Evergreen

by Susan May Warren

  “Hmm. Maybe don’t embrace it quite so heartily,” Ingrid said.

  Noelle laughed. “How’s Romeo? I didn’t see him in church last week.”

  “He’s angry. Sullen. Not talking to us. He hasn’t forgiven us for driving his brother away, as he puts in. And his mother isn’t helping—she’s struggling through her treatment. Romeo called the social worker a week ago and asked to be moved. She said that she’d try to find him a new placement, but I think it’s probably not easy so close to Christmas.”

  She tried to deliver her report without her throat closing up, but she looked away, blinked hard. “I feel terrible. It’s hard enough hearing about my sister’s horrible life and the choices she’s made that have so wounded Romeo, but knowing I could have helped her . . .”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She wanted to live with us after Romeo was born. But John said no. We’d just . . . lost a baby. And he thought it would be too hard. I didn’t even know she’d called until weeks later when my parents mentioned it. By that time, she wasn’t talking to me.” Ingrid picked up her phone, began to scroll through names. “I wrote to her numerous times, but she wouldn’t answer.”

  “That’s on her, not you.”

  “I know . . . but I thought taking Romeo in would be a way to redeem that. I honestly thought that living with us would be a blessing for him, but I think it’s only made it worse. He might have been better off going to a foster home.”

  “Why? He had a chance to play football and to be in an amazing family—”

  “But we’re not an amazing family, Noelle. We’re a normal family, and right now, we’re a broken family.” She didn’t look at Noelle as she said it, the words soft and rough in her throat. “My boys had a big fight right before Eden’s wedding. Casper left and Owen is AWOL and . . . My worst fear is that Owen and Casper end up like my sister and me.”

  “They won’t.”

  Ingrid shook her head. “They might. If only I knew how to fix it.”

  Noelle slid her hand over Ingrid’s arm. “I don’t think you’re supposed to.”

  “I’m the mom. Of course I’m supposed to.” She set down the phone. “I always thought I was this amazing mother. I cooked and cleaned and cheered and created a safe haven for the kids. Now . . . now they’re gone, and although I knew it was coming, I feel a little . . .”

  “Rejected?”

  “Betrayed. By life. By God, maybe. I did everything right, I thought. So why don’t I have a perfect family?”

  “Because our children are destined to leave us from the moment they’re born. And the paths they walk are theirs, not ours. We can only give them a place to come home, stop in, find comfort. But we can’t walk their journey for them. Eventually they have to stand before God by themselves.”

  Ingrid saw the grief of Noelle’s words in her eyes. Her own daughter had walked that path, was already standing before God. She squeezed Noelle’s hand.

  “Even Mary had to let her child go,” Noelle went on. “You have to wonder, as Mary watched Jesus on the cross, did she look back and ask herself if she had made a mistake? God had told her she would be the mother of the Savior. You can’t get more devastated than Mary, watching her Son—the Savior—die.”

  Ingrid watched Ellie carry more wings to the children’s church area.

  “But Jesus’ path wasn’t for Mary to determine. Her greatest ability as a mother was to be His mother. To love Him, nurture Him, care for Him. She embraced her destiny, then let Him go to embrace His. You have to let your children embrace theirs. Including Romeo.”

  “He’s not really my child.”

  “Not before. And maybe not tomorrow. But right now?” Noelle finished off her tea. “By the way, have you tried asking Darek and Ivy to play Mary and Joseph?”

  Darek and Ivy! Had she? She thought she’d mentioned it, but . . .

  Ivy picked up on the second ring. “Hey, Mom, what’s up?”

  The cold snap of the season was happening right here, two days before Christmas, in his own house.

  John came downstairs to an empty kitchen—no coffee brewing, no gingerbread candle flickering to lend ambience to the room. No holiday ribbon twining over the tops of the cupboards, clove-decorated oranges on display on the table, pine boughs on the mantel. No stockings at the hearth, wreath on the door, or eighteen-foot tree towering to the peak in the living room.

