* * *

Natalia

"Do you realize that we haven't spent Christmas Eve together since you were eighteen?"

"You're exaggerating again, Mom. I spent Christmas Eve with you and Dad two years ago."

"No, that was Christmas Day."

"Mom! It was Christmas Eve! Remember? Aunt Bea almost blew up the kitchen when she tried to make Grandmama's mincemeat pie?"

"That was Christmas Day, and that was five years ago!"

"No! Christmas Day five years ago was when you almost blew up the kitchen trying to make Grandmama's mincemeat pie!"

Mom grimaced and handed me my mug of eggnog without so much as a word, knowing that I was completely right.

It was three days until Christmas Eve and I was curled up on the sofa in my gray sweatpants and hooded sweater in the living room where I had spent every single one of my Christmases until I had turned eighteen. Mama had been delighted at my surprise visit and, for the past two days, had been damn near spoon feeding me. I must admit, the pampering was quite welcome.

Of course, I had spent most of the time unloading about the scarcely imagineable happenings of the previous few weeks. Mama was duly horrified at my revelations of what had been going on. As a result, the both of us had done more than our share of crying. In spite of the stern demeanor she allowed most people to perceive, Mom was really just a great big softie on the inside. And even though she had said the sensible things befitting a scrupulous mother - I never liked him in the first place, and he may be a hot shot Hollywood actor, but he’s not fit to shine your shoes - she very calmly came to my side and put her arms around me.

"You loved him very much."

"I still love him, Mama. I love him, but . . . Oh God, Mama. . . I’m so angry. Maybe it’s not anger, its just . . . frustration. He just. . . he left me like that. . .” I put the eggnog down and pulled my knees up into my chest, resting my head. “You know, I. . .understand why. You have to understand too, Mama. But I sincerely believed that our relationship was so strong that even the most complicated misunderstanding could be worked out. “

She kissed me on my forehead. “Maybe it still will, darling.”

I said nothing. Dad took the silence on my part as a good opportunity to tear himself away from his newspaper and announce that if he ever laid eyes on “that Maguire boy” he would “take a shotgun to his ass.”

You had to love Dad.

* * *

Our family home was on the unassuming, conventional Myrtle Street in Downey-- a city that's not particularly pretty, not particularly ugly, and probably falls best under the category of 'nondescript.' As did our home: a typical California one story built in the late fifties that was badly in need of a paint job, with a tiny backyard. It’s biggest asset was the lovely, enormous Jacaranda tree in the front yard . . . even though its roots were beginning to uplift the sidewalk cement out front. Dad had fallen into money back in the late seventies and as a result was able to purchase a home in such a desirable neighborhood. Of course, he had since fallen out of money, and the neighborhood was no longer desirable, just average. In the summertime, however, watch out: every home on the block had a Jacaranda in the yard and when those great purple blossoms spread their wings, the sight was phenomenal.

"Horace!" Mom called in her shrill voice. Calling my Dad Horace instead of Harry generally meant that someone in the Bowman household was in deep shit. My Dad quickly appeared in the kitchen, visibly anxious about what could be wrong.

"We're out of yams."

"Yams?"

"Yes. Make a dash to Ralphie’s."

"You’re not sending me to the store for just a bunch of yams. It’s not even worth the gas. . .”

“Then walk to Ralph’s. It’s just down the street. . .”

“You know that store closed up. Only Gelsen's is opened -"

"Gelsens? Oh dammit. They'll charge you ten bucks just to walk in the place. . ."

Dad was off on his way, jacket in hand since the barometer had been steadily falling all week. It rarely rained in California on Christmas, and since the winter had been dry, the local mountains weren’t snowcapped as they generally were at that time of year, but the weather was starting to get chilly indeed.

That’s why I had to zip up my hooded sweater as I went outside, obeying Mom’s command to check the mail. She’d been expecting a Christmas card from Aunt Bea: they’d been feuding for an entire year now and she was eagerly waiting to discover if her sister thought she was worth the thirty-two cents postage or not.

You had to love Mom.

