“That’s beautiful,” she said, taking the wool sweater from him and examining the intricate Indian design.
“My great Grandmother Cray made it. My mother said she made hundreds of sweaters and blankets during her life to help pay bills. Cormac has been able to track down a few in antique stores and on eBay as her stitches and designs are different from the Coastal Salish, but this sweater has been in the family forever. It was probably made for one of my uncles, or even my great grandfather.”
“It should be in a museum.”
“No, it shouldn’t. It was made for family, it should be worn by family.”
“But I’m not—”
“Yes, you are. You’re my family. You’ll always be family to me.”
She undid the sturdy buttons and slipped one arm in and then the other. The sweater was heavy and long, and a little bit itchy, but it was a Cray family heirloom, and she could feel the history in it, and the love.
Her eyes suddenly burned and she looked down, focusing on working the wood buttons through the holes. “Do you ever think about that side of your family?” she asked, voice husky. “Do you ever think that maybe the reason you felt like such an outsider in Marietta was because you take after the Crays? That maybe you were never meant to be cooped up in classrooms and offices but outside…free?”
He didn’t immediately answer and she looked up, to find him staring hard at her, a strange expression on his face.
“What?” she whispered. “Was that a bad thing to say?”
“My mom used to say that,” he said quietly. “She said that Troy and I might be identical twins, but he’d inherited the Sheenan blood and I’d inherited the Crays.” His mouth curved but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Every time I got in trouble when I was little, every time my dad took the belt to me, or a switch, she would apologize to me, saying that we needed to forgive my father for not understanding who I was, and being unable to recognize my spirit.”
His powerful shoulders shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t know what to think when I was younger. Dad didn’t recognize Mom’s Native American heritage. He didn’t want a wife that was ‘mixed’, and forbad her from telling us stories about Indian folklore and customs. But now and then when I couldn’t sleep, I’d go find her, and inevitably those were the nights my father was out and my mother would be awake, staring out the window, looking westward.”
Trey glanced down at McKenna, expression pensive. “I didn’t understand then how deeply lonely my mother was. She never talked about her loneliness but looking back, we all see it—her sons—and it’s hard to realize how much she gave to us and how little she got back—”
“I don’t think that’s a fair assessment,” McKenna interrupted. “Children are not responsible for meeting their parents’ needs.”
“Maybe not when they are young, but by high school, I should have been more aware, more sensitive. Instead I was at my most rebellious.”
“Because you were a teenager, filled with testosterone!”
He shrugged. “I wish you could have heard her stories. I wish I had recorded them or written them down because on those nights when my father was gone, she would talk about the Salish, the Kootenai and the Pend d’Oreille Tribes and how their beliefs about life were so different from the righteous Christians that only talked to God in Church. She said for the Flathead tribes, spirit was everywhere, and that all things were connected and to be respected, plants, rocks, animals, people. She said it was hard to find peace when one simply used things selfishly, and never gave back to the earth. She said the land wasn’t there simply to be stripped, but to be protected. The trees and animals have a right to exist. Man is to recognize the spirit in each of them.”
McKenna swallowed around the lump forming in her throat. “But you didn’t need to record her stories to remember them. You’ve remembered.”
“I miss her.”
She went to him then, and wrapped her arms around his waist and held him, hugging him, knowing he needed to feel her—his mother’s love—and if he couldn’t have that, he could have her love.
Because she would always love him.
And she had always seen his spirit—and it was good. Yes, he had a wild streak, and he might not ever be completely tamed, but maybe that was who he was meant to be? Beautiful, fierce, and protective.
“She’s still with you,” McKenna whispered. “Especially here. I can feel her here.”
Trey wrapped his arms around her and held her for a moment, before placing a kiss on the top of her head and breaking free.
“There is supposed to be a storm coming in tonight,” he said gruffly. “I’m going to go have a look at the generator, make sure it’s in working order.” And then he was gone, disappearing quickly out the front door.
*
It’d been a dry and cold December in much of Montana, with freezing conditions but very little snow. It had snowed hard early in the month but whatever remained in the valleys was now compacted and brown.
With Christmas Eve just three days away, everyone was ready for fresh snow, saying it wouldn’t be Christmas without a dusting of powdery white, but the storm coming was supposed to be a big one, with a foot or two of snow falling steadily throughout the night, making it difficult for the snowplows to keep up.
