*Authors Note* This one has been a long time coming. If you're still around, thank you for reading and thank you for your lovely comments on Part 1 of this story! It's those comments that keep me going.
Part 2
We now move onto Part 2 of this tale, told from Pacey's perspective.
The table is set with traditional festive flair. Jen plays host at her annual Christmas Eve dinner and unsurprisingly the turnout is lower than normal.
Conversation is stilted and my stomach groans as the clock rolls well past eight. Mae is an hour overdue for a nap and I try to keep her entertained with serviettes and Christmas crackers. But, naturally she finds Gram's heirloom crystal glasses infinitely more appealing and tries to claim them as her own between chubby fingers.
Joey fishes in her handbag for the only item certain to distract - her car keys. She hands them over, succumbing to the inevitable drool.
The older children have already eaten an earlier dinner of chicken nuggets and they play loudly in the adjoining room, occasionally entering when adult intervention is required to settle an argument. I wish I'd snaffled a nugget or two when they were on offer earlier.
Jen finally swans in and we all shuffle excitedly in our seats before she deposits a plate of unrecognizable brown origins in the center.
"That is… was… a sweet potato casserole," she screws her nose up at the words. "Apologies in advance."
Jack sniggers and pokes a finger into the blackened crust.
"Your culinary expertise knows no bounds," he says.
She slaps away his finger, "Watch yourself, or I'll give you the parts of the turkey that are still bleeding."
I look at Jen, slightly panicked.
She'd previously kicked us all out of the kitchen with promises of impending food, but it hadn't materialized. Except for the casserole, and I was concerned that it was a foreboding about the rest of dinner.
"Want some assistance?" I ask.
Everyone at the table looks on expectantly with quiet nods. Mae slams down a fist and babbles incoherently.
Jen seems skeptical.
"Purely in a sous chef capacity. I am not here to steal your Christmas dinner thunder," I add.
"I will take you up on that offer, Witter. But on the condition that you do not interfere with my famous gravy."
"Famous, or infamous?" Grams peers up from her knitting for just a moment to deliver the one-two punch.
Jen points a single warning finger to her and grins, "You watch yourself, dearest Grandmother."
Grams motions to lock her lips tight and throws an invisible key over her shoulder.
Joey holds her arms out and I hand over Mae and the soaked car keys before following Jen into the kitchen. There I'm greeted by a den of pure unadulterated chaos. Pots and pans, a half-carved turkey, green beans sizzling angrily in a pan, the water long evaporated. Pulling it off the heat, I quickly separate the burned from the salvageable.
"It is not a sin to ask for help, Jennifer," I say in my best Grams impression.
"Don't you saint and sinner me, Witter. I didn't ask for help because I can do it, I can , I just lost track of time."
I grab the knife and take to the turkey thigh, thankful that her threats of raw meat were hollow. The turkey is cooked - so well cooked, in fact, that I struggle to get the knife through.
Jen tends to the gravy with dedication, and I notice a sheen of sweat on her brow.
"So will James be back for New Years Eve?" I ask, dumping a pile of slices onto the silver platter.
She answers only with a swift shake of her head.
Jens' husband James works for a pharmaceutical company and would often be gone for weeks at a time on business trips. They met, ironically, when James was in college and spent most of his hours on campus sampling all manner of pharmaceuticals, of the less legal variety. After an ultimatum or five from Jen, he cleaned himself up and graduated. Two kids later, he was pulling a solid six figures, which required an abundance of away time.
"What about you, New York for new years eve again?" She asks.
"Yep," I reply, the restaurant always has a sold-out dinner event as it overlooks Times Square.
"You'll miss your first new years with Mae,"
I nod, sadly. "Yeah, but she's hardly going to be waiting for the ball to drop. Besides, Jo's home, I'm sure she'll be well taken care of."
Jen looks at me for a moment longer than necessary, "I've invited Joey to come here for the evening. We can put Mae down in the portacot, have a glass of champagne, and watch a B-grade movie with Ryan Gosling. You know, a low key girls' night."
"I think she'd like that. Especially the Ryan Gosling part. I mean, seriously, I can't blame her."
"I think she'd like it better if you were home," Jen pokes at the mashed potatoes, "but what do I know?"
Turkey loaded, I cover it with tin foil and attempt to rescue the honey glazed carrots from their sizzling baking dish.
Jen emits an odd vibe before she is about to sprout some home-grown truth or sage advice. The entire mood in the room changes as she takes a breath, pauses and delivers her message.
I can feel it coming.
Her mashing has slowed considerably. She's just staring into the pot, then staring at me. Then the pot again.