  The place had all the Christmas cheer of a July afternoon.

  His wife had given up.

  As John walked over to the coffeepot and searched for a filter, found the cupboards bare, he knew he couldn’t let that happen. He might have made a mess of their relationship with Romeo, but . . . Well, he couldn’t help but believe he’d made the right choice.

  Romeo needed to man up and deal with that.

  He found a few old coffee beans in the freezer, ground them, and set up the pot to brew. Then he headed upstairs and pounded on Romeo’s door. Opened it when he got no answer.

  Romeo slept like a tornado, ripping out his sheets, his quilt wrapped in a stranglehold around him. His bare feet, however, stuck out the bottom. Butterscotch, from beside him on the bed, lifted her head.

  “Romeo. Get up.”

  The kid lifted his head, his hair a messy bramble. “What?”

  “You have exactly seven minutes to get dressed and meet me downstairs. And dress warm.”

  He shut the door, heeded his own words, and was pouring himself a cup of coffee in a travel mug when Romeo appeared, pulling on one of Owen’s old sweaters. He gave John a dirty look as he headed to the fridge.

  “Shake it off, son, because it’s time we added some Christmas cheer to the house.”

  Romeo frowned at him. But John ignored him. He scooped food into Butter’s bowl, then told Romeo, “Find us a saw from the garage. I’ll meet you outside.”

  He didn’t look back as he put on his boots, a thick jacket, and a hat and stepped outside.

  The snow lifted off in a fine mist as the wind gusted in from the lake. A pristine layer of white left the yard unblemished, and the trees cracked in the wind. Overhead, the clouds hung low, the sky pale.

  They just might have a Christmas Eve blizzard, if he knew his Minnesota weather.

  Butter trotted out, barking, scooping up snow. Romeo shut the door behind him, wearing Casper’s old jacket, boots, and a green knit cap. He trudged to the garage and returned with a saw.

  “Why do I need a saw?”

  “Because you’re going to find us a Christmas tree.”

  For the first time in three weeks, a spark broke through the sullen pain in Romeo’s eyes.

  “We have to take a little hike, but it’ll be worth it. C’mon.”

  Butter jumped ahead of them, her legs crashing through the snow. Biting at drifts, barking.

  So maybe Ingrid had been right about Butter too. He couldn’t imagine the holidays without their family dog.

  He followed the shore toward the end of the lake, across the meadow where the burned forest turned lush and full—where Darek had helped lay down a fire line. Here, evergreens flourished, and John had been given carte blanche to harvest his tree from this privately held land.

  “Okay, Romeo, find us a tree.”

  The boy stood surveying the woods. “Really? I can pick any tree?”

  “Preferably something we can carry and that isn’t taller than the living room ceiling.”

  Again, the spark in Romeo’s eyes, and this time, it stuck. He began to wander through the forest, shaking snow off trees, inspecting them one by one.

  He pointed out a couple and listed their merits as Butter circled around them.

  Finally, “I think this one is good.” He stood next to an eighteen-foot tree, the lowest branches ten feet around.

  “That’s a big tree.”

  “Maybe we just cut it from here.” He reached up, indicated the spot. “The bottom branches are rusty anyway. We’ll leave the dead parts and just take the top.”
<
br />   “I like it. Saw it down.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re carrying the saw.” John stepped back, watched Romeo’s efforts to hack at the tree. “Can I give you a hint?”

  Romeo glanced at him.

  “Try cutting it at an angle. Make a wedge. It’ll be easier to cut.”

  Romeo adjusted his saw and the tree came down. It bounced as it landed, the snow puffing off it. John held the tree while Romeo sawed off the lower branches. Then he sawed the trunk again to the right height.

  “Okay, grab the back and let’s go.”

  John picked up the front and began to carry. Butter’s barks in the distance echoed in the chilly air, and as he walked, surrounded by the rich piney scent of the fallen evergreen, the quiet stirred up memories of hauling home the family tree with his boys.

  Four sets of feet all masked by an eighteen-foot tree.

