“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.