by Dee Willson
Thomas stares at my hand, where my wedding ring sits heavy, suddenly hot.
“This isn’t right, Thomas, I don’t think—”
“We could be great together, you and I, we could—”
“Abby and I should head home.” I jump from the couch, clutching the pillow to my chest. “I’m tired and Abby should be sleeping in her bed.”
Thomas rises, stepping close. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish gasping for air then sighs.
“I’ll carry Abby to the car,” he finally says, tenderly loosening my grip on the pillow tassel and turning me toward the door.
I’m stone cold sober as I walk to the car in a daze, wondering what the hell just happened. When I look up, the sight of Thomas cradling my baby girl steals my breath, the emotion too strong to explore, and I have to look away.
Thomas is everything Abby needs and exactly what I want.
Yet only one thing is for certain: sleep won’t be coming any easier tonight.
Just Maybe
December 12th
Last night I was burned alive on a pyre of sticks and tar. Fitting, I suppose, considering the nature of my thoughts regarding Bryce and my date with Thomas. I’m supposed to be a grieving widow.
I was paraded around town, naked, men, women, and children sneering. The bishop’s sermon, spoken with utter disdain, reeked of blasphemous retribution, and through a small opening in the swollen and bloody folds of one eye, I could see him flail about. The town folk clung to his every word while hurling potatoes and stones at my body locked in the pillory. The stench of urine wafted from below. Cuts and bruises were nothing compared to the overwhelming ache of emptiness, of starvation.
Three men and a boy no more than ten dragged me to the pyre. A woman stepped close and spit. I raised my chin. The sheriff lit the fire and I didn’t even flinch. But when the mass of tar and sticks erupted into a black inferno, cooking me from the outside in, I screamed bloody murder.
It wasn’t the kind of nightmare you shake. It was the kind that has you sitting at your computer at two a.m., desperate to find something, anything, to erase the horrific images from your mind. It was the reason I spent three hours scouring websites about Atlantis’s demise. Even then, the hissing of burning skin kept haunting me, forcing me to reiterate my findings out loud as a distraction from the torturous cries that erupted from my imaginary charred body.
“It is estimated that Earth has been brought to the brink of extinction at least five times in the past five-hundred million years. One of these close calls was Comet Encke, a killer comet that passed by Earth unleashing a bombardment of meteoric material that set off a cosmic chain of events that culminated in major global catastrophe.”
It was a burn beyond anything comprehensible, heat devouring the tar smeared on my feet, arms, and legs.
“Every living creature scrambled to avoid sudden death at the hand of massive volcanic explosions, a firestorm of collapsing sky, and tsunamis that swallowed entire continents whole. Those who survived the onslaught were caught between Earth’s fractures, stranded by the sudden and dramatic shift in tectonic plates.”
Begging for the pain to end, willing my body to surrender, to die.
“What was left of obliterated Atlantis dropped beneath the sea in a day and a night.”
And I thought I had a morning from hell.
The day gets better over brunch, thank goodness. Though I’m exhausted, my plan to chat with Abby about the impending holidays and how she feels about celebrating fatherless goes better than predicted, proving Grams right, yet again. Grams thinks Meyer’s death was awful but well timed for Abby. She’s old enough to have made some great memories of her father, yet young enough to rebound from devastation quickly.
I wish I could say the same for myself. Between my frazzled nerves and analyzing Abby’s reactions to my questions, I don’t get much food down. Still, I’m pleased with the choice of locale. The bistro is at full capacity, not an empty chair in sight, and the surrounding bustle keeps me strangely focused. While I talk, Abby fills her belly with child-sized portions of pancakes, fruit, bacon, eggs, toast, and a bottomless glass of orange juice. She allows me to poke and probe, showing a maturity beyond her years. She doesn’t shed a single tear. Her bravery, along with an audience and my will to stay strong for my daughter, keep my tears at bay as well.
Abby and I shake on our deal to make our first Christmas without Meyer a happy holiday. It’s not going to be easy. But I have a plan.
