WELL, OBVIOUSLY THAT’S THE PERFECT ending to the story. But I’m thinking that you might have some questions. And so did I.
First of all, you’ll never guess, not in a million years, where I flew to meet my dad that night.
Or maybe you can guess.
It was a good Christmas, and the best seventeenth birthday I could have imagined. Dad and I hung out at his hotel and watched It’s a Wonderful Life, just like I’d promised, and we laughed and ordered cupcakes from room service and talked, and I felt closer to him than I’d ever felt before. Like we were going to be a real family again. And when he had to go back to working on his film, I decided to stay in Manhattan for a few days. You know—just because.
“I love New York,” I sighed as my dad and I walked through Central Park a couple days after Christmas. Our hotel was right across from the park, and it was so beautiful that winter, full of snow and lights, a place of magic and hidden dreams.
“You love New York?” He looked at me sideways. “Since when?”
“Since . . . now, I guess? There’s always something new to discover here,” I said. “And the snow is so pretty.”
He put his arm around me. “You’ve changed, young lady, since the last time I saw you. You even look different somehow.”
I flipped my newly colored hair over my shoulder and batted my eyes at him. “Why, thank you.”
He laughed. “No, not your hair, although that is great. You look like your—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “It’s you that’s different. I think you were right.”
“Which time?”
He laughed again. “When you said that you’re growing up.”
I nodded. I was technically a very old and wise seventeen-year-old girl, and that was fine with me.
Dad checked his watch. “So I have to go back to the studio, sweetie. Are you sure you’re going to be all right on your own?”
“I know my way around,” I assured him. “I have a great day planned that may or may not include the Empire State Building and a Broadway show. I’ll catch up with you later.”
You can guess what I did then, and it wasn’t a Broadway show. I took a cab straight to 195 Broadway. And I made sure to look both ways before I crossed the street this time. I had so many things I wanted to say to Boz, to Dave, to Blackpool, even. And so many things I wanted to know.
But when I went into 195 Broadway, it didn’t look the same. It was all newly remodeled, with glass and metal and comfortable-looking couches in the lobby. There was a new security desk just inside the door, and the guard there told me I couldn’t go up in the elevators without approval. And there was no business listed as Project Scrooge anywhere in the building.
It was like they’d never been there.
I didn’t know what to do with myself after that. So I walked to the movie theater—the Angelika, of course—and I watched a film there one last time. One of my dad’s, it turns out. It kind of blew my mind wondering if he’d ever make those movies now that he’d made after I died, or if I was the only person in the whole world who would ever remember seeing them.
Thinking like that will drive you crazy. That’s the thing about messing with time.
It was after the movie was over, when everybody was shuffling out, that I spotted Boz sitting at the back of the theater.
“Hello, Havisham,” he said warmly.
“Am I still Havisham?”
“You’ll always be Havisham to me.”
I sat down next to him as the credits rolled in the dark. He was wearing that tweed jacket of his, the one with the leather patches on the elbows, and I kind of loved him for it.
“You changed your hair,” he commented.
“I was sick of blond,” I said. “So I dyed it back. Trying out a new look.”
“It suits you.”
“Thanks.”
“And it seems that’s not the only thing that’s changed.” His eyes were sparkling. I hadn’t seen him look so happy before except for the time when he found that first-edition record of Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas.”
“I’m trying. I’m really trying, Boz. I am. I won’t let you down this time.”
“Oh, Holly.” He reached over and patted my arm. “You never let me down.”
I stared at him. “Never? Not even when I was totally messing up your entire company?”
He shook his head. “It all went according to plan, as far as I’m concerned. Although I have to admit you gave me a scare now and then.”
My mouth had dropped open. I closed it. “You knew?”
He chuckled like this was the best prank ever. “You didn’t really think you’d get something like that by us when Blackpool could see your future and Copperfield could read your mind.”
Well, yeah, I’d wondered about that. But they never said anything. They never tried to stop me. “But then why did you let me—”
“You had to come to your own conclusions,” he interrupted. “That was the most important part in your rehabilitation.”
“My rehabilitation.”
“We never give up on a Scrooge, Holly,” Boz informed me cheerfully. “And we didn’t give up on you. We’ve been working on your case for years, hoping to find a way to reach you. And this year, with Mr. Winters, we saw an opportunity for you to succeed. And here we are.”
“So all along, it was about me?”
“Not all of it.”
“How’s Steph?” I asked. “Is she . . .”
“She’s our current Ghost of Christmas Past. A job that she enjoys, I think, and will continue to do for a while, until it strikes her fancy to try her hand at something else. Like high school.”
“And what about Ethan?” I would never hear the name Ethan ever again without feeling something powerful and protective rise up inside of me. I’d always wonder where he was, and what he was doing, and if he was getting by okay.
“Ethan is a twelve-year-old boy at the moment,” Boz said. “He’s fine.”
