I went upstairs, blew out the candles, then turned off all the lights and the television. I checked the thermostat. The temperature had fallen to sixty-three degrees but the furnace had finally kicked on. I climbed in between the cold sheets of my bed and closed my eyes. As angry and betrayed as I felt about Clive, I missed him next to me—the warmth of his body, the soothing sound of his breathing. Three questions bounced around inside my skull, each taking its turn to inflict its pain like tag team wrestlers: Why did he betray me? What’s wrong with me? Why wasn’t I enough?
Chapter Nine
Lynch mobs never went away. They just migrated to the Internet.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
That night I had a peculiar dream. I was following Clive, barefoot, through a snowy forest. I asked him where we were going. “Nowhere,” he replied. “Then why are we walking?” I asked. He turned around. He was wearing a mask. I asked him to take it off. He said, “Are you sure?” I said yes. He lifted the mask. There was nothing there.
I woke, my heart pounding fiercely. The sun was projecting its bright rays through the partially open wooden slats of my window blinds. I could hear the neighborhood snowblower brigade, their machines’ engines whining and chugging beneath the weight of the night’s snow. A reminder that outside my shuttered world, life was carrying on as usual.
My body ached nearly as much as my heart. I forced myself out of bed and walked over and lifted the blinds. The light was intense, the morning sun reflecting off the newly laid crystalline blanket. The sky was bright blue and the storm was gone, but it had left behind nearly thirty inches. My neighbor’s Volkswagen, which had been parked in the street, looked more like an igloo than a car.
Now I really was snowed in and my back still ached from the few inches of snow I’d shoveled the night before. I didn’t want to go out in public, but I needed to. I needed to prove to myself that the world wasn’t laughing at me. I know that sounds paranoid, but there’s a reason. After Clive’s story broke, I made the mistake of reading the comments people posted online about the newspaper story. Many of them were directed at me, some mocking me, some blaming me. I was astounded to see such viciousness from people I didn’t know and who didn’t know me.
I once read that people, when cloaked in anonymity, would do things they wouldn’t otherwise do—hence the invention of the masquerade party. When did society get so mean?
Chapter Ten
Sometimes the simplicity of a kind act is inversely proportionate to the power of its effect.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
I walked to my front door to see just how snowed in I was. As I opened the door, the freezing air on my face felt bracing. In the bright light, it took me a moment to understand what I was seeing. Someone had plowed my driveway, sidewalk, and walkway. On my doorstep was a red glass candle with a note taped to it. I stooped to pick it up.
Dear Maggie,
My husband and I wanted you to know how sorry we are for what you are going through. You’re in our prayers. Please let us know if there’s anything we can do.
Sincerely,
Bryan and Leisa Stephens
Even though I’d lived across the street from them for more than three years, I hardly knew them. I saw them out walking their dog now and then—a miniature Maltese poodle—but our interactions had been scarcely more than a wave.
I looked across the street at their house. It looked dark. I wanted to show them my appreciation, so I decided to do what I did best. Bake. One of my most popular Christmas confections was thumbprint cookies—small, silver dollar–sized sugar cookies. I would press each with my thumb, then fill the indentation with a spoonful of jam.
I decided I should at least make myself presentable enough to not scare them. I showered, put on makeup, and did my hair. For the first time in weeks, I looked human again.
I went out to the kitchen and preset the oven, then started mixing ingredients. Thumbprint cookies are easy to make, a simple recipe of flour, baking powder, butter, sugar, eggs, and vanilla. Simple or not, I found myself enjoying the feeling of being absorbed in something other than my problems.
I scooped out balls of dough with a small ice cream scoop and pressed my thumb into each ball, flattening it and leaving an indentation, before adding the jam. After they baked, I filled a plate with the cookies, covered it with plastic wrap, and wrote a short note:
Dear Bryan and Leisa,
Thank you for your thoughtfulness during this difficult time. It means more than you know.
Sincerely,
Maggie
I put my coat back on, walked across the street to their home, and pushed the doorbell. A moment later I heard footsteps, then the door unlocked. A dowdy middle-aged woman in a jumpsuit answered. “May I help you?”
Even though she didn’t look familiar, I didn’t know the Stephenses well enough to know if the woman was Leisa or not. I assumed she was. “Hi. I wanted to thank you for what you and your husband did for me this morning.”
“I think you’re mistaking me for my sister,” she said.
“I’m sorry. Is Leisa or Bryan home?”
“They left half an hour ago.”
The exchange felt awkward.
“Well, I brought them some cookies.” I offered the plate. “They’re still warm. I just wanted to say thank you. Bryan shoveled my driveway and walk.”
“He would do that.” She took the plate from me without looking at it.
“Do you expect them back soon?”
“Not until Thursday. They’re going to be up in Logan a few days.” Then, after a pause, she added, “Their son was killed yesterday in a snowmobiling accident.”
The pronouncement stunned me. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s a tragedy. He has four children, and his wife already suffers from depression.”
I didn’t know what to say. Finally, I said again, “I’m sorry.”
“Who should I say came by?”
“I’m Maggie Walther,” I said. “My name’s on the note. I’ll reach out next week.”
She thanked me vicariously for the Stephenses and shut the door. I turned and walked back to my house. I was moved by the couple’s circumstance. As appreciative as I had already been for their kindness, now I was astounded. In the midst of such heartbreak, this good couple had reached out to me in my pain. For the first time in a long while, I felt hope in humanity.
Chapter Eleven
I went to find a Christmas tree. I found something else.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
When I got home, I walked around the house opening the blinds, then turned on the radio. Not surprisingly, it was set to one of the local talk stations. I immediately started pushing other presets, stopping at a station playing Christmas music.
Christmas music has always been healing to me. I thought again of my good neighbors and their ability to transcend their grief. You don’t find light looking in the dark, and consciously or not, for the last six months I had resigned myself to the dark, scurrying from light like a cockroach. I was ready to at least try to lift myself out of it. Maybe lifting the blinds had been a literal manifestation of that.
Burl Ives sang “Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas.” I smiled, which was another groundbreaking achievement. When was the last time I’d smiled? Carina was right, I needed to change my environment. What would be more fitting than a Christmas tree?
I finished cleaning my kitchen, put on my long wool coat, and went out to my car. I drove to the Kroger’s where I’d noticed a Christmas tree lot on the south corner of their parking lot.
In Salt Lake, like in most big cities, Christmas tree lots started springing up around November—usually in the corner of a mall or supermarket’s parking lot. I remembered, as a girl, a place in Ashland where one of the Christmas tree lots had a fenced-in corral of Santa’s reindeer. It was one of the few truly magical memories that had somehow survived the trauma of my childhood.
The traffic was light; it took me less than ten minutes to reach my destination. The Christmas tree lot was about a half-acre square and surrounded by a portable chain-link fence. Long rows of colorful Christmas lights hung over the lot, strung from white wooden posts that were wrapped with red ribbon–like peppermint sticks.