On the way through the bistro door, we pass the kitchen and the incessant sizzling of the chef’s frying pan combined with the restless chatter of people standing in line brings visions of last night’s nightmare back to the forefront of my consciousness.
Flames snapping from my tar-tattered hands, the putrid smell of burning flesh. The horde, hatred and fear in their eyes.
I forcefully ignore the nightmare in my head and commit to focusing on the day with my daughter. We’re getting our Christmas tree today, a tradition I think is important to keep, but is bound to carry memories of Meyer. I need to stay focused. I need to give Abby my full attention. And tonight is the final pageant rehearsal, so I have to make this day special, uphold the pact with my angel.
Death and Christmas cannot coincide.
We ease into the parking lot of the tree farm then grab a shopping basket at the entrance. Abby, familiar with this shop, makes a run for the large wicker baskets surrounding the bases of heavily decorated Christmas trees. The overwhelming quantity of twinkling lights gleaming off reflective surfaces is breathtaking, almost dizzying, and I realize I am looking forward to the holiday despite knowing this season will be difficult with Meyer gone. I love Christmas. I love the wreaths, the trees, the lights, and the endless streams of decorations. I love how Santa brings a smile to every kid’s face. I love fresh-baked shortbread cookies, oven roasted turkey, and large glasses of eggnog. I love how families gather from across the globe, putting aside busy careers and differences to be together, and that our world becomes a happier place. People smile brighter, greet with more cheer, and give. It reminds me that there is more to this life than the tiny world I’ve built.
I follow Abby from tree to tree, absorbing the grand sparkle. My foot taps to the festive music coming from the store’s sound system, and I catch myself singing out loud. What a great holiday, one that allows you to sing something as ridiculously jubilant as “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” in public and not look like a total wacko.
Abby squeals from the other side of the Disney themed tree.
“What’ve you found?” I say, picking through Mickey Mouse ornaments.
“She found us.”
I look up and it’s Thomas, his forearms smothering the handle of a shopping cart. He smiles big.
“What are you doing here?” I’m equally pleased to see him, a reaction I find surprising after my tense exit from our dinner date last week.
“Sofia has never had a Christmas tree. I’ve never celebrated Christmas. We thought this would be a good year to start a new tradition.”
“Tree virgins.” I laugh and Thomas chuckles. “How is it coming along?" I look down. “Your cart is empty.”
“We haven’t been here long, but I have to admit I have no clue where to start. I don’t even know what we need exactly. I was about to ask for the store manager when Sofia spied Abby.”
The girls are on the other side of the tree, giggling.
“Well, I’m no expert, but I’m confident I can help with the basics. First things first, you need a base to hold the tree.” I call attention to the Christmas tree beside us, demonstrating its upright pose.
Thomas smirks. “I don’t just lean it into a corner?”
“Call for the manager,” I say, pretending to walk away.
Thomas grabs me. “Kidding. Help. Please.”
How can I refuse that face? “I saw tree bases over there,” I say, pointing to the entrance. “Pick one that holds water, then meet us at the Ha
rry Potter display. Today is your lucky day. I’m giving free lessons in tree decorating 101.”
Thomas snaps to attention before following instructions, and I round the tree, curious to know what warrants such giggles. I’m relieved Abby has Sofia to distract her from the memories this place evokes. We’ve come here every year since Abby was born.
Me, I choose to ignore the knot in my gut and concentrate on my pet project.
My guided tour has the four of us ambling through the store, fiddling with every shiny object that catches our attention. The possibilities are endless and narrowing down select ornaments proves to be a daunting task. At one point Abby stops dead, enthralled with miniature white lights that flicker to the beat of “Jingle Bells.” As the music accelerates, so do the flashing lights.
“I gotta get me some of those!” bellows Thomas, knocking an entire shelf of boxed lights into his cart. We all laugh and Thomas declares the spree a success, requesting my assistance with a verbal checklist.
“Tree base,” I say, an invisible check sheet and pen in hand.
“Yep,” says Thomas.
“Lights.”
“Oh yeah,” he laughs. He’s got enough lights to blow the area’s power grid.
“Tree topper?”
Thomas holds up a funky metal star. “Check.”
“Garland?”
