“Bunny slippers,” she said, “remind me of who I am. You can’t get a swelled head if you wear bunny slippers. You can’t lose your sense of perspective and start acting like a star or a rich lady if you keep on wearing bunny slippers. Besides, bunny slippers give me confidence because they’re so jaunty; they make a statement; they say ‘Nothing the world does to me can ever get me so far down that I can’t be silly and frivolous.’ If I died and found myself in hell, I could endure the place if I had bunny slippers.”
Christmas Day was like a wonderful dream. Jason proved to be a sentimentalist with the undiminished wonder of a child. He insisted they gather at the Christmas tree in pajamas and robes, that they open their gifts with as much popping of ribbons and noisy tearing of paper and as much general drama as possible, that they sing carols, that while opening gifts they abandon the idea of a healthy breakfast and instead eat cookies, candy, nuts, fruitcake, and caramel popcorn. He proved that he had not just been trying to be a good host when he had spent the previous evening with Chris at the trains, for all Christmas Day he engaged the boy in one form of play or another, both inside and outside the house, and it was clear that he had a love of and natural rapport with kids. By dinnertime Laura realized Chris had laughed more in one day than in the entire past eleven months.
When she tucked the boy into bed that night, he said, “What a great day, huh, Mom?”
“One of the all-time greats,” she agreed.
“All I wish,” he said as he dropped toward sleep, “is that Daddy could’ve been here to play with us.”
“I wish the same thing, honey.”
“But in a way he was here, ’cause I thought of him a lot. Will I always remember him, Mom, the way he was, even after dozens and dozens of years, will I remember him?”
“I’ll help you remember, baby.”
“Because sometimes already there are little things I don’t quite remember about him. I have to think hard to remember them. But I don’t want to forget ’cause he was my daddy.”
When he was asleep, Laura went through the connecting door to her own bed. She was immensely relieved when a few minutes later Thelma came by for another girl-to-girl, because without Thelma, she would have had a few very bad hours there.
“If I had babies, Shane,” Thelma said, climbing into Laura’s bed, “do you think there’s any chance at all that they’d be allowed to live in society, or would they be banished to some ugly-kid equivalent of a leper colony?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Of course, I could afford massive plastic surgery for them. I mean, even if it turns out that their species is questionable, I could afford to have them made passably human.”
“Sometimes your put-downs of yourself make me angry.”
“Sorry. Chalk it up to not having a supportive mom and dad. I’ve got both the confidence and doubt of an orphan.” She was quiet for a moment, then laughed and said, “Hey, you know what? Jason wants to marry me. I thought at first he was possessed by a demon and unable to control his tongue, but he assures me we’ve no need of an exorcist, though he’s evidently suffered a minor stroke. So what do you think?”
“What do I think? What’s that matter? But for what it’s worth, he’s a terrific guy. You are going to grab him, aren’t you?”
“I worry that he’s too good for me.”
“No one’s too good for you. Marry him.”
“I worry that it won’t work out, and then I’ll be devastated.”
“And if you don’t give it a try,” Laura said, “you’ll be worse than devastated—you’ll be alone.”
Stefan felt the familiar, unpleasant tingle that accompanied time travel, a peculiar vibration that passed inward from his skin, through his flesh, into the marrow of his bones, then swiftly back out again from bones to flesh to skin. With a pop-whoooosh he left the gate, and in the same instant he was stumbling down a steep, snow-covered slope in the California mountains on the night of January 10, 1989.