I thought for a minute, and then all the pieces seemed to fall into place. “He wasn’t a real Scrooge, was he? You made Blackpool choose him, for my sake?”
“You always were a clever girl,” Boz answered. “I can see the future, too, at times, although not as often or as predictably as Blackpool. I saw the potential in where Ethan Winters might lead you. It was a great sacrifice on Blackpool’s part. He hates telling any kind of falsehood—he thinks it damages his credibility—and he had to stretch some truths in order for things to go our way in this case. But he, too, could see where our clever schemes might lead you. He also foresaw that Stephanie could return and be part of your resurrection, so to speak.”
“Poor Blackpool.” I arched an eyebrow at Boz. “Are there cameras on us right now?”
He nodded and pointed to a corner.
I stood up and waved at the camera. “Thank you, everyone. Dave. Are Marty and Grant there yet? I guess not. Well, hello, Marie and Leigh. Tox. Even you, Blackpool—Arthur. I owe you all so much.” I blew them a kiss. “And Steph. You won’t get this, because I don’t think you’ll remember, but we’re friends, you and me. Real friends. So shoot me an email, okay?”
Boz stood up, too, and brushed off his pants. “That was very nice, Holly. I’m sure they appreciate that. Especially Stephanie.”
“I need to thank you, too, Boz,” I said. “I don’t even know how to tell you how grateful I am.”
“I did my part—no more, no less.” He coughed. “But I suppose I should be going now. I have work to do back at the office.”
“What? It’s after Christmas. Don’t you get a day off once in a while?”
“A day wasted on others is not wasted on one’s self,” he said. “Besides, this is a world of action, and not for moping and droning on.”
Which was when I noticed there were tears in his eyes. He was going to miss me.
“I think I’m going to miss you most of all,” I said, giving him a quick hug. He smelled like he always did, like peppermint and tobacco and a hint of Douglas fir.
“Well, now,” he said with a cough. “Life is made of ever so many partings welded together.”
I pulled away. “Hey, can you stop quoting Dickens? I’m getting a headache just trying to figure out what that even means.”
He patted me on the head like I was a little girl and he was my doting grandfather. “Good-bye, my dear.”
I nodded and made my way across the aisle to go out of the theater, but then I thought of one last thing and turned back. “What about Ethan? What’s going to happen to him?”
Boz gave me a sly smile. “Anything’s possible, I suppose. It’s a wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other.”
“So you’re saying you don’t know?”
“What I do know about Ethan is this: he’s twelve right now, and everything in his world is what it should be. For now.”
For now.
I gasped. “Boz, what day is it?”
“You’re asking me?” he said. “Gracious, I could barely tell you what decade I’m in.”
“Come on, Boz. Use the earbud. Ask. Embrace the technology for once.”
He listened for a minute, then nodded. “It’s December twenty-eighth.”
“December twenty-ninth,” I murmured to myself. “When Ethan is twelve.”
“No, I said . . .”
“I should go.” I kissed Boz on the cheek, which he did not expect. “Wish me luck.”
“Godspeed, Holly,” he said, smiling again, and then he vanished into thin air.
And so it happened that the next morning, December the twenty-ninth, at precisely 9:00 a.m., I was standing on the corner of Lexington and 116th Street, listening to a homeless man play the saxophone.
All I had to do was wait.
And wait.
At exactly 9:03 (which felt like it took for freaking ever), up the street strolled Ethan Winters II. Ethan’s dad. He was wearing a gray wool coat and a red plaid scarf, and he looked just how I remembered—like an older, happier version of Ethan. He was whistling as he walked. And then he stopped and listened to the homeless guy play.
“How’s it going, Steve?” he asked after a minute.
“Same old, same old,” the sax player replied. “It’s been cold, though. I’m hoping not to freeze to death.”
“You should head over to the Cecil,” Ethan’s dad said. “They’ll have a bed for you there. You can take a cab on me.” He gave the man a twenty, and Steve said, “Thank you much, sir. I just might.”
“Stay warm.” Ethan’s dad smiled. Then he started off down Lexington.
It was time for me to do something. Right here. Right now.
“Wait,” I called. “Please, um, sir, can you help me?”
Ethan’s dad stopped immediately. “What’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing’s wrong,” I explained quickly. “It’s just, I’m trying to find the Bikram East Yoga Center? It was supposed to be on 116th Street, but I couldn’t find it. I have a terrible sense of direction.”
It was a lame excuse, I’ll admit, but it was the best I could think up on short notice. Plus, I really was wanting to get in some yoga later. I liked yoga when it didn’t literally kill me.
“Sure,” Mr. Winters said. “I haven’t heard of that place, but I can look it up for you.” He took out his phone and messed with it for a minute. “Yes, here it is. It’s on 116th, but back that way, toward Madison. You must have passed it.”