“Ah, these things?” He’s got several strings of bright-red beads. I think they’re painted cork. I give Thomas a high-five. My protégé’s done me proud. Reaching into his cart, I examine ornaments, making sure there is a good assortment. Thomas eyes me digging. “What are you looking for?” he says.
“Did you choose ones with meaning or are they just random?”
“I picked ones I like,” he says, eyebrows high, challenging me.
“You are supposed to choose ones that speak to you.”
“You do things your way, and I do things my way. Besides, I picked some that speak to me.” He shoves an arm into the loaded cart, seemingly in search of something specific. “See,” he says, handing me a box. “It reminds me of you.” It’s a ceramic Minnie Mouse. She’s wearing a painting smock, a paintbrush dripping red paint in one hand. Little red dots cover the Christmas tree on her canvas. It’s adorable and I’m speechless. Thomas thrusts another box at me. “And this one speaks to me.”
I turn the box as it repeats, “This one speaks to me, this one speaks to me, this one speaks to me . . .” over and over in Thomas’s voice, only monotone.
Thomas covers his mouth to contain a gut-wrenching laugh. “See, I can be taught,” he says.
The box repeats, “I can be taught, I can be taught, I can be taught . . .” and the two of us double over laughing.
A curious stranger stops to ogle us. “What’s the fuss?” he says, and the ornament belts a repeat of his inquiry, but in monotone it sounds like “What the fuck?” so Thomas and I crack-up even more, until we’re swiping tears.
Laughter, what a drug.
I tighten Abby’s coat belt and steer my students toward the back door.
“Come, tree virgins. Nothing says Christmas like the smell of fresh pine.”
Thick ringlets fly every which way while Sofia attempts to persuade Thomas to give our tree-cutting tradition a try. It’s not an easy sell.
Thomas groans, holding tight to the door handle. “A real tree? I was thinking a plastic one would work, maybe one with fake snow on the branches.”
I roll my eyes.
“Seriously, Mr. Outdoors? No way, I can’t let you do it.” I pry Thomas’s fingers from the door.
Every year Meyer stood in this exact spot, cataloging the downsides to cutting our own tree, listing the virtues of a fake. It’s a good memory, one that makes me smile. Of course, Meyer never won the tree debate. And Thomas doesn’t stand a chance either.
“A cut tree smells great, looks natural, and is biodegradable. Don’t contribute to landfill problems.” You gotta love the power of environmental guilt. “Grab a saw!” I slip on a customary Santa hat and toss Thomas the mouthy ornament.
The ornament says, “Grab a saw, grab a saw, grab a saw . . .”
Thomas searches for the off switch, laughing. Then he slides on a Santa hat and follows me outside, grabbing a saw from the bin.
My, my, he can be taught.
By evening I’m pooped. Both Thomas and I receive calls to say the girls aren’t required at tonight’s rehearsal, but I still spend an hour dispensing costumes at the church while Mrs. Maples supervises Abby and Sofia’s sleepover at my place, giving Thomas a kid-free night to himself. It’s the least I could do, since the guy has not only been there for me, but he delivered and set up our ten-foot Douglas fir, getting sap and pine needles all over his truck.
I’m about head home, to grab my coat and purse from their usual hidey-hole behind the stage curtain, when I run into Karen scanning the auditorium.
“Looks good, doesn’t it?” she says.
“The set looks awesome, the props are in place, and the star decorations Lou Ann hung from the rafters look really cool. I see the old piano is being tuned, so that should pretty well cover it. You’ve done a great job, Karen. If only everything ran so smoothly.” I chuckle. “Wanna use your magic to finish my holiday shopping?”
Karen snorts. “Only the crazy enter a mall this close to Christmas. And you hate shopping.”
“I’m desperate. I don’t know what to get for Stephen. And if I don’t courier his gift by tomorrow, it won’t arrive in time for Christmas. Got any ideas?”
“You’re on your own. It takes everything in my power to find a gift my husband won’t forget by New Year’s Eve.” A memory makes her scowl.
“I’ll find something, I hope.”
