About the Author
Kristin Hannah is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of many acclaimed novels, including The Great Alone, The Nightingale, and Fly Away. She and her husband live in the Pacific Northwest and Hawaii.
Sandra Burr is one of Brilliance Audio's most popular narrators, having read hundreds of titles, both fiction and non-fiction. Her performance of Jean M. Auel's Earth's Children® series, including The Clan of the Cave Bear, is still ranked among the company's all-time bestsellers. She also directs for Brilliance Audio. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Christmas parties are the star on the top of my "don't" list this year. Other things to avoid this season: Ornaments. Trees. Mistletoe (definitely). Holiday movies about families. And memories.
Memories most of all. Last year, I celebrated Christmas morning in my own living room, with the two people I loved most in the world. My husband, Thomas, and my sister, Stacey.
A lot can change in twelve months.
Now, I am in my kitchen, carefully packing frosted Santa cookies into Tupperware containers, layering wax paper between each row. On a strip of masking tape, I write my name in bold black letters: Joy Candellaro. When I'm done, I dress for work in a pair of black jeans and a bright green sweater set. At the last moment, I add little wreath earrings. Perhaps if I look festive, people will stop asking me how I am doing. Balancing the pale pink containers in my arms, I lock up my house and make my way to the garage. As I round the hood of the car, I sidle past the row of file cabinets that line the back wall. My dreams are in those metal drawers, organized with the kind of care only a librarian can manage.
I have saved every scrap I've ever read about exotic locales and faraway places. When I read the words and see the pictures, I dream of having an adventure.
Of course, I've been dreaming of that for ten years now, and since I've been single again for almost three months, and separated from Thom for eight months before that, it's safe to say I'm a dreamer not a doer. In fact, I haven't added to my files or opened one of the cabinets since my divorce.
I ease past them now and get into my sensible maroon Volvo. Behind me, the garage door opens, and I back down the driveway.
It is still early in the morning on this last Friday before Christmas. The street lamps are on; light falls from them in cones of shimmering yellow through the predawn shadows. As my car rolls to a stop at the bottom of the driveway, the headlights illuminate my house. It looks . . . faded in this unnatural light, untended. The roses I love so much are leggy and bare. The planters are full of dead geraniums.
A memory flashes through me like summer thunder: there and gone.
I come home from work early . . . see my husband's car is in the driveway. The roses are in full, riotous bloom.
I remember thinking I should cut some for an arrangement.
In the house, I toss my coat on the maple bench and go upstairs, calling out his name.
I am halfway up the stairs when I recognize the sounds.
In my mind and my memories, I kicked the door open. That's what I told people later. The truth was, I barely had the strength to push it open.
There they are, naked and sweating and rolling, in my bed.
Like an idiot, I stand there, staring at them. I thought he'd feel my presence as keenly as I'd always felt his, that he'd look up, see me and--oh, I don't know, have a heart attack or burst into tears and beg for my forgiveness or beg for forgiveness while having a heart attack.
Then I see her face, and a bad moment rounds the bend into horrific. It is my sister.
Now there's a "For Sale" sign in front of my house. It's been there for months, but who am I kidding? A wrecked marriage scares everyone. It's like a rock tossed into a still blue pond; the ripples go on and on. No one wants to buy this house of bad luck.
I hit the gas too hard and back out into the street, putting the memories in my rearview mirror.
If only they would stay there. Instead, they're like passengers, crowding in on me, taking up too much air.
No one knows what to say to me anymore, and I can hardly blame them. I don't know what I want to hear, either. In the school library, where I work, I hear the whispers that grind to a halt at my entrance and notice how uncomfortable the ensuing silences can be.
I make it easy on my friends--or try to--by pretending that everything is okay. I've been doing that a lot this year. Smiling and pretending. What else can I do? People have grown tired of waiting for me to get over my divorce. I know I need to glide onto the track of my old life, but I can't seem to manage it; neither do I have the courage to form a new one, though, in truth, it's what I want. It's what I've wanted for a long time.
At the corner, I turn left. The streets of Bakersfield are quiet on this early morning. By the time I reach the high school, it is just past seven o'clock. I pull into my parking space, gather my cookies, and go inside.
At the main desk, the school secretary, Bertha Collins, smiles up at me. "Hey, Joy."
"Hey, Bertie. I brought some cookies for tonight's faculty party."
Her look turns worried. "Aren't you coming?"
"Not this year, Bertie. I don't feel too festive."
