Comfort & Joy

“And will you?”

I look down into her kind gray eyes and find it surprisingly easy to smile. “I will. ”

She loops an arm through mine. Together, we walk through the quiet library and emerge into the crowded, busy hallways of the high school. All around us kids are laughing and talking and high-fiving one another.

In the parking lot, Rayla walks me to my car. There, she stops and looks up at me. “I hate to leave you alone for the holidays. Maybe Paul and I should cancel our trip to Minnesota. ”

“Don’t you dare. Enjoy your family. I’ll be fine. ”

“You and Stacey . . . ”

“Don’t,” I say sharply, and then whisper: “Please. ”

“She and Thom will break up, you’ll see. She’ll come to her senses. ”

I have lost count of the times Rayla has said this to me, and of the times I’ve said it to myself.

“Why don’t you go to one of those dream places of yours—like Machu Picchu or London?”

“Maybe I will,” I say. It’s what I always say. We both know the truth: I’m scared to go alone.

Rayla pats my hand and kisses my cheek. “Well. I’ll see you in January, Joy. ”

“Merry Christmas, Rayla. ”

“And to you. ”

I watch her walk to her car and drive away. Finally, I get into my own front seat and sit there, staring through the windshield. When I start the engine, the radio comes on. It’s an instrumental rendition of “Upon a Midnight Clear” that immediately reminds me of better times in previous years. My mom loved this song.

Rayla is right. It’s time for me to get started on Christmas. There’s no more putting it off. Smiling and pretending will not get me through the holidays. It’s time for me to embark on this new single life of mine.

The traffic out of the high school is bumper to bumper with kids yelling out the window to one another, but by the time I reach Almond Street, the road is empty.

On Fifth Street, I turn left and pull into the lot beside a Chevron station, where Scout Troop #104 has set up their yearly tree sale. On this late Friday afternoon, I can see right away that the stock is pretty depleted, and frankly, there’s more brown on these branches than green. In this part of California, the trees go bad fast and I’ve waited too long to get a prime choice.

I wander through the fake forest on the corner of Fifth and Almond, nodding now and then to friends and strangers, trying to pretend I’m picking out the perfect tree. In truth, I’m trying not to look at them too closely. Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. I choose the tree to my left, find a kid to help me, and reach for my wallet.

The nice young boy scout who takes my money hands me a receipt and a Kleenex.

I’m crying. Perfect.

By the time the tree is strapped onto my car, I’m a basket case. Sniffling and crying and shaking.

I am still in bad shape when I pull up to the ATM machine, though, thankfully, there are no witnesses to my meltdown. On a whim, I withdraw two hundred and fifty dollars. If I’m going to put up this tree, I’ll need all new ornaments. I can hardly use the ones I collected during my marriage. And I intend to buy myself a killer gift to open on Christmas morning.

The thought of spending money on myself should make me happy; it’s not something we high school librarians do a lot.

At least that’s what I tell myself as I turn into my neighborhood.

Madrona Lane is a pretty name for a pretty street in a not-so-pretty suburb of Bakersfield. I’ve always appreciated the irony of living on a street named for a tree that doesn’t grow here; especially in view of the fact that the developers cut down every green thing that dared to grow on the block. When my husband and I first saw the house it was run down and neglected, the only home on the cul-de-sac with grass that needed cutting and a fence in need of paint. The realtor had seen all these as possibilities for a young couple such as us. “The previous owners,” she’d whispered to me as I stepped through a patch of dry-rotted floor in the bathroom, “went through a terrible divorce. A real War of the Roses thing. ”

We’d all laughed at that. Of course, it turned out not to be so funny.

I am almost to my house when I see Stacey standing in my driveway, all by herself.

I slam on the brakes.

We stare at each other through the windshield. The minute she sees me, she starts to cry. It is all I can do not to follow suit.