I went out the mailbox out front and stood in front of it for a bit, perusing through the mail. Hmm. Christmas card from Uncle Dennis, From Cousin Kelly. . . from The Stepton Dental Offices wishing the Bowman household a Very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! Make this years’ resolution one that will last you an entire lifetime: a beautiful smile! We’ll help—make your appointment today. . . . I laughed softly, that last note putting me in a ridiculous yuletide frame of mind, and turned to make a start for the house, trying to remember the tune to Come All Ye Faithful. . .

And then I stopped.

Dead in my tracks.

Something had caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. And as I slowly turned back around, I felt my stomach plunge to the ground.

Tobey.

* * *

He slowly made his turn onto Myrtle Street, the quiet unassuming neighborhood very calm in the early afternoon sunlight. The serenity of the neighborhood should have had a calming effect on him, but if anything, his nerves and senses were swinging into high gear. He still didn’t know what he would say. What could he say? Oh, this was probably hopeless, he told himself after he let the SUV pull up the curb on the 1200 block, right across the street from the Bowman family home. He considered, for a moment, backing up and heading back to the Pasadena Freeway and back to LA again.

No.

He couldn’t do that, Nat deserved better. Tobey heaved a heavy sigh, trying to ready himself to exit the vehicle and get on with things. He picked up the bouquet of daisies, still miraculously fresh looking, and the sad little dog from the seat next to him. As he turned to open the driver’s side door, he saw her. His breath caught in his throat.

Natalia stepped out the front door of the Bowman house, zipping her navy blue sweater against the cool December breeze. Tobey watched as she ambled down the sidewalk, the sun playing on the copper and gold highlights in her dark hair. She had the front of it pulled into a clip, and a few strands had fallen astray to frame her face. Tobey had never seen her look prettier. He could tell she was thinner, it was noticeable from here, her gray sweatpants hung loose where her hips had once been invitingly curvy. He drank the sight of her with his thirsty eyes, as if he’d been alone in a dry desert and needed her to quench his thirst. He gazed longingly at her as she pulled a stack of mail from the mailbox and shuffled through it, the sunlight caressing her face the way he wanted to now.

As if pulled by some magnetic force, Tobey exited the Lincoln and started towards the Bowman’s front yard, clutching the flowers and the little stuffed dog in his hands like a scared little child, his heart racing. A thump was forming in his already scratchy throat and he had to will himself not to just run right at her at top speed. It seemed he was moving in slow motion and . . .

And then Natalia glanced up from her stack of mail and saw him, her large green eyes wide with emotion.

* * *

Natalia

At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, and I blinked. I felt the mail slip from my hands as the mirage moved closer, coming up into my front yard till he was standing in front of me. I was faced with two of the biggest blue eyes that seemed to be full of confusion and hurt and fear, all at once.

“Hi, Natty,” he said quietly, his voice sounding scratchy.

I opened my mouth to speak, but my jaw just seemed to hang loosely there. I couldn’t tear my concentration away from those blue eyes, drinking in their sorrow. I couldn't think of anything to say to him. I wanted to laugh, I wanted to cry, I wanted to jump into his arms and start making wild, voracious love right there in the front yard, I wanted to take a shotgun to his head like Dad had suggested . . . there was nothing to say. And nothing between us except for everything in the world.

“These are for you,” he was saying, his voice barely above a whisper.

As I tore my eyes from his, I saw the pink daisies he was holding out to me, sweetly and demurely tied with a bow, and my injured heart began to melt. He’d remembered I loved pink daisies . . .

“Ahh-ahhh-ahhhh-ahhhhhh-CHOOOOOOOO!” His sneeze was enough to wake the dead. "Sorry," he said, sniffling.

"Bless you," I said quietly, an automatic response.

"Thanks. I think I . . . caught a bit of a cold last night. Spent the night in my car."

I blinked. "You spent the night in your car? Why?"

He shrugged. "I was waiting for you to come home . . ." His brow did a little furrow and the corner of his mouth twitched a bit.

“Tobey, I . . . “

“I missed you, Nat,” he blurted, the corners of his mouth coming down, his chin dimpling in. “I’m so sorry!”

I had seen him cry openly in countless movies. I had seen him laugh till the tears sparkled in his eyes. I had even seen tears spring into his eyes during the painful physical therapy he’d had to endure all those months ago – but never had I openly see him cry with such emotion. My heart felt as though it would crumble standing there, watching this.

“Oh, Tobey.”

