Kate, I've been meaning to talk to you about Christmas, it read. Mom and Dad have asked us up to their place for a few days. We didn't go last year, so I thought maybe we should. Is that okay with you? How about we leave after work on Christmas Eve and come back on the thirtieth-we don't have any other plans, do we? Love you, Cary Mom and Dad have asked us up to their place for a few days. We didn't go last year, so I thought maybe we should. Is that okay with you? How about we leave after work on Christmas Eve and come back on the thirtieth-we don't have any other plans, do we? Love you, Cary.

Six days, almost a week. My immediate reaction was to e-mail him straight back and say no. Or that he could go, but I wouldn't. The thought of being away from Luke for so long alarmed me. We'd been seeing each other every three days, two when we could manage it, and talking at least twice in each twenty-four-hour period. But six whole days? Yet I had no excuse. Cary knew that the museum offices closed between Christmas and New Year, that I always had leave at that time. I hadn't suggested alternative plans, and his parents were owed a visit. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. d.a.m.n. Why was I even hesitating? Luke would no doubt be spending the time with Cressida anyway. For some reason, the thought almost made me weep.

Sarah was already waiting at the restaurant when I got there, a bottle of champagne chilling on the table.

"What are we celebrating?" I asked, sliding into my seat.

"Nothing in particular. I just thought that seeing as it was the festive season ... Why-is there anything we should be celebrating?"

"Not as far as I'm concerned. Maybe making it through another year."

"Don't be like that. There must be something you want to toast. Your job? Cary? Having children? Not having children?"

I smiled, feeling my defenses wane. "Why are you so upbeat?" I asked.

"Rick's home with the kids and I can stay out as long as I want. Plus I finished all the shopping today."

"More Barbies?"

"More Barbies." She nodded. "More designer outfits, more little shoes to get sucked up by the vacuum or caught between Tyson's paws. But if that's what she wants ..."

We raised our gla.s.ses, briefly touching them together.

"To Barbie," I said facetiously.

"To us," Sarah responded firmly. "To friendships that last through everything. To you and me."

So I told her. I hadn't planned to, knew she wouldn't approve, but after her toast I felt compelled to reveal all. Maybe I was testing her words. I knew how highly Sarah regarded Cary and valued fidelity. Would she still be my friend when she found out I'd betrayed both? Maybe, too, I just wanted to talk. To say my lover's name, acknowledge his role in my life, make him as real to Sarah as her own children.

Predictably she was shocked, but surprisingly nonjudgmental.

"Oh," she said after I'd finished, the champagne going flat on the table between us. "I guess it's too late for warnings then?"

I nodded. She sighed.

"G.o.d, Kate, I just want you to be happy; you know that. And if he's what makes you happy, well, I can live with that. But what are you going to do about Cary? Where's it all heading?"

I shook my head. The future wasn't something I'd even thought about, as unantic.i.p.ated as ill health. Why should I, when the present was so delicious?

"I love Cary. I really do. I've told you that before, and I mean it. I'd never want to hurt him."

"Well, you're going to, whether you like it or not. Don't you think he'll find out? Or do you imagine you can just keep on switching between the two of them, flitting from one to the other with everyone being happy?"

Actually, the idea had some appeal. Already I couldn't imagine giving Luke up, but the same was true for Cary. Luke was fireworks and flattery, desire, intrigue and elation. Cary was my past and my home and the warm body next to mine as I slept. I was having no difficulty moving between the two of them s.e.xually, and saw no reason why I couldn't do so emotionally either. They were poles apart, opposite but complementary.

I tried to explain this to Sarah, but she wasn't convinced.

"Do you think about Luke when you're with Cary?" she asked.

"Not in bed, if that's what you mean. But sometimes, I suppose. When I'm cooking dinner or we're watching TV."

"Uh-huh. And do you think about Cary when you're with Luke?"

I blushed, the color admitting the answer.

"There you go," she said quietly. "And you think no one's going to get hurt."

"Cary won't find out!" I protested. "He's away a lot at conferences lately. We're careful."

"Is that the point?" she mused. "At first it was just flirting. Then it was just a kiss; now you're just sleeping with him. Where's it all going to end? Are you going to move in with Luke? Have his his children?" children?"

