hush of recently fallen snow and the smacks of the shovels digging into the mess and futilely pushing it elsewhere.
Henry lives only eight blocks away, but tonight, the route takes nearly half an hour, and I arrive late, panting and sweaty, my thighs aching from wading through the depths of the storm. I buzz his apartment, tucked in the back of an unassuming brownstone, and the door beeps and clicks open. As I step into the front entry, I’m dizzy with déjà vu. The scent—a touch of mildew mixed with Pine-Sol—is too familiar, and for a moment, I lose my balance, slapping my gloved hand up against the tiled wall for balance.
Finally, the vertigo passes, though the sense of discombobulation does not, and I haul my way up the creaky steps to his third-floor apartment. He opens the door before I can knock.
“Hey, come in,” he says, sweeping his arm out like a maître d’.
“Sorry I’m late,” I manage, though my intestines have now somersaulted, and I suspect that a better countdown than the one to midnight might be the one to how soon I need to rush to the toilet.
“As long as you’re here before the ball drops.” He lets out a nervous laugh and swipes his bangs, but they fall, as they always do, right back into place. “You look cold. What’s your pleasure? I have beer, wine, water, eggnog . . .”
I catch a glimpse of myself in his front mirror: my nose cherry-engine red, my hair matted and splayed at the ends from my wool hat. Color rises to my ears as I wipe away the film of mucus that has settled in above my lip. You’re friends, I tell myself. Besides, Henry likes you when you’re immaculate,