Christmas in Bethel

Chapter Sixteen

There are times when my brain is carjacked by the past, and all I can do is wait to see where my demons abandon the car.

Beth Stilton’s Diary

We finished lunch, then headed off to our next engagement. He gave me the Tiffany bag to carry, since he said it would attract envy.

As we walked over to Sixth Avenue I asked, “Back to your publisher?”

“Close. You said you wanted to see Radio City Music Hall.”

“Oh, that’s right, they’re next to each other.”

“Yes. And if you noticed the color of the Empire State Building yesterday, it was red and green, celebrating the opening of the Radio City Rockettes Christmas Spectacular.” He held up two tickets. “I got us tickets.”

“Of course you did.” We walked into the VIP entrance. “I just told you this morning! How do you get all these tickets?”

“Nothing is ever really sold out.”

“Not when you’re J. D. Harper.”

“There might be some truth to that. And Laurie has connections.” As we walked into the lobby, Lee said, “Do you know who performed here last night?”

“No idea.”

“Your Barry Manilow. I’m surprised you didn’t sleep out for the show.”

“You’re never going to let me live that down. I was thirteen.”

“I wonder if they have any T-shirts left. I’m going to ask.”

“I won’t wear it.” Then I grinned. “Maybe I will.”

“You’ll wear a Barry Manilow T-shirt, but you won’t wear a forty-thousand-dollar pearl necklace.”

“No one would steal the T-shirt.”

* * *

Fortunately, I guess, the Barry Manilow people had taken their merchandise with them, though an overly helpful usher told Lee where he could find some contraband Barry Manilow paraphernalia a few blocks over.

The theater was even more grandiose than I imagined. The hall was brilliantly lit with roving snowflakes projected on the ceiling. My heart was pounding and I think I was as excited as the children to be there. Lee must have felt the same way, because he said, “I haven’t been here for years. I feel like a child again.”

I smiled. “This is exciting. Thank you for bringing me.”

We were seated near the stage, and only a few people stopped Lee on the way to our seats, though I noticed a dozen or more people sneaking pictures, some more clandestine than others. One man walked right up to the end of our row, pointed his camera at Lee and took his picture, then walked away. I thought it was rude, but Lee just took it in stride.

When the theater bell rang, signaling that the curtain was about to rise, Lee said to me, “If it’s not too much, I thought that after the show we could take a carriage ride through Central Park. It’s cold, but they have big blankets to cuddle in.”

I smiled. “That sounds especially nice.”

“After, we could go back to the hotel for dinner, then just watch a movie.”

“What movie?” I asked.

He grinned and repeated my words from last night. “Does it matter?”

The first sounds of the orchestra reverberated throughout the bowl as the curtain rose, displaying a dazzling backdrop of lights and dancers.

The show lasted ninety minutes with singing, dancing, and a live Nativity. It was fun watching the children around me, especially when the camels from the Nativity came onstage followed by the grand appearance of Santa Claus.

Near the end of the show, a row ahead of me and just a few seats over, a little girl was crying. I don’t know why; she was probably tired or hungry or maybe just overstimulated, but her mother kept slapping her hand and telling her to shut up. I watched them. The anger and annoyance in her mother’s eyes were too familiar to me.

Her mother glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then she surreptitiously reached over and violently pinched the skin under the child’s arm. The child’s eyes went wide with pain. The mother slapped her hand over the little girl’s mouth, yanked her from her seat, and carried her out of the theater.

I don’t know if it was even real, but I could suddenly smell the vinegar odor of cheap whiskey on someone’s breath. At that moment I was transformed out of the theater. I could hear my mother screaming at me. I was on the ground, on my stomach, my pants pulled down to my knees, my stepfather above me. I could smell the reek of his breath and the stinging pinch and grab of his perpetually oil-stained hands. He kept saying, “You’re just trash like the rest of us.”

When I came out of the flashback, I was trembling and sweating, and my stomach was growling and undulating. I felt like I was going to vomit.

“I need to go,” I blurted out to Lee.

He looked at me with a concerned expression. “Are you okay?”

Without answering, I bustled my way out of our row and ran out of the theater to the restroom. I ran into a stall and threw up, barely making it to the bowl in time. My stomach continued to contract, and I threw up again, all that lovely food pouring into the toilet.

A kind voice behind me asked, “Are you okay?”