  Yeah, he missed that. Or not, because here he was, continuing the tradition with Romeo. He could hear the kid huffing out breath behind him.

  “I’ll open the patio door, and you feed it in to me,” John said.

  They wedged the massive tree through the door off the deck. Then Romeo fetched the tree stand and helped John set it up in the great room.

  “We’ll have to run fishing wire from the tree to the railing to help hold it,” John said and sent Romeo back to the garage for wire and a ladder.

  Thirty minutes later, they studied their work. “It’s a great tree,” Romeo said, all hint of pout vanished from his face.

  “You picked us a good one,” John said.

  Romeo gave him a smile, something honest, and it had the ability to ease the terrible knot in John’s chest. “Let’s get the lights and ornaments.”

  John went to the basement, dug around, and found the packages of Christmas lights. He handed them out to Romeo, then rooted for the boxes of ornaments.

  For years, Ingrid had given each child an ornament for Christmas until they each had a substantial collection. He found Owen’s, Casper’s, and Amelia’s boxes, but no trace of Eden’s, Grace’s, or Darek’s.

  He returned upstairs and set the boxes on the counter. Romeo stood on the ladder, stringing lights.

  John opened the boxes. It seemed almost sacrilegious to put the ornaments on the tree without the kids.

  Romeo climbed off the ladder. “It looks a little . . . bare. Maybe we need more lights.”

  John stepped back. Outside, shadows pressed against the windows, the gray sky and the northern latitude conspiring to turn the day dark even in midafternoon. Yeah, despite his hopes, the evergreen hadn’t exactly made the home magical.

  It lacked something. But it was a start, right?

  The door opened, and he heard stomping, then the sound of Ingrid dropping her purse. She came into the entryway. Stopped.

  And for a moment, so did time as John saw her face change, the years scrolling back to that first Christmas, the one where he’d chopped down their first tree, dragged it home through the woods, draped lights around it at a haphazard angle, hoping to impress his new wife.

  She advanced into the room, looking so pretty it could make him ache with the knowledge that she belonged to him. She wore her hair pulled back in a red headband, a white shirt under a red vest, a pair of glittering candy canes dangling from her ears. Corny and sweet in one devastating package. He’d forgotten that about her too.

  “Wow,” she said.

  “You like it?” Romeo asked.

  She smiled. “I like it.”

  For one shiny, bright, perfect moment, everything fit. Like puzzle pieces, finally fixing in place.

  Maybe John could resurrect this Christmas season after all.

  And then—“Hey, where’s Butter?” Romeo looked around as if noticing her absence for the first time.

  Ingrid frowned. “Was she outside with you?”

  John nodded. “She’s probably just chasing squirrels.”

  Except the wind had begun to howl, his Christmas Eve storm arriving early. Ingrid went to the sliding door, opened it. Whistled. Called.

  The wind and snow swirled in at her feet, and still she didn’t shut the door.

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” John said, but even he heard the tremor in his voice.

  “I’m going out to look for her,” Ingrid said.

  Which meant that he was too.

  Romeo shoved his boots on in silence. John handed him a flashlight and they trudged back out into the cold.

  INGRID NEVER THOUGHT she’d say this, but . . . “John, please drive faster.”

  John gripped the wheel of the Caravan with his gloved hands, ice still caking his pants where he’d plowed through the drifts with her as they searched for Butter. “It’s icy, Ingrid. I’m going as fast as I can.”

  She nodded. Looked out the window at the blades of snow dicing the night. It wasn’t his fault.

  Not John’s fault.

  He didn’t know that Butter couldn’t run outside immediately after eating or that the cold would strain her breathing.

  He didn’t know or maybe . . . didn’t care.

  She closed her eyes. Not true. He cared.

  Ingrid glanced behind her to where Butter lay, her head on Romeo’s lap, her breathing labored. “How is she?”

  Romeo had his jaw clenched as if to keep from crying. She didn’t blame him. Seeing Butter struggling to make it to the house, her howls echoing in the night, had torn Ingrid asunder. Thankfully, John had picked Butter up in his strong arms and headed straight for the Caravan. Ingrid had dialed the vet from her cell phone as they careened into the night.