“I’ve been a complete shit!” he sobbed.

It was just an automatic response to take him into my arms, and he reciprocated by pulling me into his. Nothing had ever felt so good.

“I don’t know what to say, Tobey,” I mumbled into his shoulder, my own tears forming now. “I’ve been so mad and worried and scared and . . .” A hiccup escaped me then.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered near my ear. “It’s not enough, but I’m so sorry . . . “

Somehow, at that moment, it was enough. It was just what I had wanted to hear, and hung onto him, feeling his soft cashmere sweater in my hands. I hugged him closer, wanting to hold onto him like this forever, he just felt so good.

“Natty,” he said, his voice muffled.

“Uh-huh.”

“I-I can’t breathe,” he said apologetically.

I laughed as I managed to finally let him go, feeling silly, but still overtaken with the moment.

Tobey bent down to pick up the scattered mail at my feet, and I gazed at my flowers, soft pink daisies laced with baby’s breath and ivy vines. They were breathtaking.

“How did you know I liked ivy?” I asked.

“Oh, uh . . . lucky guess,” he said, standing. “This is for you, too.”

I took the soft little stuffed dog from him and immediately noticed it’s sad little face. “Oh Tobey!” I cried and threw my arms around his neck once again. He’d been a shit, he was right, but I was a sucker for a sad little stuffed animal.

He laughed into my shoulder and held onto me as tight I was holding onto him. “Nat, I was so scared,” he said. “I thought you were going to be mad at me.”

“I am mad at you,” I grumbled, “but you’re making it really hard to stay mad at you!”

He laughed again, this one sounding a little less like a sob that other one had. “I was hoping that would be the case,” he admitted.

“What are you doing here?” I asked him. “How did you . . .”

“Monica told me,” he said. “I went to your place to see you last night, and no one was home. I kept waiting and waiting . . .”

“And you slept in the car?” I asked.

He nodded, sheepish. “Yeah.”

I envisioned him sound asleep in the SUV, his face sweet and innocent – almost angelic – the way he always was when he was sleeping. I imagined him waiting all evening for my return, fidgeting like a little boy the way he did when he’s antsy or nervous or bored . . . My heart softened as I looked at him, standing there with guilt in his eyes as plain as day.

“I am mad at you,” I said, trying to convince myself as much as him.

“OK,” he nodded in agreement, his eyes sad and pleading, looking just like the silly toy pup I stood holding.

That was it. How could he? I lost all self control and threw myself at him, meeting his lips as the flowers, stuffed dog and mail all fell to the ground. His lips felt like warm velvet on mine and kissing him again made me feel like I was coming home from a long absence. Something inside of me took over and all the emotions I’d been feeling for weeks came flooding back. I broke away from him, sobbing.

“How could you?” I asked. I picked up the things off the ground and went back into the house, leaving him standing there alone in the yard.

"Nat," he grabbed my arm as I left. "Nat, please --"

I ripped away from his grasp, opened the door and slipped inside coming just shy of slamming it shut behind me: Tobey's foot in the jamb prevented it.

"Stop," he pleaded, "Natalia, at least let me explain to you what's happened . . ."

I found the strength to look into his eyes. I knew-- at that moment, I knew that he had found out the truth about that horrible night. Without his having to say a word, I knew we could still read each other’s thoughts. But the tears were welling up and with it the pain, the grief, and the consuming anger.

“At least let me explain . . . “

Without thinking, I shot back coldly, "Now you know what it feels like."

I shut the door forcefully.

The tears came swiftly and mercilessly in the terrifyingly quiet seconds that followed.

All he wanted was to talk, Natalia. Give him a chance.

Should I?

No! Fuck him! You hate him, remember?

I ran down the hall to my bedroom, threw myself upon the bed and sobbed great, heaving sobs that nearly choked me with their severity.

Rap - i - tap - tap.

"GO AWAY!" I hollered, half expecting it to be Tobey who had fought his way inside. I was relieved when it was Mom who poked her head in -- and yet strangely disappointed. Inwardly, I'd wished he really had done just that.

"You okay, Button?"

"Just peachy."

I felt her weight upon the bed. "I . . . couldn't help but overhear . . ."

My cheeks were burning now, and that throbbing headache was back again. "Mom," I started, raising my head, "Help me. I'm so confused . . . I'm so scared . . ."