Back to me, her mouth opens, then shuts again, and the moment is gone. Whatever advice she was set to deliver has scurried away as fast as it came.
I know exactly what she was going to say, of course. But choose instead to let it sit between us, unsaid. Because Jen knows as well as I do that words won't do anything. They can't. Not anymore.
She drops the masher, looks at me, eyes downcast, defeated. It's something hard to see from Jen Lindley, the epitome of solid, at least these days.
"These potatoes look like sad clouds."
Strolling over to her, I stick a finger into them, scooping an index sized dollop and place the sample into my mouth.
"Needs more salt," I say, and she rests her head on my shoulder, exhausted.
"Don't let me ever agree to host Christmas again."
I pop my head down onto hers.
"If that's what you want."
She nods, shuffling against my shoulder.
"Let's serve it up. The quicker we eat, the quicker you can go to bed and the quicker Santa comes. It's a win-win situation, really."
Jen laughs. "Pace, you forget. I'm Santa. I get to stay up well past bedtime to stuff stockings and pray the kids don't come downstairs for a drink."
"Damn this parental thing," I say, picking up the platter of turkey and we carry it into the dining room.
I can ignore Jack and just eat the terrible mashed potatoes.
I can.
I can.
I can.
I can let the pointedly barbed comments roll off my shoulder like a melting snowflake. I can ignore the way he closes up when Joey or I speak at the dinner table.
Jack can casually scoop Mae out of my arms and take her to visit Doogie, Jen's geriatric ragdoll cat. But he can do so without acknowledging me whatsoever. Doug will offer a sympathetic shrug and follow behind him. After so long now, I've become accustomed to it. I'm invisible. Capital D Dead To Him. That is the penance of the cheater, of the liar. When your truths are exposed, you cannot take all your friends into the future. Some of them, rightly so, can never again see past your deception.
I'm just not sure that Joey lets those snowflakes melt quite so easily.
"Can you pass the gravy, Jen?" Jack asks despite the fact that Joey sits right beside it. Joey's body tenses and then pointedly collects the gravy boat to thrust in his direction.
He doesn't say thank you and part of me wants to broach it, but I don't want a repeat of last Christmas and the yelling.
So much yelling.
Especially with Mae sitting right here, watching us all with bright eyed innocence. The people she knows and loves. So I swallow my words and chew the sodden beans until they resemble an object acceptable for human consumption.
Grams begins an explanation of her Christmas quilting project and everyone seems to sigh in relief and distraction with the mention of a good blanket stitch.
I try to look over at Joey and catch her eye, but either she's enthralled with Gram's story, or she's avoiding me. It's hard to tell.
The bangs she cut a month after Mae's birth are growing out now and their strands fall in front of her eyes, catching on her long lashes. She swipes at them, but it's only a moment before they come right back again. Doug seems to catch me in my observation and gives me a subtle head shake.
We all pass the platters around, placing large scoops onto our plates.
"No sweet potatoes for me," says Doug.
"Can't say I blame you, brother."
Jen flashes me a warning glare and I beam back an innocent smile.
"It all looks amazing. But I'm cutting down on carbs."
Grams inspects him as if he is ill. "Why would you do that, dear?"
"Well, I've put on a bit of weight since I started my desk job and…"
Mid-sentence Grams leans over and slaps a scoop of potatoes on his plate. "Nonsense. All foods are necessary in life. Do not vilify the humble potato because of what you read in some magazine."
Joey snatches a glance at me and grins. Mae seems to be enjoying a smattering of carbohydrates across her face at this very moment.
Doug looks at the white mass on his plate and digs a fork in purely out of fear. And when it hits his tongue, his shoulders dip slightly in pleasure.
He swallows, "okay, I'll enjoy myself for Christmas."
"And so you should. We are blessed to have food on our table and plenty of it. We have friends and we have family, too. We are all boundlessly fortunate," Grams finishes and then seems to bow her head in a silent prayer.
At the mention of friends and family, I see Jack glance at the empty chair at the table. Jen had invited Dawson, but he'd failed to respond. So, as a good host, she'd set a place for him, just in case.
With all Grams talk of our good fortune, I feel a little bad that I'm grateful that he didn't come tonight. That chair remaining empty at gatherings secures a substantially more pleasant evening. If last year's Christmas was any indication.
If I'm not mistaken, Joey looks at it too. I'm not sure if I see my relief reflected, or if I see sadness, regret. But Mae squeaks and Joey refocuses on her, enjoying the distraction.