I darted a glance at my watch: 9:06. I still couldn’t let him go onto Lexington, just in case. “Back that way?” I frowned. “What side of the street? Are you sure?”
He checked his phone again. “Left. It should be two blocks, on the left.” He leaned out to look. “It’s that awning there that reads BEYC?”
“Well, now I feel stupid. Thanks. I don’t know how I could have missed that.”
The homeless guy was eyeing me strangely. I kept my attention on Ethan’s dad. I had to keep stalling him. “You look familiar to me. Do I know you?”
He smiled. “I have one of those faces, I’m afraid.”
“Me too,” I said, nodding. “Everybody always thinks they know me. But, really, I think we might have met before. Do you have kids that I might know?”
“I have a daughter about your age, actually,” he answered. “I bet you’d remember if you’d met her. Her name is—”
“Jack,” I finished for him.
“Yes.” His smile widened. “Jacqueline, but it’s always been Jack, ever since my little boy couldn’t pronounce her name. We tried to get her to go back to Jackie once, and that did not work out. She’s always known her mind, that kid. But I love her for that.”
“I like Jack. She’s amazing. We, uh, go to school together.”
“Oh, you’re at New Utrecht?”
I smiled and nodded. “She likes art, right?”
“Yes, she’s always sculpting something or cutting stuff up and reassembling it. It drives my wife a little crazy, but we try to understand that it’s her artistic soul that needs feeding.”
“That’s cool of you,” I said. “Taking an interest.”
“What are you interested in?” he asked.
“I have no idea.” Which was the truth. I was still coming to terms with the idea that I was going to have an actual future. “I used to be into fashion, but I’ve broadened my horizons now. Who knows?”
“Well, you’re young,” he said. “You have time to figure it out.”
“Exactly.” I checked my watch again: 9:08.
He was in the clear now. I breathed out a sigh.
“Well, say hi to Jack from me,” I said.
“Okay. I will.”
He was still standing there, like he was waiting for something. “But to do that, I’d have to know your name?”
“Oh. Right. My name. My name is Victoria. Victoria Scott,” I said.
“Victoria Scott. I’ll remember.”
“Thanks for your help with the yoga situation.”
“No problem. See you around, Victoria.”
And then he was off. I walked the other way for a minute, and then ran back to check on him. He’d made it safely all the way down Lexington and disappeared into a building. After a minute I saw a guy in a hard hat come out onto the sidewalk and bend over to pick something up.
A hammer.
I may have done a little happy dance right there in the street. For Ethan. For the future he might have now. And then I might have cried a little, too.
“Girl, you’ve got something going on,” said the homeless guy. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s something good, I think.”
“It’s very good,” I agreed. “Hey, come with me, okay?”
His eyes were instantly wary. “I thought you said you had to go to yoga. What is that, stretching?”
“Yes. Stretching. Lots of good stretching. But I want to introduce you to someone first. Someone who I think you’re really going to want to meet at the London NYC Hotel.”
“I don’t know anybody at a hotel,” he said.
“Trust me. You’ll know her.”
He packed up his saxophone and let me help him to his feet. We walked a few steps, and then he stopped and touched my arm.
“Hey, you’re not an angel, are you?” he asked me.
I smiled. “Maybe I’m something like that today.”
So that’s the story of my afterlife, and now the real story, the one involving my actual life, has finally begun. And if you’re wondering if I changed—if I really and truly became a better person than I was in the beginning—I’ll tell you that I have good days and bad ones, of course, like everybody else, but I’m growing. I’ll get there.
I still have dreams about New York sometimes, and I miss the weirdest stuff, like the sound of neighbor lady’s TV and cereal for dinner and the convenience of a Hoodie that makes a person invisible. But I have an excellent life, and I try to be as good a friend, as good a daughter, and as good a person as it’s possible for me to be.
I can tell some of you want to be upset because this is a story where the girl doesn’t end up with the hot guy. You were shipping me and Ethan. I get it. I do. I’ll always think about him, for the rest of my life and probably beyond it, about those few months that didn’t happen for anyone but me. I miss him. I love him. But love doesn’t always have to be about the happy ending. Love can be about beginnings, too.
Anyway, I didn’t see the people from Project Scrooge again, but sometimes I feel like someone’s watching me, and not just watching, but looking down on me fondly and wishing me the best, especially when December rolls around. I don’t hate Christmas anymore, for obvious reasons. I always get a little thrill when that time of year arrives, and everyone starts decorating and hustling and bustling around, getting ready to enjoy not just the holiday but one another. Because that’s what it’s all about, right? Connection. Togetherness. Love.
Plus, I always know that there are people hard at work trying to make this world a better place through this one night on the twenty-fifth of December. Which makes me feel like the world is a better place, every single year.
And now I’m going to say it—so listen up, because I’m only going to say it this one time. Because I think you deserve the proper send-off.
Here it goes:
God bless us, every one.
Which I think means that Grant owes me a twenty.