Comfort and Joy Page 6

  A tug of loss and longing. I can’t help remembering how it used to be between me and Stacey at this magical time of year. Like the time she gave me the Holly Hobbie doll Santa had given her, just because I wanted it more. And there was the hellacious camping trip when we were little. Mom had been in full headband-wearing, tie-dyed T-shirt glory in those days. Singing and smoking and drinking through seven desert states. Stacey’s sense of humor had kept me sane.

  Now she’ll be having Christmas morning without me. That’s never happened before, not in the whole of our lives. I believe in reconciliation for Daniel and Bobby, but what about for me and Stacey?

  “Why are you crying?”

  I wipe my eyes and shrug. How can I possibly fold all that longing into something as small as words?

  We pause for a moment, taking strength from each other, then we get to work. I decide to let him choose and place all the ornaments and lights. It’s his tree, after all; my job is encouragement and understanding.

  He goes to the box. Choosing takes a long time. Finally, he reaches down and finds an ornament. It is an intricately painted globe that reflects the rainforest. He shows it to me. “My mommy made this one.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  He puts the ornament on the tree, then returns to the box. For the next hour he moves in a ceaseless, circular pattern, from the box to the tree and back again. At each ornament, he says something, gives me some piece of himself.

  Finally, he comes to the last ornament in the box. “This was her favorite. I made it in day care.”

  He hands it to me. I take it gently, mindful of the fragility of both its structure and sentiment. It is a macaroni and ribbon frame, painted silver. Inside is a photograph of Bobby and a beautiful dark-haired woman with sad eyes.

  “That’s her,” he says.

  Below the picture someone has written: Bobby and Maggie/2001.

  “She’s lovely,” I say because there’s nothing else. I wish he’d turn to me, let me hug him, but he stands stiffly beside me. Pushing the hair from his eyes, I let my hand linger on his warm cheek. “It’ll get better, Bobby. I promise.”

  He nods, sniffs. I know he’s heard those words before and doesn’t believe them.

  “She drove into a tree at night,” he says. “It was raining. The day after Halloween.”

  So recently. No wonder he and Daniel are so wounded.

  I wish I had something to say that would comfort him, but I’ve lost a parent. I know that only time will help him.

  “I didn’t say good-bye,” he says. “I was mad ’cause she made me turn off X-Men.”

  My heart twists at that. Regret, I know, is a powerful remainder; it can bring the strongest man to his knees. One small boy is no match for it at all. No wonder he “sees” his mom.

  He looks at me through watery eyes. Tears spike his lashes. The ugly purple bruise reminds me how broken he is on the inside. “I told her I hated her.”

  “She knows you were just mad.”

  “You won’t leave me, will you?” he asks quietly.

  For the first time I glimpse the danger I’ve walked in to. I’m a woman running away from trouble; that’s hardly what this boy needs.

  The silence between us seems to thicken; in it, I hear the distant sound of water slapping against the dock and the clock ticking. I can hear Bobby’s sigh, too, as quiet as a bedtime kiss.

  “I’m here for you now,” I say at last.

  He hears the word that matters: now.

  “Bobby . . .”

  “I get it. People leave.” He turns away from me and stares at the Christmas tree. For both of us, I think, some of today’s shine has been tarnished now.

  People leave.

  At eight, he already knows this sad truth.

  The Christmas tree takes up the entire corner of the lobby, between the fireplace and the windows. Dozens of ornaments adorn the scrawny limbs; there are so many the tree looks full and lush, even though they are oddly placed. It is, in every way, a tree decorated by a young boy. On the rough-hewn wooden mantel is a thick layer of white felt covered with glitter. Dozens of miniature houses and storefronts dot the “snow.” Tiny street lamps and horse-drawn carriages and velvet-clad carolers line the imaginary streets. Bobby’s favorite Christmas album—the Charlie Brown soundtrack—is playing on the stereo. Music floats through the speakers and drifts down the hallway.

  He looks toward the window. “Is he coming?”

