I wake to the rotten-sweet smell of decomposing.

Maybe the smell is just the scent of dread, fear of our first Christmas Eve since our baby girl died last July?

Or did another raccoon die in the crawlspace below our house? Rancid odor, I open my face, wipe my face, eyes crusty, too, and a film of bubbles like peeking at the world through a Champagne flute, the blurry horror memory of giving birth to Jeanette tempered by too many pain pills wearing off.

Wave of grief, I puke in the toilet. Open all the windows and let the fresh air in, banish the smell, the feeling, everything. Flush and flop back into bed, empty.

Of course, my husband has planned to work overtime at the hospital today. Work, Dylan’s new religion.

Is he gone already?

 No. I hear his morning sounds in the kitchen downstairs until he strolls into our bedroom, half-dressed.

“Have you seen my blue shirt? Don’t forget. I’m working today and tomorrow. Tomorrow tomorrow,” he says.

“On Christmas? You’re at the hospital tomorrow?” I ask.

“Yes. I told you like five times already,” he says.

“No, I’m pretty sure I would remember if you were working this Christmas. That’s shit. You’re not leaving me alone tomorrow,” I say.

“I’m not leaving you alone. Don’t be so dramatic, Tribute. Look, can we talk about it later? I want to do gifts tonight. I made us a reservation at the Chinese place. With my parents. Fake Christmas this year. I haven’t done any shopping, besides the walnut cheese board for my mom. I still have to do all the nieces and nephews, my dad. Plus you. You should do your parents. My jam for the neighbors, right? But what do you want? ”

“My baby back,” I say, emphasizing each word. “And you?”

“I know you miss her,” he says, while tying his tie, silent for a moment.  Why won’t he say her name? “But she was so sick. She was suffering. Even if she’d lived, who knows what her life would have been?”

But I’m silent. I will not be consoled and his justifications fall flat. “Okay, right. It’s fine. Gifts are too much for you this year, I get it. I’ll just buy some bottles of that special gin I love for myself. Don’t worry about the rest. Why are you being so rude today?” he asks.

“Asking you what you want for Christmas is rude? I meant it. Otherwise, you’re getting a sweater,” I say. “You’re the one who’s gone all day.”

“Fine, I’ll say it then. I want a divorce,” he says.

“Ha, ha,” I say, but he’s not laughing. “The gift that keeps on giving?”

“I’m serious,” he says.

“Right, you’re serious. I get it. You’ve said this before. It’s just your feeling of being trapped. Isn’t that what your therapist said?” I ask.

“I’m swamped today and tomorrow,” he says. “Tomorrow tomorrow. Remember? I volunteered to be on call? Well, Phil’s sick and I’m on.”

“Yeah, let’s get divorced. That’ll solve everything. Just run away. I give up,” I say. “You won’t give me back my baby and I’m all alone on Christmas. Probably we should just call it quits.”

“I can’t talk to you. That’s not happening,” he says, as if I don’t know that.  “See you back here at 5:30 sharp. Dinner. The Chinese place. With parents? I’ll call. It would be good for you to see them.”

He strides downstairs, slams the door, and out he goes, through the Christmas shopping frenzy, and into work. Gone.

We say these vile things, but we’re just testing each other, trying to get a rise, trying out our fighting words. We’re trying to hurt each other just enough because we’re both in pain. But we don’t really mean it about divorce, Jeanette. We’re both just sad and scared right now.  At least, I don’t mean it. I still feel attached to Dylan, the man who half-made you. Without him, I’d be shipwrecked entirely, even though I know it’s not working either.

***

Of course, I will never tell Dylan about my day, all the hours, Jim Beam, Norco pills downed, driving around, all the minutes that passed before I fell back into bed, slightly wasted, at 4:45 p.m. About this new feeling of action, of my ghost-baby urging me out of into the world, to participate and do on her behalf. My girl. My secret. My Jeanette. How she’s started talking to me.

He yells from downstairs, “I’m home! You still up for dinner? I told my parents we’d see them at China Pavillion around ten. Our reservation is 10:15. I know it’s late but it was that or nothing,” he says, as he bounds up the stairs and into our room. I hear him rush across the hardwood floor and pull back our duvet. “It’s 9:15 right now. We gotta go. Out of bed, Tribute! You need to get up now if you’re going.”