"You're being ridiculous!" I almost shouted. "Nothing's going to change! It's just an affair."

"Yeah, but you always said you'd never have one of those. Swore, in fact, before a church full of friends and relatives and G.o.d. And?"

I couldn't answer. Something hot pushed at my eyelids.

"Look, Kate," Sarah said, reaching across the table to take my hand. "Whatever you do is okay by me; it really is. I'll always be your friend, and vice versa, I hope. I just want you to think about where it's going. Can you do that?"

I nodded as a waiter set down our meals. Steam curled from a plate of pasta I'd ordered hungrily twenty minutes ago, but my appet.i.te had fled. Where was this going? I couldn't even begin to guess.

TIM.

For the first time I understood why they called it the festive season. It wasn't that I'd ever disliked Christmas, but I hadn't experienced it like this. With a partner, that is: someone who made it personal, made it matter. I did my shopping well ahead of time, tapped my feet to carols in elevators, found the lunchtime crowds exciting and colorful rather than a nuisance. For weeks I deliberated over Joan's present, trying to decide what would best provoke her sharp smile as she unwrapped it, imagining the scene and enjoying the indecision. Jewelry? We'd been going out for only a month, yet I wanted her to know I was serious. Or if that was too much, maybe perfume? Lingerie? I ventured into one such store, all lace and static cling, but the range overwhelmed me. Camisoles, teddies, basques. Who knew what was appropriate? Such things were Luke's territory, and I hadn't brought him with me.

Actually, I hadn't seen much of Luke lately. There'd been the night I met Joan at the hospital trivia compet.i.tion, then dinner a few weeks later. I'd wanted to introduce her properly to Cressida and Luke, to revel in the novelty of a double date instead of always being the spare tire to their cozy twosome. But the evening wasn't a success. Cressida appeared distracted, fatigued, her mind elsewhere. She later apologized, claiming worry over a patient with leukemia, but I wondered if it was something else. Joan was Kate's friend, at least originally, though they didn't seem close now. Was Cress made uncomfortable by this reminder of her husband's indiscretion? I hoped not-that kiss was months ago, the incident surely blown over by now. Nonetheless, I never suggested to Joan that we go out with Kate and Cary. I missed their company, but I knew where my loyalties lay.

Afterward, I asked Joan if she'd enjoyed the evening.

"They're a striking couple, aren't they?" she said. "I'm amazed you've stayed friends with them."

"What do you mean?" I inquired, gazing in the rearview mirror as I negotiated the ubiquitous pillars in the multistory parking deck.

"Well, it's just that people who look like that are out of my experience. And league."

"But they were nice enough, weren't they?" I replied, nonplussed. Luke's looks had ceased being an issue for me long ago.

"I guess," she conceded, then was quiet. Experience told me that she was thinking, and not to interrupt.

"I suppose I'm surprised," she confessed after a minute. "Quite frankly, we're average, and they're not. Didn't that ever bother you? Didn't you ever hate him for it at school?"

"Hate him?" I was surprised. It all seemed so long ago. "I don't think so. Not once we were friends, anyway."

"Once you were friends?" she emphasized triumphantly. Before us a line of cars waited their turn to pay, brake lights tapping on and off impatiently as tickets were located, change was counted. "So before that you didn't like him?" you were friends?" she emphasized triumphantly. Before us a line of cars waited their turn to pay, brake lights tapping on and off impatiently as tickets were located, change was counted. "So before that you didn't like him?"

"We met on our first day of school when we were made to sit together. There wasn't really time to feel anything except hope that I wasn't going to get beaten up."

Joan persisted. "And even when he was your friend, did you think it would last? Didn't you a.s.sume he'd just move on to someone else once he didn't have to sit next to you anymore?"

I sighed. Maybe I had once thought that about Luke, but it felt like a betrayal to say that to Joan.

"What's your point? Did you like them or not?" The words were sharper than I intended, though that seemed to work with her.

"I did. I thought they were nice. And they obviously care about you, which is the main thing."

"But?" I prompted, knowing one was coming.

