Bobby sits on the hearth, then stands. He goes to the window again. “How long has it been?”
“About thirty seconds. ”
“D’you think he’ll be mad?”
“No,” I say after too long a pause to be credible. Both of us hear my uncertainty. Bobby, who has been talking to a ghost for two months, seems attuned to the tiniest nuance of sound.
“He used to love Christmas. He said it was the best day of the year. ” He pauses. “Then Mommy and me moved out here and they got divorced. ” He goes to the window, stares out.
I can see his watery reflection in the window.
“He kept telling Mommy he was gonna visit me but he never did. ”
I have no idea what to say to that. I remember the day my own father left. I was just about Bobby’s age, and I spent more than a decade waiting for a reunion that never came. My mom tried to ease my hurt with reassurances, but words fall short when you’re listening for a knock at the door. Bobby knows about silence, how it leaves a mark on you. Then again, I know about divorce, too. It’s possible that Bobby doesn’t have the whole story. It’s never one person’s fault. The thought shocks me. It’s the first time I’ve admitted it to myself. “The thing is,” I say slowly, “he’s here now. Maybe you should give him a chance. ”
Bobby doesn’t answer.
Outside, a bright sun pushes through the clouds. The lake looks like a sheet of fiery glass.
“Here he comes!” Bobby runs to me, stands close.
The door opens.
Daniel walks into the lodge. He’s wearing a pair of insulated coveralls, unzipped to the waist. Dirty gloves hang from his back pocket. His black hair is a messy, curly mass; his green eyes look tired. “Hey, there,” he says to us without smiling. He’s halfway to the registration desk when he stops and turns toward the tree. “What have you done, boyo?”
I feel myself tensing up. It would be so easy for him to say the wrong thing now . . .
“We done it. Joy and me. ”
“Joy? Our house is her business now, is it?” he says quietly as he walks over to the tree.
Bobby glances worriedly at me.
We shouldn’t have done it—I shouldn’t have done it. That truth is bright and shiny now. I know nothing about them, not re
ally. Sometimes memories hurt too much to be put on display. I am the grown-up here, the one who should have known better. I have to soften it for Bobby. “Daniel,” I say, taking a step forward. “Surely . . . ”
“You used all her favorite ornaments,” Daniel says, slowly touching a white angel ornament.
“You bought her that one,” Bobby says. “Remember? At the farmer’s market by Nana and Papa’s house. ”
Slowly, Daniel turns to face us. He looks still and stiff, like a man chiseled from granite. I wonder how he can bear it, the distance from his son. “Where’s the star?” he asks at last.
Bobby glances at me. “It’s on the table. We couldn’t reach the top. ”
Daniel reaches down for the hammered tin star on the table. He is about to place it on the top of the tree; then he stops and turns to Bobby. “Maybe you and I can do it together?”
I hear the uncertainty in Daniel’s voice, the fear that his son won’t comply, and it reminds me how fragile we all are, how easily we can wound one another, especially when love is involved.
Stacey.
I close my eyes for just a second, awash in regret. When I open my eyes, Bobby is moving toward his father. The sight of them coming together makes me smile.
Daniel scoops Bobby into his arms and stands up. Daniel hands his son the star, and Bobby puts it on the tree.
They step back, admiring their work.
“It’s grand,” Daniel says. I hear a thickness in his voice.