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Iwonder what theirChristmasis like this year.Theyhave both lost so much and without each other’s love and comfort, it pains me to think how sad it must feel.Iknow the rules and expectations.Iwon’t be able to go to them, spend it with them, or try to love them through the loss.
Christmasis about family,my mom always says.Thisyear my family is in a little white farmhouse a few miles away, and it feels like torture not to be with them.
Emberis happy.ShelovesChristmas, even ifMompurposefully gets her the gifts that she prefers overEmmy’staste.
“Ilove it!”Emmyscreams as she takes the art set from the box.Shequickly puts it aside to dig out the three pads of art paperIchose for her: watercolor, pastel, andBristolboard.
Myheart warms as she flips through the blank pages with wonder.Isshe imagining the colors and designs that belong on those pages?Suddenly, she jumps up and tackle-hugs me, causing us to fall back against the sofa cushions.
“Thankyou so much,Evan!So, so much!Ilove it!”Hervoice is low conveying the depth of her gratitude.
Ihug her close to me. “You’rewelcome,Spark.”
Leaningback, she looks into my eyes. “It’sthe best gift ever.”
“Idon’t know about that,”Ichuckle.
Shetakes my face in her hands and widens her eyes. “Itis.Noone else gives me art supplies.Itmeans everything.”
“Emmy, honey, it’sEvan’sturn to open a gift.”
Idon’t acknowledge my mom, just pullEmberback into a hug. “Ialready got the giftIwanted,”ItellEmmy.
* * *
LUKE
Wedon’t have a tree or decorations.Ourhearts can’t deal withChristmasright now.Tryingto do so would only be a forced action to keep with some sort of tradition, not that we had any traditions left afterMomdied.ShemadeChristmasspecial, letting me bake with her for several days.Eachyear she gave neighbors and friends baked goods, andIloved helping her make all of it.Dadwas always grumpy about it because a man’s place is not in the kitchen.
Iroll over in my bed as a tear sneaks from the corner of my eye.I’mso thankful she taught me to cook and bake.ItmeansIcan make meals forRachel, and be here for her in some way whenIcan’t in others.
Iclose my eyes and remember the scent of cinnamon and ginger filling the house.Makinggingerbread was always my favorite.Igot to be creative with it.SometimesImade gingerbread houses, churches, or even a barn one year.Othertimes,Iused one of the many cookie cutters of various shapes and decorated them untilIhad so much sugar,Iwas sick to my stomach.
Rachelcan cook well, but she doesn’t bake much.WhileIstart to imagine teaching her one day,Ihave to push the thought from my head.Aftershe andDadwere married, things were different, not in a bad way.
Rachelis more intoChristmaslights.Shelikes four strands of lights on the tree, so it looks like a sea of stars shaped like a tree.ShehadDadstring lights along the entire driveway and out to the road.Boththe front and back porches were wrapped in colorful bulbs, so many that even in the dark, you could make out the shape of our house.
Therewere lights along the kitchen counter, in a vase in the bathroom, and last year in her car.Ibought her a set that plugs into the cigarette lighter in her car.Ismile remembering seeing her drive around the house with little red, yellow, green, and blue lights flickering and making the car look like a rave.Istill don’t know how she drove with all that shit flashing.
Iwipe my eyes.ThegiftIgot for her is under my bed.Ihaven’t even wrapped it.Ourhouse is dark this year, and without a tree,Ididn’t know where to put her gift, even ifIdid wrap it.
Thesoft knock on my door has me drying my eyes with the edge of the sheet. “Comein.”
Thedoor creaks asRachelslowly opens the door.Shestands there with her arms wrapped tightly around her body.Ican see the wet streaks on her cheeks, and it cuts like a knife.Timeslike this,Ihate myself for ending things, for shutting her andEvanout, for lying daily about how muchIactually need them both.
Iscoot back toward the wall and raise the covers, inviting her to join me.Ittakes her a minute before she finally steps inside and closes the door.Whenshe slides in next to me, my body feels the warmthI’vebeen craving.Sinceher back is to me,Istay silent and tuck the covers over her shoulder.
“Mmmm, so warm,” she whispers.
Ismile at her words and comb my fingers through her hair so that it drapes over her neck. “Iwas keeping it warm for you.”
Weboth know it’s a lie.Shehasn’t slept in my bed since before my birthday.Anyother time,Iprobably wouldn’t even have responded to the knock on my door, but it’sChristmas.We’rehurting and alone enough as it is.Atleast we can not be alone in our separate rooms across the hall.
“Thankyou,” she says softly, more for allowing her inside than giving her my warm spot.
Tentatively,Iwrap my arm around her.Myhand lands on her little rounded belly.Itis shocking how firm it is.Sofar, everything about this pregnancy business has fascinated me, from the cravings to the rate at which her belly expands.Itis riveting.
Holdingher feels both comforting and awkward.Linesare hard to keep when we are this close, which is whyIstay away.Theloft is finished, except for the final check of the utilities.Ofcourse, it’s hard to get those accomplished when everyone is celebrating the holidays.WhenImove out there, this blurring of lines will be less frequent.Heavenhelp me; it has been damn near impossible to stay in my own bed at night, or not join her in the shower.Eventhe desire to hold her hand at the dinner table is a struggle to suppress.