"I don't know. I'm being silly. But I guess I just couldn't trust a man who looked like him-so attractive to women that he's bound to exploit it occasionally. I'm glad you're not like that," she finished without guile.

"Thanks a lot. But what about Cressida? You thought she was beautiful too. Does that mean she's also under suspicion?"

"How would I know?" Joan smiled as we finally made our way out of the building, into the clean night air. "She's a woman. What do I know about them?"

In the end I chose jewelry. A small gold cross on a necklace so fine it was almost invisible. Joan wasn't religious as far as I knew, but still I was sure it would appeal to her: meaningful, discreet, tasteful without being trendy. In return she bought me a novel and appeared unconcerned by the discrepancy. That was fine by me-I had worried she'd chastise me for spending so much. Instead her keen eyes simply widened as she opened the gift, saw the sky-blue box, caught the glint of the object inside.

"Put it on me," she instructed, sweeping aside her heavy hair and presenting me with her pale and freckled nape. The small dots seemed to blink in the unaccustomed sunlight. On a whim I bent to kiss the marbled skin, surprisingly warm beneath my lips. Joan giggled, an unfamiliar sound.

"Hey, do as you're told!" she protested, yet didn't move away. I drew her around to face me, then not for the first time kissed her self-sufficient mouth, feeling it relax into surrender, the gold cross still winking in its box. Joy to the world! Goodwill to all men!

CRESSIDA.

Emma went downhill all through December, withdrawing a little further from us each day. We tested each of her relatives but none matched; none even came close. Next we tried the bone-marrow registry, but there was no joy there either, at least within Australia. I completed the paperwork for the larger international registries and sent it off with Emma's condition listed as critical. After that all we could do was wait. Such a search usually takes between six and twelve months, but Emma didn't have that kind of time. What sort of G.o.d makes us so unique it can kill us? Couldn't there have been more margin for error?

A third round of chemotherapy brought a temporary remission, though only a short one. As Emma faded so did her parents, their faces growing more pallid with each pa.s.sing day. The nurses moved her into a bigger room and placed a mattress on the floor so her mother could remain with the girl around the clock. But I never saw her sleep, no matter what the shift. Instead, she was invariably bending over her daughter, whispering to her or smoothing her hair, Shura clinging to her legs or tangled in a fitful doze beneath the bed. The father visited whenever he could, his workdays growing shorter as Emma declined. Toward the end he gave it up altogether and moved into the ward with the rest of his family. Each day, as soon as I got to the hospital, I'd open letters and check my e-mail, praying that a donor had been found. Then I'd make my way to Emma's room, where their waiting faces would turn to me like plants following the sunshine, desperate for the news that never came. Hope slowly leached out of their eyes and was replaced by fear.

When I was little I looked forward to Christmas all year long. It wasn't even the presents, but the novelty of my father being home for a full day, not just popping in for an hour or two between rounds and his own private practice. Since becoming a doctor myself, though, I've found the occasion depressing. I've worked too many shifts on Christmas Day, where the only thing that distinguishes it from any other is cold turkey and a paper hat in the hospital cafeteria. I've witnessed too much grief exacerbated by the supposed joy of the season, seen too many children lying inert and stuffed with tubes when they should have been unwrapping gifts or tying tea towels around their heads for the end-of-year nativity play.

My premonition was right, though it took three years to come true. Emma pa.s.sed away in the early hours of Christmas Eve, not even having the strength to hold on for the visit from Santa she'd been so antic.i.p.ating. I wasn't there at the time, though the staff nurse called me at home. For the first time ever I'd been granted leave, five whole days to spend with Luke and our families. I'd planned to sleep in, but when I glanced at the clock it wasn't even six.

"That was the hospital," I told Luke, returning briefly to our bed for warmth after taking the call.

"I figured," he grumbled, turning over as I tried to burrow into his arms.

"Emma died. The one I told you about, with ALL." My voice cracked as I spoke, tears spilling down my face, seeping into my ears like slugs. "I'll have to go in."

"G.o.d, Cress, you're meant to be on leave," said Luke, extending an arm in a belligerent approximation of comfort.

