Second Chances

I Won't Be Home For Christmas.

After work, Maddy weaved her way through Manhattan pedestrian traffic, the gray sky dusted with powdered sugar snow. She huddled with her fellow New Yorkers at the intersection, waiting for the DON'T WALK sign to change. Feeling like a pack mule with her bag slung over her shoulder and a bulging canvas grocery bag in each hand, her patience wore thin.

A street vendor selling hand-me-down ornaments and hot dogs whistled an off-key accompaniment to Brenda Lee's "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" screeching from his 30-year-old boom box.

When two girls, drinks in one hand, shopping bags in the other, pushed open the corner coffee shop door, the overwhelming aroma of pumpkin spice wafted out.

"I thought we were over the whole pumpkin spice thing," Maddy grumbled under her breath. "Now they're dragging it into Christmas? Just stop, pumpkin people. Please stop."

Finally, the traffic signal changed and she moved shoulder-to-shoulder across the avenue in the direction of her apartment building.

She pushed open the door with her butt while dragging her canvas grocery bags into the first-floor hallway, her keys clenched between her teeth. She stood at the bottom of a long flight of stairs, took a deep breath, steeling herself, and started up the staircase.

As she climbed to the third-floor landing, a senior neighbor peeked out from her apartment door.

"Hi, Mrs.—"

The woman slammed the door and secured a series of locks. Maddy sighed, continuing her journey up the stairwell.

Now on the fifth floor, out of breath, Maddy gasped, the bags nearly slipping from her grasp. She tiptoed past an apartment, but couldn't escape detection. The door swung open revealing a creepy neighbor with a greasy comb-over. His hairy torso spilled out of his open, shabby bathrobe.

"Hey, honey bunny. Want a Pop-Tart?" He grinned.

"I'm gonna pass, Gary." She wheezed and accelerated her pace up the next flight.

Finally, reaching the eighth floor, she steadied herself against the wall, her chest heaving. She dropped her bags onto the floor and released the keys from her jaws.

She staggered into the apartment, tossing the bags onto a nearby chair. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand then grumbled "Damn it," when she realized she'd been mumbling the lyrics to "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree," which had become stuck in her head.

"In the new old-fashioned way? What does that even mean?"

Maddy lived in an attractive apartment that featured hardwood floors and oversize windows that provided a view of the city worth the torturous eight-flight climb. Sparse second-hand furniture was arranged around a wobbly coffee table. 

She trudged into the kitchen, filled a pot with water, and set it on the stovetop. She unpacked her canvas grocery bags, including a jar of spaghetti sauce, grated cheese, and vegetables. Uh oh. She checked the cupboard shelves. No pasta. Her phone rang.

"Hey, Mom," said Maddy cheerfully. "Do you have any recipes for spaghetti without pasta?" She turned off the burner.

"Spaghetti without pasta?!"

"Never mind. Do I hear a ukulele?"

"That's your father. I'm trying to ignore it. Anyway, thank you so much for the bracelet. It's absolutely stunning."

"You're welcome. Sure wish I could have been there for your birthday."

"Your dad and I were just talking about our visit. Have you decided on any dates yet?"