I managed a “Yes,” but I wasn’t. I was having a severe panic attack. When I felt like I was done vomiting, I locked the stall door, hung my coat on the door’s hook, and sat on the toilet, pulling my knees up to my chest. I was panting heavily, and my forehead was wet with sweat.

About fifteen minutes later my phone rang. It was Lee.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m in the bathroom. I’m sick.”

“I’m sorry. I’m out in the lobby. Take your time.”

I knew when the show ended because the bathroom filled with women. People kept grabbing the handle on my stall and rattling it to see if it was really locked. I hid inside the stall like a public womb, shaking and isolated from the crowds. One woman even looked between the crack in the door to see if someone was in there. She quickly withdrew.

The crowd eventually dwindled. It was probably close to a half hour when I finally got off the toilet. I got my coat, then went out to a sink and washed my face and hands, then washed the vomit out of my hair. I drank from the sink to rinse out my mouth. I desperately wished I had a breath mint or some gum.

When I came out of the bathroom, the lobby was mostly deserted except for the janitorial staff cleaning up after the last crowd and Lee, who was leaning up against the wall talking to a security officer. He held my Tiffany bag in the crux of his arm.

When he saw me, he immediately shook the man’s hand to excuse himself, then walked quickly to me. His face showed his concern.

“You look pale. Are you okay?”

I nodded. “My stomach hurts.”

“Probably too much rich food,” he said. “I’m sorry, I should have taken it easier on you.”

“It’s not that. I just don’t feel well. My stomach hurt this morning.” I looked at him. “I didn’t want to ruin everything.”

“You haven’t ruined anything. Let’s get you back to the hotel. I’ll get you some tea. The hotel will have something for your stomach.”

Lee hailed us a cab, and I lay quietly against him on the way back to the Mark. My stomach began hurting and gurgling again, but it was nothing compared to the pain and worthlessness that had crept inside my chest. Equal to the joy and light of the day was the despair I now felt. I wanted to vanish into nothing.

When we got back to the hotel, Lee followed me into my room as I went into the bathroom and stood over the toilet again. After a few minutes I took off my clothes and changed into my nightshirt. Then I brushed my teeth and gargled the entire bottle of mouthwash the hotel had provided.

“What can I do for you?” Lee asked as I came out. He had already pulled the sheets down on my bed and arranged the pillows. “I ordered you some chamomile tea to calm your stomach. It will be right up.”

“I think I just need to sleep,” I said.

“Let me help you into bed.”

I crawled into the bed, and he pulled the sheets up to my waist, then kneeled down next to me.

“Does your stomach still hurt?”

“Not as much.”

“The tea will help.” He took my hand.

“Is my breath okay?”

“It smells like you downed an entire bottle of mouthwash.”

Despite my pain and sadness I smiled. “I did.”

“I thought so.” He put his hand on my forehead. “You’re a little warm. Are you sure you’re okay?”

I closed my eyes tightly, pinching water from them. He wiped the tears with his hands.

“Do you want me to spend the night with you?”

I felt so awful, but I shook my head. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Just then the room’s doorbell rang.

“There’s your tea. Let me get that.” He opened the door, signed the check, then came back with a tray with the cup and some sweeteners. “I’m going to put some honey in it. It’s good for your stomach.” He poured some honey into the cup and stirred it with a spoon. He tested it for heat.

“Okay, it’s a little hot, so just sip it. It will help. Your stomach and your heart.”

I sat up and took the cup with both hands and sipped it. It tasted sweet and good. I took another sip, then handed him back the cup. “Thank you.”

He set the cup on the nightstand. “You’re welcome. You’re sure you don’t want me to stay with you?”

“I’ll be okay.”

He smiled at me sadly, then said, “Okay then. You sleep well.” He pulled the blankets up to my chin, leaned over me, and kissed my forehead. “Sickness aside, today was a good day. One of the best of my year. Thank you for spending it with me.” He looked into my eyes. “You’re going to get a lot of downtime in the Cape, okay? I promise I’ll take good care of you. I’ll pamper you.”

“You’re the one who should be pampered,” I said.

“I get pampered enough.” He pressed his index finger above the bridge of my nose and slowly rotated it. “Our flight isn’t until noon tomorrow, so we have plenty of time. Just sleep in. Let me know when I can come over. If you need anything in the night, I’m right next door.”

I smiled at him and he kissed me again.

“Thank you for being so good to me,” I said. “I don’t know why you are so good to me.”

He looked at me quizzically. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t know why.” He leaned over, kissed me one more time on the forehead. “Sleep well.” He walked out the door.