"I know, but she was my patient. I should be there for the parents, at least." The bed felt chilly, and I shrugged off the covers and got up.

Luke settled back to sleep, with one final comment: "Well, at least it happened today. There's no way I would have let you leave on Christmas morning."

I slammed the door on my way out of the house.

The words irritated me for the rest of the day. Forget it Forget it, a part of me said; he was half-asleep, disoriented; he didn't know what he was saying. And if he did he was just worried about you working too much, wanting you to be able to enjoy a rare holiday without something like this he was half-asleep, disoriented; he didn't know what he was saying. And if he did he was just worried about you working too much, wanting you to be able to enjoy a rare holiday without something like this. Such reasoning worked for a while, but then I'd get angry again. He didn't give a d.a.m.n that she died, only that it was inconvenient. He didn't understand how deeply I was feeling this grief.

But why was was it affecting me so much? I'd had patients die before, scores of them, children just as appealing and brave and deserving of life. I'd shed tears for some, but never like this. All that Christmas Eve whenever I wasn't angry I was crying. I cried with Emma's parents and with poor dazed Shura and with the nurses who had cared for the girl. I cried as I made my last entry in her history and completed the death certificate, then cried some more in a locked toilet in the staff bathroom. Emma had been my first patient in the oncology unit, the first time I'd experienced my strange second sight, the first child whom I had admitted already knowing whether she'd live or die. Even so, my reaction felt out of proportion. Was it because I'd dared to hope, discharged her three years ago with everything pointing to a full recovery? Or was I just worn-out after becoming entangled in her long, slow fall toward death? it affecting me so much? I'd had patients die before, scores of them, children just as appealing and brave and deserving of life. I'd shed tears for some, but never like this. All that Christmas Eve whenever I wasn't angry I was crying. I cried with Emma's parents and with poor dazed Shura and with the nurses who had cared for the girl. I cried as I made my last entry in her history and completed the death certificate, then cried some more in a locked toilet in the staff bathroom. Emma had been my first patient in the oncology unit, the first time I'd experienced my strange second sight, the first child whom I had admitted already knowing whether she'd live or die. Even so, my reaction felt out of proportion. Was it because I'd dared to hope, discharged her three years ago with everything pointing to a full recovery? Or was I just worn-out after becoming entangled in her long, slow fall toward death?

I b.u.mped into a consultant as I emerged from the bathroom, red-eyed and sniffing. It was Dr. Whyte, the one who had agreed to let me take Emma on when she'd relapsed and returned to the unit only three short months ago.

"Oh, Cressida," he said, ignoring my disheveled state, "I've been meaning to speak to you. Do you have a minute?"

He must have heard about Emma, though that wasn't what he wanted to discuss. I was ushered into his tiny office, textbooks concealing three of the four walls, diplomas papering the last.

"I've got something I thought you might be interested in," he said, scrabbling among a drift of papers on his desk, then transferring the search to an adjacent filing cabinet. Finally the doc.u.ment was located.

"Here we go. The Stevenson Fellowships." He read from a dog-eared brochure. "'For research and study in the United States. Funded for two years in the applicant's choice of field. Recognizing clinical excellence,' et cetera, et cetera, and so on." He looked up to make sure I was listening. "The department thought we might nominate you, if you were interested. We'd hold your post here, of course."

I didn't respond. I'd thought about working overseas before-anyone who was serious about her career did. The best jobs, the longest tenures, inevitably went to those who had proved their worth in the wider world, far from the academic bell jar of Australia. But I'd always put off such a decision, comfortable where I was, unwilling to disturb my life. Dr. Whyte took my silence for reluctance.

"They're very prestigious, you know," he advised. "Something like that on your resume would take you a long way. Of course, there's no guarantee you'd be successful, but we thought you were our best shot."

He smiled and I felt my own mouth lift for the first time that day. Suddenly the idea appealed. What was I so afraid of leaving? Luke and I were married. He'd come with me, find it easy enough to get a job in the country that practically invented advertising. Maybe his own firm could relocate him? I was sure they had offices somewhere in the States. My mind raced. It might do us good to start afresh with just each other.

