Abigail Always

by Linda Poitevin

  Abby almost folded in two at that, blinking furiously to keep the tears at bay. She wasn't the only one facing Christmas without someone, she reminded herself. Far from it. But she was supposed to be the grown-up one.

  “Of course I like Christmas,” she said, her voice husky. “I've always loved it.” That was only a small white lie, right? Because once upon a time, she had loved it very much. “I would be honored to help with the tree.”

  “Yay!” Kiana and Britt shouted, grabbing hands and bouncing up and down together. They released one another, seized Dog's collar, and paraded out with him, singing, “Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree, how lovely are thy branches!”

  “Awesome,” said Rachel. “I'll see if I can find the decorations in the basement. We'll bring them up into the living room so we're ready tomorrow.”

  “Storage room where the furnace is,” Abby called after her. “Bottom two shelves. The boxes are labeled!”

  “Of course they are,” Mitch said. “By the time you leave us, I have no doubt that every item we own will be sorted and labeled, at the rate you're going.” He waved a hand to encompass the newly tidied office. A note of amusement underlying his words removed any sting they might have held.

  Not that it mattered, because Abby still had something she wanted to say. That she had to say. “About last night—”

  “Consider it forgotten,” Mitch said gruffly.

  “Really?”

  “Really.” One black brow, salted with gray, rose. “If that's what you want.”

  Her mouth dropped open. Of course it was what she wanted—wasn't it? Because she was only here for a short while, and Mitch was her employer, and she was still a grieving widow with no intention of changing that status, and there were three kids and a dog, and—

  “Well?”

  Did he have any idea what that voice of his did to her knees?

  Abigail snapped her mouth closed and made herself nod. “It's what's best,” she croaked.

  “That's not what I asked.”

  This time, she did close her eyes because this—all of this—was getting way out of hand. Digging deep, she found a thread of the fine, steel-like strength that had held her together for the better part of her life. “No, but it's what I'm answering,” she said, opening her eyes again. “And it's what I stand by.”

  The continuing chorus of “oh, Christmas tree” floated between them while Mitch watched her. At last he inclined his head. “All right, you win.”

  She regarded him suspiciously, waiting for the for now she felt certain was coming, but he only tipped his head to one side, a little like Dog, and asked instead, “You sure you're okay with this decorating thing? You looked like you wanted to turn tail and run when the girls asked. I can put them off if you'd rather not. It's supposed to be your day off tomorrow.”

  She was tempted. Oh, how she was tempted. With her heart bleeding all over the floor at her feet at the very thought of joining in, how could she not be? But she shook her head. If those three young girls could find the strength to celebrate Christmas in their mother's absence, then she would find the strength to help them.

  “Thank you, but I'll be fine,” she said.

  But that evening, after dinner, she took refuge in her room rather than sitting in her usual reading spot, because the sight of the waiting tree stand and neatly stacked boxes reminded her she was anything but fine.

  She just didn't know how to tell Mitch.

  Chapter 35

  They decorated the tree just after sunset the next day. It was tradition, Rachel told her, because their mother had always said that they should first see it after dark, with all its lights on, when it was at its magical best. And Abby remembered how William and Olivia had insisted on decorating in broad daylight, so they could be sure everything was in the right place and perfect—and then they'd spend the next week rearranging things to make them even more perfect, like two fussy oldsters.

  “It's beautiful, isn't it?” Rachel leaned back against her father to gaze at the tree twinkling in the living room window. Abby's heart hitched a little as Mitch's arms went around his daughter and he rested his chin atop her head. With dusk falling outside and the lamps turned off, the lights from the tree glowed against their burnished skin and reflected in their eyes. Rachel had been right. It was magical. Abby returned to putting ornament cartons into their bins.

  “It is,” Mitch agreed softly. “Your mother would approve.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  “Every day, sweet girl. Every day.”

