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“I love you too, Ben.”
The holiday decorations on Cardinal Street are cheerful to look at and I’m reminded of my gratitude for all the seasons that Camden has given to me and all the countless ones still to come. And yet there is always an added pang this time of year. I tend to think of my father more during the holidays.
Six months ago a remote section of the Marshlands was drained. This led to the shocking discovery of two sets of human remains. Forensic analysis concluded they were victims of foul play and they were identified as the two married activists who disappeared years ago. Camden wound up being commissioned to write a couple of articles on the unsolved crime. There’s been endless speculation about the possibility of the link between the murdered couple and the now defunct Drexler Group. But nothing can be done about it. There’s no one left to pay for the crime.
Angus died in a gas explosion at a friend’s house the day I graduated from high school. The following year an embezzlement scheme rocked the foundations of the Drexler Group and Uncle Gannon took a nap in a garage filled with carbon monoxide rather than face the consequences. The Drexler Group was dissolved and Grey became the only member of the family left. The last I heard he was trying to get a realtor’s license but I don’t really keep track.
Now, as I make the final turn onto my wife’s childhood street, I remind myself to light an extra candle tomorrow night, in the hopes that the families of the murdered couple will find peace. That’s all any of us can do; search for a way to recover from the traumas that haunt us and seize the opportunity to heal when it arises.
While I set the truck in park in front of Camden’s old house I notice she’s waving at someone. Bridget Spinelli is putting up Christmas decorations in the front yard two houses away. At her side is a little boy all bundled up against the cold and he waves back. Bridget sets a string of lights on the ground and rests a gloved hand on the kid’s shoulder as she joins in with his enthusiastic waving. Bridget and Dez aren’t together anymore but do share custody of their child, who strongly resembles his father. Camden has mentioned that Bridget works at Imogen’s Diner now. She always brings gifts for Bridget’s son when she comes to visit.
We’ll have to save additional greetings for later because Camden’s parents must have been watching for the truck and are already spilling out the door. Adela remains healthy, in remission, and she folds each of us into the warmest of hugs. Adela keeps her arm around Camden and guides her into the house while Bill insists on helping me with the luggage and the giant shopping bags filled with wrapped gifts. The night before I married his daughter he pulled me aside and told me that even though he can never replace the father I lost, he thinks of me as a son and will always be just a phone call away.
This is why I feel comfortable saying the words, “Thanks, Dad,” when he grabs big armfuls of packages out of the truck and carries them to the house.
Camden and Adela are admiring the Christmas tree and Adela hands Camden the special angel ornament that Camden delights in hanging on the tree every year. Every corner of the living room has been made festive and the smell of freshly baked gingerbread drifts from the kitchen.
After I set everything down I stand behind my wife and wrap my arms around her. She settles into me and moves my hands to her belly, which is just beginning to feel slightly rounded. I’m hoping for a girl. The world would be beyond lucky to receive another version of Camden Galway Beltran.
She turns and lifts her head for a kiss and I’m reminded of that Christmas Eve when I kissed her outside her front door and was awed by my luck that she wanted to be mine.
I still feel lucky every single day.
“Merry Christmas,” I tell her and then claim yet another kiss.