  It is the fifth time he’s asked me this question in five minutes. We are both nervous. An hour ago, it seemed like a good idea to decorate the house. Now, I’m not so sure. It seems . . . arrogant on my part, like the actions of a flighty relative who means to help and causes harm.

  Last night, as I lay in my bed, spinning dreams of today to fight the nightmares of my real life, I imagined Daniel happy with my choice.

  Now I see the naïveté of that.

  He will be angry; I’m more and more certain of it. He won’t want to be reminded of the past, or of his own carelessness with his son’s holiday. He’ll see me as an interloper, a problem-causer.

  Bobby sits on the hearth, then stands. He goes to the window again. “How long has it been?”

  “About thirty seconds.”

  “D’you think he’ll be mad?”

  “No,” I say after too long a pause to be credible. Both of us hear my uncertainty. Bobby, who has been talking to a ghost for two months, seems attuned to the tiniest nuance of sound.

  “He used to love Christmas. He said it was the best day of the year.” He pauses. “Then Mommy and me moved out here and they got divorced.” He goes to the window, stares out.

  I can see his watery reflection in the window.

  “He kept telling Mommy he was gonna visit me but he never did.”

  I have no idea what to say to that. I remember the day my own father left. I was just about Bobby’s age, and I spent more than a decade waiting for a reunion that never came. My mom tried to ease my hurt with reassurances, but words fall short when you’re listening for a knock at the door. Bobby knows about silence, how it leaves a mark on you. Then again, I know about divorce, too. It’s possible that Bobby doesn’t have the whole story. It’s never one person’s fault. The thought shocks me. It’s the first time I’ve admitted it to myself. “The thing is,” I say slowly, “he’s here now. Maybe you should give him a chance.”

  Bobby doesn’t answer.

  Outside, a bright sun pushes through the clouds. The lake looks like a sheet of fiery glass.

  “Here he comes!” Bobby runs to me, stands close.

  The door opens.

  Daniel walks into the lodge. He’s wearing a pair of insulated coveralls, unzipped to the waist. Dirty gloves hang from his back pocket. His black hair is a messy, curly mass; his green eyes look tired. “Hey, there,” he says to us without smiling. He’s halfway to the registration desk when he stops and turns toward the tree. “What have you done, boyo?”

  I feel myself tensing up. It would be so easy for him to say the wrong thing now . . .

  “We done it. Joy and me.”

  “Joy? Our house is her business now, is it?” he says quietly as he walks over to the tree.

  Bobby glances worriedly at me.

  We shouldn’t have done it—I shouldn’t have done it. That truth is bright and shiny now. I know nothing about them, not really. Sometimes memories hurt too much to be put on display. I am the grown-up here, the one who should have known better. I have to soften it for Bobby. “Daniel,” I say, taking a step forward. “Surely . . .”

  “You used all her favorite ornaments,” Daniel says, slowly touching a white angel ornament.

  “You bought her that one,” Bobby says. “Remember? At the farmer’s market by Nana and Papa’s house.”

  Slowly, Daniel turns to face us. He looks still and stiff, like a man chiseled from granite. I wonder how he can bear it, the distance from his son. “Where’s the star?” he asks at last.

  Bo
bby glances at me. “It’s on the table. We couldn’t reach the top.”

  Daniel reaches down for the hammered tin star on the table. He is about to place it on the top of the tree; then he stops and turns to Bobby. “Maybe you and I can do it together?”

  I hear the uncertainty in Daniel’s voice, the fear that his son won’t comply, and it reminds me how fragile we all are, how easily we can wound one another, especially when love is involved.

  Stacey.

  I close my eyes for just a second, awash in regret. When I open my eyes, Bobby is moving toward his father. The sight of them coming together makes me smile.

  Daniel scoops Bobby into his arms and stands up. Daniel hands his son the star, and Bobby puts it on the tree.

  They step back, admiring their work.

  “It’s grand,” Daniel says. I hear a thickness in his voice.

  “Tell Joy, Dad. It was her idea.”

  “I’m sure she knows I appreciate it.”

  “No. Tell her. She’s right there.”

  Slowly, they turn to face me.