“Take Thomas shopping. He’ll help you find something good for your brother, something manly and masculine.” Mischief pulls tiny wrinkles at the sides of her mouth.
For some reason Bryce comes to mind. When Mrs. Maples arrived to babysit tonight, eyebrows drawn on lopsided, she told me to call Bryce Waters. No reason, no explanation, I was just to call him. Tonight, I was to call him tonight. I studied her, confused. I wasn’t even aware she knew Bryce. And what would I call him for? Like many of my chats with Mrs. Maples, it was an odd conversation without segue. And as usual, she waved away my questions, smiling, swatting me out the door with her cane.
I shake my head clear. “See you tomorrow, Karen.” I grab my stuff and leave.
What is it with friends and their need to hook me up with men?
The car is cold, slow, and by the time I stand on his doorstep about to knock, my confidence has waned. What the hell am I doing? This is a bad idea. I can’t drag some guy from his house to go to the mall with me. I should just go by myself. Pulling my coat tight, I turn around and walk back to my car.
“Tess? Is everything okay? What’s wrong?”
I turn around to see Thomas standing in his doorway, obviously concerned. He’s naked, but for shorts and a tiny towel slung around his neck. I quickly divert my stare. Now I know what all the fuss was about. The man looks quite nice all sweaty and ripped.
“Nothing has happened, Thomas, don’t worry. Sofia is fine. I phoned Mrs. Maples and the kids are sound asleep.”
When I asked Mrs. Maples if she minded staying another hour or two, she said she’d raised a brood the size of a wolf pack and two itty-bitty girls wouldn’t pose a break in her stride.
“You okay?” Thomas says, his voice coming closer.
“You must be freezing, go back inside. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“No bother, what’s up?”
“I’m thinking about heading to the mall,” I say to my car.
“Okay,” he says, drawing the word out slowly.
“I need a Christmas gift for my brother and could use a guy’s opinion.”
Thomas chuckles. “I’m a guy.”
I think of him holding Abby in his arms. “Um hmm.” Somewhere in my subconscious a proper invitation prances,
just slightly out of reach.
“Give me twenty minutes to—”
“I don’t want to interrupt. Tonight is your free night.”
“Right,” he says, “my night, my choice, and I’d like to be with you. I was working out, but I’m done. It’ll only take a few minutes to shower and get dressed.”
I’m wondering if this is such a good idea when Thomas grunts. I hear him head back to the house and when I spin to see if he’s ditched me, he throws me a set of keys from the doorway.
“Either come inside or wait in my truck,” he says then chuckles. “I won’t fit in that miniature shit-box of yours.”
I pretend to be shocked. “Don’t dis the Magic Carpet,” I yell, making my way to Thomas’s truck. “Ignore him,” I mumble to my car in passing. Magic Carpet is the beat-up Volkswagen Bug I inherited from my mother. She’s sunflower yellow and qualified for the seniors discount at Jiffy Lube fourteen years ago when my mother and I drove her to the Grand Canyon. I love her, but she is a shit-box.
Unlocking the doors to Thomas’s truck, I shimmy into the passenger seat and make myself comfortable. It’s a nice truck, new and fully loaded from the looks of it. The smell of pine is overwhelming. I shake my coat off. Fatigue hits me, the dark insisting it’s bedtime, but I can’t get the damn seat to recline so I toss my jacket over the console and climb onto the back bench, spreading out. I’ve got twenty minutes to catch a quick catnap.
Tap, tap, tap . . .
I hear a faint tapping but my body doesn’t respond as I float in a blissful state of sleep.
Tap, tap, tap . . .
I move in slow motion, the dim dashboard light confusing my retinas. My skin is toasty warm, muscles placid. I tilt my head, a slight shift toward the tapping sound.
Tap, tap, tap . . .
A dark shadow appears in the window and for an instant fear raises the hair on my scalp.
“Thomas!” I reach to unlock the door.
Thomas climbs in the back, all teeth, rumbling laugh vibrating his throat. “You sleep like the dead,” he says, grabbing the headrest to turn around. “It’s all right, don’t get up.” He lifts my feet and sits, placing my feet in his lap.