  His voice had dropped to that gruff note again, making Abby's breath catch and drawing his other two daughters to his side. Brittany slid her arms around his waist, and Kiana leaned against his leg. Abby closed the last of the bins and stacked it on the others.

  “Can you tell us a story to help us 'member her?” Kiana asked. “A funny one.”

  “A funny one, huh? Let me think about that for a second.” Mitch glanced toward Abigail as she tiptoed toward the hallway. She couldn't quite meet his eyes but managed a ghost of a smile and a go on kind of motion before she made good her escape. Mitch's voice followed her. “How about the one when I took her camping the first time, and she thought she heard a bear outside the tent and woke the whole campground with her screaming?”

  Abby took refuge in the darkened kitchen, where Mitch's deep voice faded to a rumble and his words couldn't quite reach her. Standing at the sliding glass doors, she stared out into the back yard, watching night fall over the neighborhood. A light winked on in an upstairs bedroom of the house behind, and a moment later went out again. Overhead, a single bright star peeked out from the sky. Olivia had once told Abby she thought the stars were peepholes in heaven, so that the angels could watch over them. At the time, Abby had nodded and smiled at the childish earnestness, thinking the idea sweet and innocent; now, she wished with all her heart that it was true, and that she knew which peephole her daughter looked through, so she could look back.

  Christmas.

  Christmas without William, without Olivia, without the very things that had given her life purpose and meaning. And on this one—unlike the last one, when it had all been too new and too stark and too impossible to take in—she feared she would feel every single moment of loss. Every ache. Every hollow, fragile heartbeat.

  A cold, wet nose shoved its way into her fisted hand, distracting her. Abby looked down through her tears and the shadows into mournful brown eyes. “You do have a way about you, Dog,” she whispered, sniffling. The nose nudged again, and she crouched down beside the beast and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in the clean fur. Already the citrus scent of the shampoo was fading and giving way to an earthy animal scent, but Abby didn't mind. “I hope you get to stay. You'd be good for them all when I'm gone, I think.”

  Dog's tongue swiped her earlobe in agreement, and she giggled through her tears as she ruffled his head. “Goofy mutt. How come you're in here and not with Kia?”

  “I think he decided you needed him more,” Mitch said.

  Abby pushed upright, brushing at her cheeks. “Mitch. I didn't hear you come in.”

  “You seemed deep in conversation with that.” He didn't turn on the lights but came to join her at the sliding doors, indicating Dog. “I didn't want to interrupt.”

  She wiped wet fingers against her pant leg, then rubbed the dog ear nearest her hand. “He's pretty special,” she said. “And he’s smart. I get the feeling someone has spent a lot of time with him.”

  “Someone who might be looking for him, you mean.”

  “I wouldn't be surprised.”

  Mitch's shadow nodded. “I agree. He cleaned up rather nicely after the bath you gave him, and he seems to have settled into the house well. The girls will take it pretty hard if his family does show up.”

  And that would be one more thing he'd have to deal with, Abby thought.

  “I'll try to mitigate expectations,” she said. “Lots of warnings and reminders.”r />
  He chuckled. “Thank you, but I think we're too late for that. They've decided he needs a name, even if it's just temporary, and they want you to pick it.”

  “Me? But—”

  “They said it will help them remember you when you're gone.”

  The rest of Abby's words piled up in her throat, forming a lump. In the semi-gloom, Mitch pulled a face.

  “I know, right? They got me with that one, too.” He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, hands in pockets. “And, apparently, it was Rachel's idea. You've worked minor wonders with that one, Abigail Jamieson. I mean, she still has a thirteen-year-old attitude, but at least she's mostly human again. Thank you for that.”

  Abby hesitated, wondering whether she should mention that the change in Rachel seemed directly correlated with a reduction of Perky Perkins’ influence in the girl's life. Mitch spoke again before she'd decided.

  “She was even on board with going out to the farm with us yesterday. Surprised the heck out of me.”

  “Farm?”