  “Her stomach keeps getting bigger, and she’s whining,” Romeo said.

  “I thought the doc said this wouldn’t happen again if she had surgery,” John said darkly. “That’s why we spent all that money—”

  “It’s rare, but yes, it can happen again. We had to be careful . . . feed her a mixture of foods, not let her run immediately after eating, feed her more than once a day.” And he would know that if he’d gone with her to pick up Butter after her surgical stay.

  No. She wouldn’t blame him.

  They pulled up to the vet’s office. Kate was waiting outside, her jacket on, the light a blur in the wind.

  Romeo scooped Butter up and hopped out of the Caravan as John threw it into park. Ingrid followed Romeo inside.

  He settled Butter on the stainless steel table. Stroked her fur. “Shh, Butter, it’s going to be okay.”

  “Hello, Romeo,” Kate said as she reached for her stethoscope.

  Ingrid stopped breathing as Kate listened to Butter’s heart. Kate gently probed Butter’s stomach just as John came into the room.

  “I’d need X-rays, but it seems as though Butter has a gastric torsion again.”

  “I thought surgery would solve that,” John said.

  “It almost always does. But perhaps one or two of the surgical tacks failed. She’s an old dog, too, and who knows but she didn’t heal properly.” Kate pressed her fingers against Butter’s femoral artery. “We could try to relieve the gases again, but I’m afraid she’d go into cardiac arrest.”

  “Yes, please. Relieve the pressure.”

  “Ingrid—”

  “John, listen, we have to help her—”

  “And then what? More surgery?” He turned to Kate. “She’d have to have surgery again, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Romeo buried his face in Butter’s fur.

  “But she arrested in surgery last time, and I fear her heart won’t take it.”

  “So we try—”

  “Ingrid.”

  “What? This is our dog, and we love her.”

  “And she’s suffering. Do you want her to continue to suffer?”

  “No! Of course not but . . .”

  Romeo raised his eyes, so much pain in them that she couldn’t breathe. “Please,” he said.

  She wanted to weep.

  John turned to Romeo, putting his hands on the boy’
s shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Romeo. I know you love her.”

  Romeo shrugged him away and pushed past him out of the room.

  Ingrid walked over to Butter, took her face in her hands, and touched her forehead to the dog’s, inhaling the sweet smell of her fur. “Can you give her something to breathe easier?”

  “I’ll give her a sedative. And some medication for her heart. But it won’t stop the inevitable.”

  Ingrid ran her hands beside Butter’s head, rubbed her ears. Butter moaned, and Ingrid saw Kate draw out a needle from her skin. “I’ll be right back,” Kate said, leaving her intentions unsaid.

  Ingrid looked at John. He stood away, hands in his pockets, a grim slash to his mouth.

  “I’m not ready,” she said.

  John stepped toward her, but she held up her hand.

  “What? Ingrid, you know it’s time.”

  She closed her eyes, her own breathing labored. When she opened her eyes, a strange, dark churning began in her chest.

  “No . . . John, I can’t.”

  He stepped closer, put his hands on her shoulders. “Honey, I know how much you love Butter. But she’s just a dog—”

  “She’s more than a dog. She’s family. She’s . . . my last child.”

  She closed her eyes again, turning away from him. “She . . . she’s the child I wanted to have but . . . you stole from me.”

  Silence, and she couldn’t believe those words had actually emerged.

  Then, “I don’t understand.”

  She hardly did either, but, “John, I . . . If I let Butter go, then it’s just you and me. And I have to figure out how to forgive you for that.”

  His own breathing had deepened, his face wrecked with confusion.

  Her voice shook. “Listen. I am so grateful for our six amazing children, and I know a woman in my position shouldn’t want more, but the fact is, I wasn’t ready to say good-bye to that part of my life. Maybe we would have decided—together—that God was shutting that door. But you just took matters into your own hands.”