A foot of snow was a lot for Cherry Lake, and the record for heaviest snowfall in one day was sixteen inches back in December of 1929. No one wanted a foot of snow, not so close to Christmas when there was still so much shopping to do and last minute presents to mail.
Trey chopped more firewood and had the generator ready, then stood in the kitchen with McKenna making a list of emergency supplies, although neither of them were too worried, having grown up on isolated Paradise Valley ranches where winter storms routinely knocked out power, forcing families to adapt and make do.
McKenna wanted more milk and eggs, bread, lunchmeat and cheese along with tea, hot cocoa and ingredients for simple dinners for the next couple of nights.
Trey added candles, flashlights, and batteries. He glanced at the list and then to the living room where Trey was stretched out by the fire, staring at the tree. “What about stockings and presents for TJ?” he asked, dropping his voice. “We don’t have anything for him, do we?”
“I have gifts for him in Marietta, not here,” she said.
“But we’re here…unless you’re thinking you want to head back early?”
She glanced outside, at the sky, which was patchy with clouds. It didn’t look bad now. “Try to beat it, you mean?”
“We wouldn’t beat it. We’d be driving through it.”
She wrinkled her nose. “But why do that? There’s no reason to take extra risks when we could have a cozy Christmas here. We just need to do some shopping, pick up a few things so he has a stocking for Christmas morning and some gifts to open.”
Trey nodded and McKenna checked her smile as Trey added, Buy Toys and Wrapping Paper, to the bottom of their list.
“I could even do some shopping if you wanted to take him to a matinee movie,” she said. “I know there’s a theatre showing kids movies in Bigfork. I could drop you two off at the movies and then shop and get all the errands done and then come back for you.”
“Or we could divide the errands up and I go do some shopping for TJ now, and then come back and get you two, and then we all head to Bigfork.” He looked at her, expression earnest. “It’s not that I don’t trust you to buy good things, but I really want to pick out something for him, some toys for him from me. Haven’t been able to do that since he was born.”
His words made her chest tighten and ache.
She loved how much he loved their son. “That’s a great idea,” she said. “You shop, I’ll make him lunch, and that way when you return, we’ll be ready to go.”
*
Trey knew he didn’t have a lot of time to shop and it’d been years since he’d been able to buy gifts for TJ and McKenna. As he drove to Cherry Lake he tried to remember all
the shops downtown, thinking there had to be a toy store somewhere. He couldn’t recall seeing one, but that hadn’t been their focus when they’d gone shopping yesterday.
And McKenna…what could he give her? What did she need?
She wasn’t one of those women who loved fancy things. She didn’t collect jewelry or like high fashion. She did enjoy art but a painting didn’t seem like the right kind of gift after not giving her anything for a number of years.
It seemed as if everyone had come to town to finish shopping today. Town was crowded, and parking on Main Street non-existent. Trey parked a few blocks down, by the small post office, and walked back to the shops, sticking his head in any that looked kid-friendly.
Trey found red and green and cream knit stockings at one of the artsy stores. They had three left and he wanted to buy all three and hang them all from the stone fireplace but it seemed silly to buy himself a stocking. He was a man, he didn’t need a stocking. But he wanted one for TJ and he’d love to fill one for McKenna even if it was just with tea and some jars of the local cherry flavored honey.
He ended up buying two and headed next door to the colorful candy shoppe that sold fresh saltwater taffy and homemade fudge. He bought taffy and a big lollipop for TJ’s stocking and rich creamy blocks of marshmallow-studded fudge for Christmas Eve, hoping TJ liked marshmallows and fudge, unable to imagine a five year old that didn’t. But it was an uncomfortable thing realizing he didn’t know what his son liked. There were so many things Trey needed to discover and he looked forward to the day where he knew his son as well as McKenna…if not better.
The lady in the candy shoppe told Trey where to find a toy store and Trey headed there next. Again he wasn’t sure what kinds of games and toys TJ liked, and felt hopelessly out of depth as he stared at the shelves filled with dolls and fairies, forest animals and farms, Lincoln Logs, puzzles, Duplo, Lego, robots, acrylic tubes and cylinders and other kinds of building blocks.
The sales clerk approached him. “Can I help you find something?”
Trey nodded, perplexed by all the choices. “I’m looking for something for my son,” he said. “He’s five.”
“And what does he like to do?”
Trey rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not sure.”
“Does he have any favorite hobbies?”