Finding Noel (29 page)

“No.”

I went to the door and opened it. A young woman stood in the doorway. She looked like she had stepped from the window of an exclusive Park City boutique and wore a beautiful full-length shearling coat. Even though I had never seen her before, I had no doubt who I was looking at, for she looked just like Macy. It was Noel.

“I'm looking for Macy Wood,” she said. “Is my sister here?”

“We've been looking for you.”

“I know.”

“Come on in.”

Noel stepped inside. “Hey, Macy,” I called. Just then Macy walked back into the living room. “Who was—” she froze. For a minute the two women just stared at each other, unsure of how to react.

Noel spoke first. “Hi, Macy.”

“Noel.”

Noel walked to her and a big smile crossed her face. Then they threw their arms around each other. “I can't believe it,” Macy said. “I can't believe it.”

“Why don't you sit down,” I said. What else was there to say?

The two sisters sat next to each other, their eyes fixed on each other's faces.

“I didn't think your mother would tell you about me,” Macy said.

“She wasn't going to. I made her tell me.”

“But how did you know to ask?”

“I found this.” She pulled a yellowed piece of paper from her coat pocket and handed it to Macy. “It's a letter from Mom. Our mom.”

Macy read:

My little Noel
,

It's two in the morning, and for the past several hours I've been lying here staring at the clock, unable to sleep. I do not sleep well these days. The cancer makes it hard to find any comfort. My body is weakening, but my mind is full of energy
,
so I need to write while I still can. I worry constantly about what will happen when I am gone. Your father has struggled with his addiction. He has been good of late, but I worry what will happen without me. Oh, how I hope I'm wrong. I made him promise, for your sakes, that he will beat this. For if he fails, I don't know what will become of you. This fear grips my heart even more than death. Who will take care of my babies? Your big sister, Macy, seems to sense this. She's only five, yet she watches over you like a mother hen. I know she'll try her best to take care of you. She already does. I worry for her, because the world is too big, too hard, for a little girl. If Dad doesn't keep his promise, you will be taken away from him, and it is possible that you could be separated from each other. I pray that this is not the case. You are still so small, you might not even remember your sister. I write this note, like a note in a bottle, sent with hope that providence might lead you to it. I know that someday, when the time is right, you will find this. When you do, you must find your sister. You must be together. I don't know what influence I might have from the other realm, but I will do what I can. Wherever you are, my love, know that I am looking over you and your sister. I love you with all my heart.

Mom

Macy looked back up at Noel.

“Where did you get this?”

“I was helping my mom put away the Christmas ornaments
when one of them—my special ornament—fell from the tree and shattered. At first I was heartbroken. Then I saw this note in the middle of the broken glass.”

She took Macy's hand. “When I read it, it was as if a dam broke. All these memories just poured into my head. And suddenly everything made sense—why I don't look a thing like my brothers or my parents.” She put her hand on Macy's knee. “But more than that, I finally understood the dreams. I've dreamt about a girl named Macy my whole life. She was my imaginary friend. Whenever I was sad or afraid, she was there for me.

“Once, when I was seven, I was walking home from school when the neighbor boys started teasing me. One of them stole my lunchbox, and I suddenly shouted out for you. I had no idea why. I just shouted ‘Macy.' They looked around, and then they dropped my lunchbox and ran away. I didn't know why I had said your name. But from then on I believed that if I said it I'd be safe.” She looked at Macy and smiled. “Thank you for always being there for me.”

Macy's eyes filled with tears. “Do you think Mom had something to do with the ornament breaking?”

Noel smiled. “I'm sure of it.”

Macy suddenly stood and walked over to the Christmas tree, where her own ornament hung. She carefully lifted the hook from its bough and delicately held up the bauble, her face reflecting in its crimson sheen. “My mother was with me all along.” She turned and looked back at us. “I've protected this my whole life.”

“Maybe it's finally time to break it,” I said.

Noel looked over at me. “I'm sorry, I didn't ask. Are you Macy's husband?”

Macy looked at me and for a moment neither of us spoke. Then she said softly, “If he'll still have me.”

A broad smile crossed my face. “You have great timing, Noel. You arrived just in time to see your big sister get engaged.”

EPILOGUE

I've come to know that our families are a canvas on which we paint our greatest hopes—imperfect and sloppy, for we are all amateurs at life, but if we do not focus too much on our mistakes, a miraculous picture emerges. And we learn that it's not the beauty of the image that warrants our gratitude—it's the chance to paint.

MARK SMART'S DIARY

Macy and I were married the next year on November 3, the anniversary of when we first met. Instead of a wedding cake, we served a tower of death-by-chocolate brownies from the Hut. It just seemed right somehow.

My father flew out for the wedding. It was his first time on an airplane. The flight wasn't as bad as he feared, and he even enjoyed the in-flight meal. My father has simple tastes.

Macy's father also attended the ceremony, but he didn't give her away. Macy didn't like the idea of him doing that again. He died just three months later of cirrhosis of the liver.
Macy and Noel were both at his side when he passed. I'm not really sure how much his death affected Macy, but it was nothing like Joette's.
Law of the harvest
, I guess; you reap what you sow.

Noel was Macy's maid of honor. Even now I'm amazed at how similar the two women are—not just in looks but in mannerisms and thought. You'd think they'd never been apart. They're inseparable now, and I joke that if I'd known how much time they'd be spending with each other I never would have helped facilitate their reunion. I guess they're just making up for lost time.

Tennys got married just three months after I left, to a young medical resident in Birmingham. She finally got her doctor. I'm sure she has pretty babies.

It's been fifteen Christmases since I met Macy, and I love her more now than I ever knew was possible. That's not to say we don't have our problems. Everyone brings baggage into a relationship and the two of us have more than our share. But that's just life. I once read that love is like a rose: we fixate on the blossom, but it's the thorny stem that keeps it alive and aloft. I think marriage is like that. Like my father said, the things of greatest value are the things we fight for. And in the end, if we do it right, we value the stem far more than the blossom.

Shortly after we were married, I used my school money to open my first guitar shop and school: Smart Guitars. Since then we've opened three more stores. We currently have more than two hundred students. I've never heard a song I wrote played on the radio, but it's just as well. I only write them for Macy and she likes to keep them for herself.

Macy and I have three children of our own. A boy and two girls. Sam, Alice and Jo. I wonder what kind of parent I am. I do my best. Sometimes I suppose I even get it right. Kids don't come with owner's manuals. You have to figure each of them out, and by the time you do, they're gone. I pray that I didn't do them too much harm, and hope, for their sakes, that they will forgive me someday as well.

My father is getting old now and men get soft and sentimental with age. He sold the garage a few years back, and now spends his time puttering around the house. He discovered the Internet and keeps a Web site posted with pictures of his grandchildren. I see him at least once a year; with each visit he seems less able and less well. I don't know how much longer he'll be around, but I'm grateful that he still is. We invited him to live with us, but he declined. It's not home.