"Anyway, have a think about it," Dr. Whyte was saying. "Applications close in May, so there's plenty of time yet. But you do need to come up with a proposal, some sort of research project that will convince them to spend the money on you. We can meet again in January and talk about it."

I took the brochure and shook his hand, then left the hospital. Outside it was nearly Christmas.

CARY.

Kate insisted on staying for drinks at her work on Christmas Eve, so we didn't get away until late. I don't really know why she was so keen. It was a long drive to where my parents lived and we'd already attended her department's Christmas dinner only a few days before, but I figured the extra time would give me a chance to pack the car, water the plants, install the timer switches-tasks that were unlikely to have even crossed Kate's mind.

When I got to the museum at our prearranged meeting time of eight o'clock Kate was waiting on the steps, more than a few sheets to the wind. The former surprised me; the latter didn't. I'd half suspected I'd have to go in there myself and coax her out, but she climbed into the car readily enough. I leaned across to kiss her, her lips still tasting of wine.

"Did you have a good time? Do you want anything to eat? I made some sandwiches; they're on the backseat. Just Vegemite-I didn't want to leave anything in the fridge that might go off."

"Cary, we're only going away for a week," she replied with mild exasperation, eyes closing as she settled back into the seat. "And I'm not hungry. Not for sandwiches. How about some McDonald's? A hamburger, or some french fries, just cooked and dripping with oil."

I grimaced. "Not in my car. We'll smell it for days. And we're already late enough. I'll stop in Ballarat if you're still craving junk food then."

Kate didn't answer. She'd fallen asleep.

Years ago, the drive from home to town had seemed to take forever, a daylong odyssey of golden paddocks and solitary gum trees cycling endlessly like the background in a TV cartoon. We lived just outside Horsham in the Wimmera, a wheat-growing district three or four hours north of the city. Age and new highways had condensed the journey. I'd learned there were more distant places, though it never seemed so when I was growing up. Back then, Melbourne was another country, as foreign and exotic as Paris.

Now I was going back for perhaps only the fifth or sixth time in the two decades since I'd left. There had never really been much of a need. Mom and Dad visited Melbourne frequently, and there was no one from school whom I'd stayed in contact with. Usually, when I thought of the area it was with a wash of ennui, of hours just aching to be filled, long, hot afternoons with no company save the heat waves crackling over the endless fields of wheat.

But as the car moved beyond the suburbs, then through the bigger country towns, I felt the stirrings of excitement. We slipped through Ballarat, then tiny Beaufort, the halfway point, and on past Stawell. The Grampians flickered briefly to my left, bulky as a liner against the undulating oceans of grain. Bogong moths as big as finches fluttered against the windshield, and every so often my headlights picked out the eyes of some night creature crouching amid the stringy trees on the edge of the road. Kate slumbered on, her head against the window, face flushed and childlike. Seeing her like that I felt protective, almost paternal, and very much in love. Things had shifted subtly between us in the last month, but there were lots of reasons for that: the time of year, my being away at conferences, her own increased workload. Then, too, there had been the question of children. To be honest, I had dreamed about crowning Christmas Day by telling my parents that Kate was expecting, knowing that they were antic.i.p.ating such an event almost as keenly as I was. It hadn't happened yet, but I had reason to hope. Just last week I had arrived home early and come across Kate in the bathroom, sobbing her eyes out. When I asked her what the matter was she had hesitated, then hidden her face in her hands and hiccuped that it was that time of the month. I'd consoled her, of course, but secretly I was elated. If she cared that much she must want it too.

Kate finally stirred as we inched through Horsham, deserted by all except the most determined revelers. It was five to twelve; we'd made good time.

"Hey," she said stretching. "You never stopped at McDonald's."

The smile that followed was provocative and cheeky and mine. I felt my heart contract in grat.i.tude, and suddenly realized what I'd been looking forward to through all the miles behind us. Not going home so much as going there with Kate. Time just for us, with no distractions-time we'd been sorely lacking in the last six months. Time to spend with Kate and Mom and Dad, the only people in the world I loved. I felt my foot go down on the accelerator. Beside me, Kate hummed a carol and threw an arm around my shoulders even though I was driving.