Joey is quiet these days. Not that she was ever an extrovert, but since the drama of what happened she seems to only observe as though she's afraid to inhabit space in the room.
There are so many times in your life you catch yourself thinking that everything would continue as it always had been. That was just the way it was with these familiar faces. Each person had their place in the grand scheme and you kid yourself that this dynamic would go on infinitely. But now a key player is absent, and it seems felt by all in the group. The hole left by Dawson, by that constant drawl of film talk, of project talk, of script talk. I wonder if I should bring up Speilberg at an inopportune moment, just for old times sake.
Joey shrinks back just that little bit more behind those purposefully long bangs.
I want to tuck them behind her ears. I want to see her face.
But instead I enjoy a generous mouthful of Turkey which, despite appearances, is delicious and I sip my beer and marinate in the Christmas awkwardness.
"When are you thinking of going back to work, Jo?" Doug asks, refilling his wine. Jack visibly flinches that his husband addressed Joey directly, but Doug doesn't seem to care. Jack treats us both like a contagion.
Joey twists in her seat and reaches towards Mae, sitting in a highchair, squishing peas between her fingers and licking them. "I'm too busy just enjoying playing with this one all day. But, next month I'll need to start working, even part time, to ease us into it."
Jack looks at me, waiting for my reaction, but I purposefully give him no acknowledgement and finish my beer in a long swig.
"Surely you don't need to go back to work. Pacey's got more than enough money to keep you comfortable at home," Jack takes a swipe.
I place the bottle down on the table with a loud thunk.
"It's funny," I say calmly, "you've made it quite clear you want nothing to do with Joeys, or my life, so I'd appreciate if you kept your comments about it to yourself."
I can see the panic in Joey's eyes and it's swiftly reflected around the table. Everyone lying in wait.
Jack seems to shake it off with a scoff and Jen stands, thrusting a baking dish at me, "More carrots anyone?"
Joey, Grams and Doug nod enthusiastically, saved by the vegetables.
After dinner and two helpings of cherry pie for dessert, I scoop Mae from the high chair decorated in a rainbow of leftovers. She has something green speckled through her wispy brown hair and I pick out the pieces and drop them onto a plate.
We move to the lounge to open presents. We've set a limit and a Kris Kringle. Twenty bucks and a creative licence means I end up with an apron printed with a woman's bikini and Joey walks away with a stuffed battery-operated reindeer that sings Jingle Bell Rock.
I let my eyes track her, studying her in profile as she watches Jen open her gift, the reindeer snuggled in her lap. The gentle curve of her nose, the way it swoops down and meets her lips. When she smiles, the right side begins, and the left side follows swiftly. I know she knows I'm watching her. I can't seem to stop myself.
Naturally, the children haul the most presents. There is Lego, baby converse and skyscrapers of wrapping paper.
But I appreciate that moment when we can all just be parents, sitting back and watching our overtired kids' open presents. Their wide-eyed glee as we overtly spoil them leaves us all transfixed.
After the plastic ties have all been removed and I've completed the construction of a Lego helicopter with Max, everyone makes to tidy up.
"I'm going to go and get Mae changed and ready for bed," says Joey after a protracted yawn.
I catch the yawn and shake my head. "Do you mind if I do it?"
"Sure."
I wade through the paper, scooping her into my arms and make my way upstairs.
Mae tries to roll off the mat numerous times as I change, or attempt to change her diaper. Each time I secure the plastic strip against her little hip, she rolls to the right and thwarts my effort.
"Who is a little punk?" I say, booping her nose and she rolls again and blows a raspberry.
Somehow, I manage to not only secure the diaper, but wrangle her chubby legs into her pajamas, zipping the onesie up and scooping her into my arms. I sniff her hair and she grabs mine and tries to remove it from the root.
Repacking the diaper bag one-handed, I throw it over my shoulder and head downstairs. My steps are slow. It's hot upstairs. All the cooking and the heating and the talking make it seem muggy, and I cool as I descend the stairs.
There is a racket in the kitchen with the clean up underway. The kids are watching Home Alone in the den and I can hear the screams of Joe Pesci encountering another horrific blow.
Joey's waiting at the bottom of the stairs, for me, for Mae. Her coat already on, she's peering out the window and probably wondering if it will snow.
"It never snows on Christmas Eve, no matter how much you wish for it," I say.
"There was that one time, maybe ninth grade? That freak storm. You came to dig us a path out of the B and B."
"That wasn't Christmas, that was New Year's," I reply.
Joey shakes her head, and her hair follows, dancing a ballet around her shoulders. "No. It was Christmas. You brought me that godawful mug and then I drank coffee in it and watched you shovel snow."