  “The Christmas tree farm. It's where we've always gone, ever since Rachel was a baby and we strapped her into a sled. It takes a little longer than going to a lot, but there's something special about being able to cut down your own tree. Eve and the girls always loved it. I wasn't sure they'd want to continue without her, but I'm glad they did. We didn't have a chance to go last year.” He stared out the glass door. “Eve died just after New Year's, here at home. We turned the dining room into a bedroom for her and put the bed near the door so she could see the Christmas tree and be with the kids. She didn't want them to be afraid of death or dying. She wanted them to know that it was just another part of life.”

  Abby stayed silent for a minute, comparing the Abrams family’s experience with loss to her own. Wondering whether expecting it and being there for it had been better or worse than having a grim-faced police officer shatter her existence with a few horrific, impossible words. But, no—loss was loss, no matter how it happened. It still left an unfillable hole. Still irrevocably changed you. Still left you desperately trying to regain your footing in a world you no longer recognized. She released a long, tremulous sigh and looked up from her own loss into Mitch's. “She sounds like quite the lady,” she said.

  Mitch smiled. “She was,” he agreed. “Quite the lady.” He met her gaze in the faint light filtering into the kitchen from the hallway. “When I came into the kitchen just now—”

  “Daddy, can we order pizza tonight?”

  Feet thundered into the room, heralding the arrival of Britt, owner of the voice behind the interruption, and Kiana. The overhead light turned on, and Abby blinked in its sudden brilliance, even while silently blessing the girls' interruption. Dog left her side to join Kiana.

  “Can we?” Britt asked. “We didn't have it on Wednesday like we usually do, and we could eat in the living room for a special treat, and then we can watch the tree.”

  “Why, are we expecting it to do tricks?” Mitch teased. “Is Dog going to teach it how?”

  “Da-deeeeeeee.” Britt rolled her eyes in a remarkable imitation of her older sister.

  Her father reached out and tweaked her nose. “Yes, we can order pizza and sit in the living room,” he said, taking his cell phone from its clip at his waist. “Who wants what?”

  “A Christmas party,” Rachel announced from the doorway.

  “I don't think they deliver those, but I can ask.”

  Mitch's eldest frowned at him. “What?”

  “We're ordering pizza,” Britt told her. “You just said you wanted a Christmas party on yours.”

  It was Rachel's turn to roll her eyes, and Abby revised her previous thought. None of the others held a candle to that girl's mastery of that particular mannerism.

  “That's so lame,” Rachel said. “And I'm serious. We should have a Christmas party. We could invite all our friends, and Abby can invite her family, and—”

  “Whoa there, kiddo. A party is a lot of work, and two weeks before Christmas is a little late to be organizing one. Most people are already booked up.”

  “Just a little one, then. Please?”

  “It could be potluck,” Britt suggested. “Then it's not so much work. And we can do the rest of the decorating tomorrow night. Please, Daddy?”

  Kiana, who had curled up on the floor with Dog as a pillow, added her voice to the chorus. “Pretty please, Daddy?”

  Mitch exhaled a long sigh as he turned to Abby. “It's a lot to ask,” he said, “and I want you to say no if you'd rather not.”

  Abby regarded the three expectant faces. It was a lot to ask, but for reasons the girls didn't need to know. Not when they needed to focus on their own healing, and not when it was her job to help them do so. Oddly enough, the smile she summoned wasn't nearly as forced as she thought it would be. “I'm game if you are,” she told Mitch, and the kitchen erupted into cheers, followed by a rousing chorus of It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas with accompaniment courtesy of Dog.

  Laughing, Abby put her hands over her ears and shook her head at the entire group. The challenges to her carefully maintained hold on herself might be unending in this family, but on the bright side, she was learning she was capable of a great deal more than she had ever thought possible again. She looked up to find Mitch watching her with a half smile. He said something she couldn't hear over the din, and she shook her head and shrugged.

  He leaned down and, his skin warm against hers, took one hand away from her ear. “I said, I think we've created Christmas monsters.”