“Black tie?” I ask, then pull the covers over my head.

“Well, fancy. Black tie for Santa Barbara,” he says. “Maybe just a black dress. I’m wearing a tie. I told them we’d make an effort. Come on.”

“So, what, short black dress and flip flops?” I ask.

“Ha, ha. Exactly,” says Dylan. “I’ll wear jeans and a cumberbund.”

He stands up and holds his giant gin and tonic above his head. The anger is dissipating, now, and he’s about to go all melancholy if I’m not careful.

“To a better year,” he toasts, sips. “Want one?”

“I’m not drinking anything today,” I say, lying.

“Yeah, right. Here,” he says, tipping the glass towards me.

“No, no. Really,” I say.

I watch him down his giant glass of clear liquid in three long sips.

“Here’s to the holidays,” he says, holding up the glass again, and then adds with sarcasm, “And to my charming wife.”

That’s it. We’re done here, folks.

“You’re right. It’s too much. I’m going back to sleep. I can’t go out. I can’t face it. Tell your mom and dad I’m sorry for bailing,” I say, turning quickly and retreating to the bedroom.

Fifteen minutes later, Dylan is gone and I’m pretending to sleep in our bed on the second floor of our white house. Wide awake, more pills and booze to accelerate an artificial deep dive into slumber.

***

I wake close to midnight desperate to pee. Barely make it to the toilet before the bucket-dribbling sound of urine leaking out, my bladder muscles permanently decimated by childbirth. I strip my pee-stained underwear, Dylan’s college ruby t-shirt stretched wide and thinning that work for pajamas now. Awake. Husband is in bed now. I never heard him come in. How did dinner with his parents go? Seeing Dylan, I’m livid and that wakes me up fully, blood adrenaline. Pissed that he celebrated without me, even though I didn’t want to go.

Grief doesn’t make sense.

I stand naked at the bathroom window and look outside. I see the rain has stopped and the clouds part to reveal a quilt of stars. Air moving slightly and across the street, Mrs. Delgado’s olive tree branches shiver slightly. Middle of the night, winter dark.

I’m giving Dylan his last chance. Since Jeanette died, I just realized, it’s like I’ve been testing him. Waiting for a sign, to stay or go. Not because I blame him. I see my black, silk halter dress still hanging up on the closet doorknob, like an invitation. The one I planned to wear for dinner with Dylan’s parents before I jumped ship.

I flip on the light in the bathroom and try to throw on the black dress I’d planned to wear for dinner, hanging from the towel rack still. Things don’t always go as planned. I pull the black silk sheath, wrestling the fabric sausage casing over new stretch marks and cellulite. The zipper breaks and I rip a seam pulling it off quickly, shrug back into my old t-shirt, no knickers, and retreat to the covers before the cold arrives but too late. Awake and asleep at all the wrong times these days.

Insomnia, mind tumbling over. Up again, I walk downstairs, open the front door and walk carefully barefoot onto our front lawn. Across the street I see the cement light post holding the orange low-energy streetlight and it blinks twice before blacking out. Beyond our cul de sac, a silver Prius comes to a stop and continues. All the hours a repetition, and tomorrow is a high holy day.

Christmas Eve. I feel the hairs on my body prick up in the damp chill, the harsh frosted blades of grass shimmering beneath my toes, another slip of the post-storm breeze whooshes by, air and energy. I feel you, my baby girl, here at night, when I’m alone, ever since that early morning days ago. You have arrived. You are my only holiday guest. Nearly midnight now. 

“Merry Christmas Eve to all and to all a good night,” I say to nothing and no one, except you, my love, my sweetness gone to the world, my gone baby, Jeanette.

– Maureen Foley

Author’s Note: This story is an excerpt from my novel, Tribute, and the latest of three excerpts that have been published by journals. (I’m now in final edits of the manuscript before sending it out to literary agents for representation.) I wrote this story originally for another literary magazine that solicited a piece for a holiday anthology. Unfortunately, the story was too depressing for them and they didn’t end up using it. While the holidays are typically seen as a joyful time, it was important for me to describe the challenges of that time of the year for people in the throes of grief.