I laugh and her eyes crinkle at the memory. Mae makes a squawk in an attempt to bring attention back to her. I tickle behind her ear.
"Ah yes, I remember. Snow's out, ho ho hos out ."
Joey shakes her head and wraps a red woolen scarf around her neck. "Yeah, that festive favorite."
Her misty memory smile fades and she glances at the slimline watch on her wrist.
"I better get her home, big day tomorrow."
I nod and give Mae that squeeze that I can't help doing each time I have to hand her over, each time I have to watch those two girls walk away.
Joey nods towards the kitchen. "I've already said goodbye."
"Oh, right."
She reaches out her hands and I kiss Mae on the head and whisper to her.
"Merry Christmas, beautiful. I'll come and see you tomorrow after Santa has come."
She gazes up at me with sparkling blue, sleepy eyes. Her rounded face and extra chin light up as she smiles and scrunches up her nose.
Joey takes her in her arms and Mae snuggles into Joey's neck, a familiar, tired comfort.
I drape the diaper bag on her shoulder and delve my hands into my pockets.
"I can come and help strap her in," I offer.
Joey shakes her head and I see something in her eyes that hints that maybe this is just as hard for her as it is for me.
"See you tomorrow, Pace," she glances up at me with those brown eyes and I have to remind myself to breathe.
"Merry Christmas, Jo."
And she walks out the door.
I stand there for a while, just staring at the ornate lacework on Jen's front door before finally shuffling off to the den. Plopping next to Max and succumbing as the couch swallows me whole.
"Pacey, he's about to get a tarantula on his face!" Max cries out and nestles into my right side.
"Sounds awesome, Buddy."
And as I watch adults repeatedly thwarted from breaking and entering by Macaulay Culkin I let myself feel for a few moments in the darkness and the flickering screen. The sadness. The loneliness. The fact that Joey and Mae just went back to her apartment, and I'll go right back to mine. And I won't see Mae wake up on Christmas morning and have her milk before shoving ripped lumps of wrapping paper in her mouth. I won't see Joey in those first moments when she pulls back her sheets, stretches those long arms high and waddles to the kitchen in search of caffeine.
I won't see any of that.
I don't see any of that.
Parenting. Co-parenting. Custody. Whatever you call it, it isn't anything like I imagined it.
It's not a family.
But I guess that's my punishment for staying quiet, for running away, for taking so long to say the words that needed saying. Punishment for touches on dancefloors and testing words in alleys and stolen moments in dark kitchens, for moments I will never ever forget.
Max falls asleep on my shoulder and it's not long before I join him in the land of nod. Jen wakes me before carrying Ruby to bed. I collect Max in my arms, up the stairs and tuck him beneath Harry Potter sheets.
"Wanna crash here?" Jen asks as I bundle on my jacket and gloves.
I shake my head. "Thanks, but I'll head home. All the presents are there for tomorrow."
"Is that code for I want to go home and wallow in my own misery?"
"Ah Jen, you know me and misery, we go way back," I wink at her.
"It's Christmas Witter, go easy on yourself."
I tilt my head to the side, "I'll take breaks in between the ugly crying and foetal positioning, don't you worry."
Jen smirks, "See, that's all I ask."
She rubs the back of her neck, and her eyes seem tired and troubled.
"Thanks for helping out with the food," she says.
"My pleasure."
Jen pulls me in for a hug and I'm not sure who needs it more.
"Merry Christmas, Pacey."
"Merry Christmas."
I open the door and trudge down the frigid stairs before Jen sticks her head out the door.
"It won't always be like this. It will get easier. Maybe Joey will come around?"
I hit the unlock beeper on my car and the red flashes illuminate the street in two short bursts.
"I hope you're right, Lindley."
My apartment is close, only a five minute drive. Up the stairs, unlocking the door I walk straight past my Christmas tree, a miserable, foot high glowing reminder of living alone. It's surrounded by presents for Mae that dwarf the tree.
Her photos are everywhere. Ones from minutes after she was born, looking like an angry red alien. Ones from trips to visit family back in Capeside. First time parents sure take a lot of photos in seven short months.
I strip down to my boxer briefs, brush my teeth and consider shaving off the beard on my jaw. Observing it in the mirror I run my hands through the bristles. Joey mentioned, a few weeks back, that it was growing on her. So I decide against it. The beard lives another day.
Slumping onto my sheets I glance at the clock radio.
12.04
"Merry Christmas, Pacey," I say to myself.
I know this is a sad start. But bear with me. It's going to get better, promise!