  Abby looked back to the girls, half her heart dancing with them, and the other half holding tight to the memory of another who was forever absent. “We have,” she agreed. “But this is the way it's supposed to be.”

  Together, they watched Rachel whirl Kiana around the room, Dog circling them. Then, his voice rough, Mitch said, “Thank you.”

  She shot him a surprised look. “For what?”

  “For all of this,” he said, his green eyes warm. “I don't know why, but I know Christmas is hard for you, Abby. And I want you to know how grateful I am for putting that aside for my daughters. I can never thank you enough.”

  Abby closed her eyes on a shaft of pain. She took a deep breath, striving for control. She'd been unprepared for Mitch's words, the compassion she heard behind them, and the tiny crack they had opened in her defenses. Memories of Christmases past trickled out. Olivia at two, staring up at the tree, her face alight with wonder. Olivia at six, waltzing around the great room with William, both of them singing along with Bing's White Christmas. Olivia at ten, handing out the gifts and watching with excitement as William opened his, so proud of the crooked scarf Abby had helped her knit for him to wear on their annual ski trip.

  Last year's tree, sitting bright and merry in the window as Abby opened the door to the uniformed police officers. Turning garish as she collapsed on the floor before it. Sitting in the dark as it waited for weeks, needles dropping like tears, for the little girl who was no more. A mere skeleton by the time she hauled it to the curb, decorations and all.

  “I don't know why, but I know Christmas is hard for you.”

  The crack opened wider, and driven by grief and the deep weariness that came from keeping secrets for too long, words forced their way out.

  “She was eleven,” she whispered, “Her name was Olivia, and it was two days before Christmas.”

  Mitch stood as if turned to stone, and one by one, as if sensing the change in energy between the adults, the girls stopped singing and dancing—Rachel first, then Britt, and finally Kiana. Even Dog stood still. Kiana sidled over to tug on Abby's sleeve.

  “Are you sad again?” she asked.

  Abby tried to pull a smile of reassurance from the ache, but her face refused to cooperate.

  Mitch cleared his throat. “Rach? How about you use the phone in my office and order the pizza for us? Britt and Kia, you go with her, please. And take Dog.”

  Without so much as
a murmur of disagreement, the girls filed out, shooting worried backward glances over their shoulders. And then the kitchen was empty, and Mitch's arms were around her, and Abby was sobbing her heartbreak and loss into a broad, solid chest.

  Chapter 36

  “Here.” Mitch set a steaming cup on the table beside Abby and then pulled another chair close. He sat down and leaned forward to rest elbows on knees not quite touching hers. “I put a bit of brandy in it, so be careful.”

  Abby giggled tiredly into the soggy tissue she was using to wipe her nose yet again. “Afraid of a repeat of Friday night?” she asked, then wondered if the question was appropriate. Probably not, but she was too worn out to worry about it.

  Mitch smiled. “Not exactly,” he said.

  She wondered a little at the oblique note in his voice, but she decided she was too tired to figure that out, too. It felt like every particle of energy had been wrung from her along with her tears, leaving her exhausted, empty, and so stuffed-up that she could scarcely breathe. As if reading her mind, Mitch plucked the used tissue from her fingers and handed her a fresh one.

  “I'm so sorry I ruined your tree day,” she said, looking toward the hallway. “You should go and join them.”

  The pizza had arrived a few minutes before, and Mitch had told the girls to start without them. But there were no happy noises coming from the living room the way there should have been, and guilt moved in to overshadow Abby's grief.

  “They're fine,” Mitch said. “I'll head out in a few minutes.”

  “Your pizza will be cold.”

  “I'll pretend I'm back in college.”

  She gave a watery smile and blew her nose. “Thank you,” she said. “For listening.”

  “Thank you for trusting me to.”

  “I haven't told anyone except Gwyn—she's my sister—and Gareth. Not since I left the group therapy thing, and I only stayed with that for a month or so.”

  “Not much of a group participant?”

  “Not much for talking.”