As if Eva had ever dragged a dead Christmas tree to the curb. “What if it rains?”
Liz shrugged. “Outdoor lights. Glass and ceramic ornaments. I have boxes of them at home in New Jersey. But I couldn’t stand the idea of a treeless Christmas so I packed some of my favorites and brought them with me.”
Liz took the tag that they’d been handed upon entering and hung it on the tree, claiming it as theirs, and removed a different one that they would take with them to the front of the tree farm to pay.
The daylight was melting into evening as they pulled out of the lot and headed south toward home. Eva leaned back in the seat and stared out the window as the warm glow of the afternoon began to fade, thinking of the long night ahead of her.
* * *
Their tree was delivered two days later, its roots wrapped in a burlap bag. It came on an enormous truck that also carried equipment to dig a hole deep enough to plant it. Liz supervised the entire thing, choosing a spot in front of Eva’s side of the porch. After the tree had been planted and the workmen paid and tipped, Liz opened her front door and carried out a box labeled Christmas.
With Liz’s stereo blasting carols, the two of them got to work. First they strung the white twinkle lights, and then came the ornaments. Liz had a story for nearly every one of them. Gifts from colleagues and former grad students, whom she remembered with vivid detail and fondness. Handmade ceramic ones from when her daughter, Ellie, had been a little girl. “I’m probably the only visiting professor who ever packed a box of Christmas ornaments for a six-month post,” she said. “But I’ve never had a single Christmas without a tree.” She set aside a clumpy wreath constructed out of dough, the name Ellie written on the back, a quiet sadness on her face that Eva pretended not to notice.
As they worked, Eva found herself wanting to slow things down, to draw the evening out. She thought ahead to this time next year, when everything would be resolved, one way or another. She’d either be somewhere far away or dead. And Liz would be long gone, her short time in Berkeley a distant memory, Eva just another name on a holiday card list.
When the last of the decorations had been hung, Liz disappeared inside and returned carrying something wrapped in tissue paper. As she handed it to Eva, she said, “I wanted to be the one to give you your first Christmas ornament. I hope that from now on, wherever you are, wherever you go, you will think of me when you look at it.”
Eva unwrapped the layers of tissue paper, revealing a handblown glass bluebird.
“The bluebird is the harbinger of happiness,” Liz said. “That’s my Christmas wish for you.”
Eva ran her finger over the smooth glass. The detail on it was amazing, with deep swirling blues and purples, fading into almost ice white in some places. “Liz,” she whispered. “It’s incredible. Thank you.” She reached down and hugged Liz.
Liz pulled her tight, embracing Eva in a way she’d always imagined her mother might, and she nearly broke, so strong was her desire to be known. To be seen, instead of constantly protecting herself, measuring her words and actions against discovery. It all felt like too much to carry alone, and Liz was the sort of person who might help Eva out from under it. The words rested right behind her lips, trembling, waiting to break free, but Eva swallowed them down. “I didn’t get anything for you.”
“Your friendship is gift enough,” Liz said. “Let’s turn on these lights and have a cup of hot chocolate.”
They carried chairs from Liz’s dining room onto the porch and sat with their feet propped up on the railing. The tree lit up the dark night, its lights glowing as if from within, cloaking everything else in shadows.
“I found out my mother is dead,” Eva said, her voice just a whisper in the dark. She couldn’t give Liz the truth about her life, but she could give her this. “She died when I was eight.”
Liz turned sideways in her chair and looked at her. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
Eva shrugged, trying to steel herself from the pain she still felt at the discovery. “I’m trying to tell myself this is better. Simpler. At