  When Daniel looks at me, there’s no mistaking the sheen in his green eyes. I can tell that he is a man who loves his son fiercely, maybe more than he knows how to bear. In that moment I forgive all his rudeness. Lord knows I understand how grief and love can break you. “Thank you, Joy.”

  “You could talk to her, Daddy. She’s nice.”

  “I’ve not talked to women well in a long time. It doesn’t come so easily anymore.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, feeling oddly connected to him. We are survivors of divorce, both of us; victims of a common war. Though I’ve been divorced for months, I hardly feel single. I feel . . . halved, or broken perhaps, and Daniel is right: conversation no longer comes as easily as it once did.

  That’s all it takes—the word, divorce—and I’m plunged back into reality. Suddenly I’m thinking of Stacey and Thom, of who we all used to be, then I’m thinking of the tree strapped to my Volvo, dying in the blackness of long-term parking.

  “Joy, are you okay?”

  Bobby’s voice pulls me back. I smile at him, hoping it looks real. “I’m fine.”

  “Of course she’s okay,” Daniel says, “it’s Christmastime. And now, as much as I’d love to chat with you and Joy, it’s time for your doctor’s appointment.”

  “Aw, nuts,” Bobby whines. “I don’t wanna go.”

  “I know, boyo.”

  “Can Joy come? Please?” he pleads, looking from his father to me. “I’m scared.”

  “But I’ll be with you, Bobby,” he says.

  “I need Joy.”

  I see how hurt Daniel is by that.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say, studying Daniel’s profile.

  “Pleeease, Joy?” Bobby whines. Tears glaze his eyes.

  I can’t disappoint him. “Okay, but I’ll stay in the waiting room.”

  Bobby wiggles out of his dad’s arms and slides to the floor. “I gotta get Freddy.”

  As Bobby runs up the stairs, I stand there, staring at Daniel, who is looking now at the Christmas tree with an unvarnished sadness. I can see how much it has wounded him, this decorating of ours, and perhaps, his absence from it. I should say something, do something, but any word from me will be an intrusion.

  And then my chance is gone. Daniel is moving past me, going up the stairs. Fifteen minutes later, he is back in the lobby, dressed in worn jeans and a forest green sweater. We leave the lodge and head for the truck. Bobby opens the door and climbs up into the cab, settling into the middle section of the bench seat. He is clutching a battered, well-loved stuffed lamb. I slide into place beside him. Daniel shuts the door and goes around to the driver’s side.

  The drive to town takes no time at all, but even in the mile and a half or so between there and here, I am blown away by the beauty of this place. Giant evergreen trees grow everywhere—along the roadsides, in great, dark forests that block the path to the snow-covered mountains in the distance.

  “It’s beautiful out here,” I say, seeing the ghostly image of my own face in the window glass; behind it, all around me, are the green and black blur of the trees we pass.

  The town is exactly as I remember it: a few blocks of quaint storefronts, draped in holiday garb. Traffic is stopped here by signs and pedestrians; there are no traffic lights. On this bright blue afternoon the sidewalks are busy. Everywhere I look, pods of people are gathered to talk. It looks like a Hallmark card until we turn a corner.

  Here, the street is overrun with people and vans.

  “Damn it,” Daniel says, slamming on the brakes. “This is getting old.”

  I am just about to ask what’s going on when I see the letters painted on the side of the van beside me.

  KING TV.

  It’s the media.

  The crash.

  Of course. I turn my face away from the window instinctively. I know they aren’t looking for me—can’t be—but, it’s better to be safe than sorry. Still, I catch a glimpse of the police station and the crowd clamoring at the door.

  Daniel turns onto another road and we are in the clear. He maneuvers the old truck into a parking spot and kills the engine, which slowly sputters and dies.

  In the silence that follows, Bobby looks up at his dad. “How come I gotta see the doctor again?”

  Daniel unhooks Bobby’s seat belt. “You’ve had some hard knocks, boyo. Anyone would be sad after losing their mum.”

  Bobby sighs and crosses his arms. There’s a wealth of emotion in the sound. “But not everyone talks to her ghost.”

