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“Oh, good. Here, I’ll turn off the movie so you can hear better.” Mom starts to get up again, but Carl and I both reach for the remote before she can stir from her chair.
Our fingers tangle on the buttons and there’s a static spark as our eyes meet. His are full of mirth and I could lose myself in them. We both freeze and it’s absurd, but that brief brush of our fingertips is more charged than a live wire. I don’t want to stop touching him.
“Bah, I can turn off the TV without help!” Mom mutters something about overprotective young men and not being an invalid. I snort, because Carl went to high school at the same time as me, and almost forty hardly feels that young to me most days. I suppose on some level I’ll always be the baby who surprised her later in life.
Carl chuckles, but he seems flustered as he averts his gaze and nudges the remote into my hand. Maybe I do feel a little young and reckless with a guy I like sitting in my mom’s living room. I reluctantly pull away from his touch and power off the movie.
“I’ll go make that coffee. Want anything Mom?”
“I’ll have some of that nice gingerbread tea, dear. I’ll be up half the night if I have coffee at this hour.”
“Coming right up.”
Carl strums a chord, and the thrum of music as he tunes his guitar follows me into the kitchen. I rush through the familiar tasks of making coffee and tea and piling one of Mom’s decorative trays with several cookies for the three of us.
It’s not long before he starts to play a song, “What Child is This.” Mom sings along. I hum under my breath as I get out the cream and some honey for Mom’s tea.
By the time I bring the tray of cookies and three full mugs into the living room, Mom and Carl have cleared a spot for our snacks. Most of her art supplies are back in their storage tote beside her chair. She still has her current project and a floppy ball of yarn in her lap.
Beside her, Carl is bent over his guitar. He seems to lose himself in the music as he transitions from the last few notes of one song and into the next. What would it be like to have time for hobbies? It’s been ages since I actually took out my camera or did anything like skating for the sheer joy of it with Carl the other night. Without saying a word, Mom and Carl are making me realize how much I miss fun for its own sake.
The enraptured look on Carl’s face as he plays almost makes me feel like I’m intruding on some sort of private communion with the music. Then he plucks out the tune for “Ding Dong Merrily on High.” Our eyes meet, and it’s like he’s inviting me to come along as the music transports him.
Carl gives me an encouraging nod, like he’s saying it doesn’t have to be pitch-perfect as long as we’re doing this together. He gives me permission to be messy and imperfect. I join in the next verse, slightly out of tune and letting it just be fun.
We sing until the barely touched coffee is cold and the cookies are nothing but crumbs. My voice feels raw, as if it might give out and I still don’t want the night to end. Carl’s rich tenor flows over me, warming me to my core. His hands on the guitar caress it as gently as a lover, coaxing beautiful music into the world. I wish I could freeze this moment. I always want to be caught in his smiling, joyful warmth.
As the final notes of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” fade, Mom stretches with a theatrical yawn.
“That was lovely, Carl. But on that note, I think it’s time for me to rest these weary old bones.”
“Good night, Miss Tina, I won’t impose.” He half-rises, reaching for his guitar case. I can’t help the pang of loss. I’m not ready for this night to be over.
As if she’s reading my mind, Mom waves Carl back to his seat. “Psh, you boys don’t need to end your evening on my account. I’ll be out like a light once I take my medications either way.”
“Do you need any help, Mom?” I rise to bring her walker closer. She takes the assistance grudgingly.
“Can I help at all? I could put these little guys away? Or on your tree?” Carl holds up one of the gnome ornaments Mom finished while we sang. He glances around the living room with a growing furrow in his brow. “Where is your tree?”
“Oh, I didn’t want to bother with one this year.” Mom shrugs it off as though it’s no big deal, but there’s something off about her nonchalance.
She doesn’t meet either of our gazes, pretending to organize yet another yarn project in the little basket of her walker. I know how much she adores decorating for the holidays, but it didn’t occur to me to get her a tree because I rarely bother to decorate. That was boneheaded of me to assume she felt the same. Of course Mom wanted a tree.
“You know, with the surgery and all, I haven’t had my usual energy to deal with decorating this year. And I’ve put too much on Nick’s plate as it is.”
She pauses to pinch my cheek affectionately as my stomach plunges. I believed her when she said she didn’t want to go to the trouble of a tree this year. Now that she’s laid it all out, I’m sick with shame at the realization she wanted one. She just didn’t want to burden me with more work.
“It’s no bother at all, Mom. I’ll pick one up tomorrow.”
“You don’t have to do that, dear. It’s a lot of work to keep it watered and tidy up after the needles that fall…”
“It only needs to last a few days at this point, Mom.” I bend to kiss her cheek. “I can handle it. You barely need any help around here anymore, it will make me feel useful.”
“Are you certain? It would be nice to have a tree up for the cookie swap on Friday.” Mom glances wistfully to the spot in front of her broad bay windows where she usually places the tree.
“Consider it done,” I promise.
Mom beams at me. “We’ll need to get the ornaments from the attic.”
