She asked herself what Mark enjoyed, but even that didn’t lead to many answers. He loved Abigail and his parents, he intended to lead a religious life, he was interested in contemporary art, and he grew up in Indiana and played hockey. What else did she know about him?
She flashed back to their first interview, remembering how prepared he’d been, and the answer finally presented itself. Mark admired the photographs she’d taken; more than that, he thought of them as her legacy. So why not give Mark a gift that reflected Maggie’s passion?
In the drawers of her desk, she found several flash drives; she’d always kept plenty on hand. For the next few hours, she began to transfer photographs onto the drives, choosing her favorites. Some of them hung on the walls of the gallery, and though the photographs wouldn’t be part of the limited-edition runs—and thus without monetary value—she knew that Mark wouldn’t care about that. He wouldn’t want the photographs for financial reasons; he’d want them because she’d taken them, and because they’d meant something to her.
*
When she was finished, she dutifully consumed some food. Salty cardboard, as disgusting as ever. Throwing caution to the wind, she also poured herself a glass of wine. She found a station playing Christmas music on the radio, and she sipped her wine until she became drowsy. She traded her sweater for a sweatshirt, put on socks in place of the slippers, and crawled into bed.
She woke at noon on Christmas Eve, feeling rested and, miracle of miracles, completely pain-free.
But just in case, she took her pills, washing them down with half a cup of tea.
*
Knowing that it would most likely be a late night, she lounged most of the day. She called her favorite neighborhood Italian restaurant, where until recently she had been a regular, and learned that a delivery for two shouldn’t be a problem despite the large crowd expected for dinner that evening. The manager, whom she knew well and who she guessed knew of her illness due to her appearance, was particularly solicitous. He anticipated what she might enjoy, remembering the dishes she frequently ordered and suggesting a few specials as well as their famous tiramisu. She thanked him warmly after reading him her credit card number and scheduling the delivery for eight p.m. And who said New Yorkers were callous? she thought with a smile as she hung up.
She ordered a smoothie, drank it while taking her bath, and then reviewed the flash drives she’d created for Mark. As always, when revisiting her past work, her mind recreated the particulars of every shot.
Losing herself in the memories of so many exhilarating trips and experiences made the hours pass quickly. At four, she took a nap, even though she was still feeling pretty good; after she woke, she slowly got ready. As she had in Ocracoke so long ago, she chose a red sweater, albeit with more layers underneath. Black wool slacks over tights, and a black beret. No jewelry except for the necklace, but enough makeup so she wouldn’t frighten the cabdriver. She added a cashmere scarf to hide her gangly neck, and then put her pills in her bag, just in case. She hadn’t had time to wrap Mark’s gift, so she emptied a tin of Altoids and used the container for the drives. She wished she had a bow but figured Mark wouldn’t care. Finally, with a sense of dread, she retrieved one of the letters her aunt Linda had written, which she kept in her jewelry box.
Outside, the weather was bone-chilling and damp, the sky promising snow. In the short cab ride to the gallery, she passed a Santa Claus ringing a bell, soliciting donations for the Salvation Army. She saw a menorah in an apartment window. On the radio, the cabdriver was listening to music that sounded Indian or Pakistani. Christmas in Manhattan.
The door to the gallery was locked, and after entering, she locked it again behind her. Mark was nowhere to be seen, but the tree was glowing, and she smiled when she saw that he had set up a small fold-out table flanked by two fold-out chairs in front of the tree and covered it with a red paper tablecloth. On the table was a gift-wrapped box and a vase with a red carnation, along with two glasses of eggnog.
He must have heard her enter because he emerged from the back as she was admiring the table. When she turned, she noticed that he, too, wore a red sweater and black slacks.
“I’d say you look fantastic, but I think that might come across as self-serving,” she observed as she removed her jacket.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you came by earlier to see what I’d be wearing,” he countered.
She motioned toward the table. “You’ve been busy.”
“I figured we’d need a place to eat.”