She eyes me knowingly. As a twice-divorced woman, she thinks she understands, but she can't, not really. Bertie has three kids and two parents and four sisters. My own math doesn't add up that way. "Take care of yourself, Joy. The first Christmas after a divorce can be . . ."
"Yeah. I know." Forcing a smile, I start moving. In the past year, this technique has worked well for me. Keep moving. I walk down the hallway, turn left at the empty cafeteria and head for my space. The library.
My assistant, Rayla Goudge, is already at work. She is a robust, gray-haired woman who dresses like a gypsy and tries to write all her notes in haiku. Like me, she is a graduate of U.C. Davis with a teaching certificate. We have worked side by side for almost five years and both enjoyed every minute. I know that in May, when she finishes her master's degree in library science, I will lose her to another school. It's one more change I try not to think about.
"Morning, Joy," she says, looking up from the pile of paperwork in front of her.
"Hey, Ray. How's Paul's cold?"
"Better, thanks."
I store my purse behind the counter and begin my day. First up are the computers. I go from one to the next, turning them on for the students, then I replace yesterday's newspapers with todays. For the next six hours, Rayla and I work side by side--checking the catalog system, generating overdue notices, processing new books, and re-shelving. When we're lucky, a student comes in for help, but in this Internet age, they are more and more able to do their school research at home. Today, of course, on this last school day before the winter break, the library is as quiet as a tomb.
That is another thing I try not to think about: the break. What will I do in the two and one-half weeks I have off?
In past years, I have looked forward to this vacation. It's part of the reason I became a school librarian. Fifteen years ago, when I was in college, I imagined traveling to exotic locales in my weeks off.
"Joy, are you okay?"
I am so lost in memories of Before that it takes me a second to realize that Rayla is speaking to me. I'm standing in the middle of the library, holding a worn, damaged copy of Madame Bovary.
The bell rings: The walls seem to vibrate with the sound of doors opening, kids laughing, feet moving down the hall.
The winter break has begun.
"Do you need a ride to the party?" Rayla asks, coming up to me.
"The party?" I say, as if I'm actually thinking about it. "No, thanks."
"You're not coming, are you?"
Rayla has always been able to do that: pierce my defenses with a look. "No."
"But . . ."
"Not this year, Ray."
Rayla sighs. "So, what will you do tonight?"
We both know that the first night of our vacation is special. Last year, on this Friday evening, Stacey and I met up for dinner and went to the mall, where I agonized over the perfect gift for Thom.
It turned out to be my sister.
Those are exactly the kind of memories I try to avoid, but they're like asbestos: invisible and deadly. You need special gear to get rid of them.
Rayla touches my arm. "Have you put up a tree yet?"
I shake my head.
"I could help you decorate one."
"No, thanks. I need to do it myself."
"And will you?"
I look down into her kind gray eyes and find it surprisingly easy to smile. "I will."
She loops an arm through mine. Together, we walk through the quiet library and emerge into the crowded, busy hallways of the high school. All around us kids are laughing and talking and high-fiving one another.
In the parking lot, Rayla walks me to my car. There, she stops and looks up at me. "I hate to leave you alone for the holidays. Maybe Paul and I should cancel our trip to Minnesota."
"Don't you dare. Enjoy your family. I'll be fine."
"You and Stacey . . ."
"Don't," I say sharply, and then whisper: "Please."
"She and Thom will break up, you'll see. She'll come to her senses."
I have lost count of the times Rayla has said this to me, and of the times I've said it to myself.
"Why don't you go to one of those dream places of yours--like Machu Picchu or London?"
"Maybe I will," I say. It's what I always say. We both know the truth: I'm scared to go alone.
Rayla pats my hand and kisses my cheek. "Well. I'll see you in January, Joy."
"Merry Christmas, Rayla."
"And to you....
Narrator Sandra Burr depicts Joy Faith Candellaro, high school librarian and recent divorcée, with edgy apprehension when she learns that her sister is pregnant by her ex-husband and that they plan to marry. Joy purchases a plane ticket to Hope, British Columbia, over Christmas to ease the pain. The play on names and words almost buries this little story with its Christmas message of forgiveness, but Burr salvages it through a compelling delivery. Her adept characterization of a grief-stricken 6-year-old is stellar, as is her portrayal of the child's father, who has a velvety Irish brogue. It's no surprise where their relationship is headed or how the story ends. G.D.W. © AudioFile 2006, Portland, Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine
You can run away from your life and your past, but there’s no way to distance yourself from your own heart.Highlighted by 807 Kindle readers