"Scared of what?" Her voice was satin.

"I'm scared that . . . it's lost. I can't ever go back to the way it was."

She kissed my forehead. "You can't change the past, but you can make sure today is something you won't regret. Everything is not lost."

She sounded so much like him right then. I was wishing that he had said those words-- wishing he were there with me.

"Yes it is. I'll never see him again."

"Do you want to see him again?"

"NO!" I shouted violently-- lying through my teeth as my anger seethed again. "It took him all this time to even want to see me? He doesn't fucking love me! And I don't love him either!"

Lies. All lies. Just angry words that felt good to say.

"He came here for a reason --"

"Sure! He expects me to fall at his feet! For me to be okay with everything and hear him out."

"Why don't you?"

"Why the hell should I hear him out when he wouldn't even give me a chance!"

Mom remained calm. "Is that really going to solve anything? I know you must be at least interested as to what brings him to your door . . ."

"You mean brought him. I sent him away, or didn't you hear?"

Mom smiled strangely. "Yes I heard, but apparently he didn't. He's still standing there on the porch."

I sighed, a bit perturbed. He was so stubborn! I fought the urge to run to my window, fling it open and yell at the top of my lungs, “GO HOME, TOBEY!” Instead I flung myself onto my pillows again and sobbed some more.

Mama sat and rubbed my back, soothing me until the tears subsided.

“Natalia,” she spoke, “it will take time, honey. He came here today; he must be willing to forgive you of your antics. He made a mistake, too, but in time you will forgive him.”

I snuffled. “Mama?”

“Yes, Natty?”

I sat up and faced my mother. “I didn’t tell you everything,” I admitted. “There’s more you don’t know.” The tears were on the surface again once more. I hadn’t told my parents about the stranger I’d found in my apartment that morning, I hadn’t told them that the night I’d been drugged I’d apparently had a raucous one night stand with a stranger, and that’s I’d been caught red-handed the very next morning by Tobey himself.

As I poured out all the shameful facts to my mother, I begged her not to tell Daddy. “Mama, I’m sorry,” I told her, “I’m so ashamed.”

She held me to her and stroked my hair. “Oh Natty, my poor girl, these drugs, they did this, not you,” she assured me. She pulled away from me to gaze into my eyes. “Tell me the truth, Natalia,” she asked, “were you on intimate terms with Tobey before this happened?”

I’d been raised by old-fashioned parents to have old-fashioned values. When my older sister Katie had become pregnant in the middle of her junior year of college, my father had been beyond displeased. A quickie marriage was arranged and Kate had dropped out of school. She and Rob had been married long enough to have a second child, but before little Ryan turned a year old, they were divorced. Katie had been left with two tiny children and an unfinished business degree. She and my dad still were not on the best of terms, six years later.

“Yes, Mama,” I admitted softly, my lip trembling. “Please don’t tell Daddy,” I begged of her once more.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” Mama said. “This is why your heart breaks so, I see now.” She held me and rocked ever so slightly back and forth. “This is why Tobey was so hurt as well, sweetheart. Men, they are like animals!”

“Mama!” I said. “No! It’s not like that . . . “ My cheeks were burning.

“Listen, Natty,” she said knowingly. “Trust me. A man has his woman in an intimate way, he claims her as his own. Like an animal. Anything that comes between them cuts to his very core. Trust me.”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” I sniffled. “I know you’re disappointed in me.”

“You are a big girl, Natalia,” she reassured me. “I trust you to make your own decisions. You need to be strong now to face the consequences of those decisions.”

I nodded my head. “Yes, Mama.”

She rose from the bed and went to peer out my window. “He’s still not leaving,” she said. “You want me to invite him for dinner?”

“No,” I said stubbornly.

“I’m roasting a chicken,” she told me.

“Well that’s fine,” I said. “Tobey doesn’t eat meat, let him stay out there,” I pouted.

After Mama left my room to go put that night’s chicken into the oven, I glanced out my window as well. Tobey was sitting on the front steps of the house; his chin propped in his hands like an insolent little boy. I watched for a moment as he sat motionless, gazing out towards the street. For some odd reason – I felt quite satisfied with the current status of things at the Bowman family home.