  Daniel sighs. “I’m tryin’ to help, Bobby.”

  “It would help if you believed me,” Bobby says. Slithering out of the cab, he runs on ahead.

  I walk across the parking lot with Daniel. We are so close our arms are nearly touching, but neither of us pulls away. For a moment, as we enter the building, I imagine we’re a family, the three of us, here for Bobby’s regular checkup. If it were true, I’d follow them down the hallway and turn into the doctor’s office. I’d answer all the doctor’s questions about my son’s health. No doubt the three of us would go for ice-cream cones when it was over.

  Instead, I go to the waiting room and sit down, alone. At some point, while I’m staring out the window at a rhododendron the size of a luxury car, a nurse comes up to me. She puts a hand on my shoulder and peers down at me.

  The touch startles me. I hadn’t even heard her approach.

  “How are we today?” she asks.

  I frown. Had I fallen asleep? Had some kind of nightmare? I don’t think so. I was staring out the window, thinking about the big green leaves on the rhododendron; that’s all. I open my mouth to say “I’m fine, thanks,” but what comes out is, “I’m alone.”

  The nurse with the plump, apple cheeks smiles sadly. “You’re not alone.”

  It makes me feel better, that assurance, but when she leaves, I am alone again. Waiting.

  For the first time since I ran away from Bakersfield and the crash, I wonder what it is I’m waiting for.

  SIX

  After the doctor’s appointment, as we’re heading across the parking lot, Daniel says, “I could go for some ice cream right about now. How about you?”

  “Yippee!” Bobby squeals, bouncing with each step.

  “Ice cream sounds good,” I say, trying not to smile. It is the first time I’ve felt welcomed by Daniel, included.

  Beyond the parking lot is a lovely tree-lined street with small, well-tended houses on either side. The yards are full of color, even on this chilly December day—bright green grass, yellow bushes, blue-green kale in terra cotta pots. Ornamental cherry trees line the sidewalk, and though the limbs are bare now, it’s easy to imagine them awash in pink blossoms. Come spring, this street must look like a parade route with the air full of floating pink confetti.

  As we reach the corner, we merge into the crowd out Christmas shopping on this sunny day. All around us, people are talking to one
another. Every person we pass calls out a greeting to Daniel and Bobby.

  We duck into a cute little ice-cream shop that proudly offers seven flavors. Behind the counter, a television is playing. On it, Jimmy Stewart is running down the snowy streets of Bedford Falls. The girl serving ice cream—a pretty teenager with a pierced nose and jet black hair—smiles at us. “Hey, Bobby. You want your regular?”

  Bobby grins. “You bet. Double scoop.”

  The girl looks at Daniel. Her blush and stammer reminds me how good-looking he is. Even a teenage girl notices. “I’ll have a pralines and cream,” he says in that velvet brogue that makes the girl smile.

  I am just about to order a single scoop of cookie dough ice cream on a sugar cone when a picture of a crashed plane fills the television. On-screen, a local broadcaster is standing in front of the charred wreckage, saying, “ . . . plane crashed in the woods northeast of here. Survivors have been airlifted to several local hospitals for treatment. Authorities are in the process of identifying survivors and contacting family members. All of the named passengers on the manifest have been accounted for.”

  Thank God. Everyone survived.

  “However, witnesses report that an unidentified woman bought a last-minute ticket on the flight . . .”

  Panic seizes hold of me. They’re trying to find me. Without thinking, I mumble, “excuse me,” and push past Daniel and Bobby. I can’t get out of here fast enough.

  Outside, I collapse onto a park bench and lean back. My heart is beating a mile a minute.

  I look up just in time to see Daniel and Bobby come out of the ice-cream shop. Both are frowning.

  “Are you okay?” Bobby asks me.

  I can see it in his eyes, the fear and worry. He is a boy who knows how life can turn on a dime, how people can be there one day and gone the next.

  “I’m fine,” I say, but I’m not. I’m not even in fine’s neighborhood.

  They’re searching for me.

  What do I do now? How much longer do I have in anonymity?