my tree, and my heart fills with joy. I sit on my couch, sip my tea and stare at my tree, remembering Christmases past. I think of spending Christmas Day with Abby and her family.
“It’s not what’s under the Christmas tree that matters, but who’s around it.”
“You’re right, Charlie Brown,” I say, staring at the TV.
I head to the kitchen and set my cup in the sink. The sky has cleared, the wind calmed and the stars are bright. I can see the moon shimmer off the lake.
I have the best water view in Michigan now, I think.
Moonlight illuminates my Christmas cactus, and I smile.
“You will finally have some company, Pretty Boy,” I say.
I move the cactus underneath the tree, lie down on the couch and pull a blanket over my aching body.
I fall asleep on the couch in front of the tree, just like I did as a girl.
When I wake, hours later, I cannot believe my eyes. In fact, I blink—once, twice—rub my eyes with my fingers and then reach for my glasses.
My Christmas cactus is in full bloom, its prickly green arms weighted down with beautiful red blooms.
I jump up and do a little jig around the tree.
“You were right, Grandma! You were right!”
I lean down and touch a bloom on the cactus. “I told you!” I can hear it say in my grandma’s voice. “I told you!”
ABBY
DECEMBER 2003
I haven’t seen Cory this excited for Christmas, ever.
There is a photo his mom has of him as a little boy in her scrapbook during a famed Christmas blizzard. Cory is probably seven—around Lily’s age—and is standing outside in a snowsuit, white up to his chest. It appears as if he was set down in quicksand and is disappearing. A brand-new sled he got for Christmas sits beside him, actually above him, right around his shoulders. But the most incredible element of the photo is the smile on his face, that smile only a child can have when it’s a white Christmas and you just received the toy you wanted more than anything in the world.
Cory is wearing that exact same expression right now.
“You look just like Ralphie from A Christmas Story,” I say, “and you just got your Red Ryder BB gun.”
“I can’t believe it,” he says. “It’s a miracle.”
He is staring at a letter in his hands, which arrived late last night, just after he received a call from his friend at the Defense Department. His hands are shaking, and his smile morphs into a pained expression. Suddenly, my big rock of a husband dissolves into tears, shaking so hard I have to walk over and hold him.
“There, there,” I whisper. “Don’t cry. This is a miracle. You did it. You did it.”
We found out only yesterday that the remains of First Lieutenant Jonathan Maynard—Iris’s husband—had been positively identified.
“I’m so nervous,” he says, pulling back to look at me. I run my fingers under his eyes to dry his tears. “What if she’s angry I got involved? What if it’s too much of a shock for her? She’s come so far. What if this causes her to retreat again?”
“You found her husband,” I say. I give his shoulders a shake. “You.”
Cory begins to cry again. “I had to bring him home,” he says. “I had to give Iris closure.” He stops and pulls me into his arms. “I had to try and give myself closure.”
I hold my husband until his crying subsides. I shut my eyes and rock him. In my head I see the picture of him in the snow. When I open my eyes, a blanket of snow covers the land. I think of Iris. I think of Jonathan. I think of me.
We all grow up, many of us much too quickly. Some of us wall ourselves off from our memories because the pain is too much. Some of us refuse to take on responsibility; some take on too much. Some of us become who we think we’re supposed to be rather than who we dreamed of being as a child.
But all of us remain—somewhere inside—kids at heart: vulnerable, joyous, scared yet unscarred by life. It’s just that we keep that child hidden and protected, because we must.
Lily comes rushing into the kitchen. “Time to make cookies?” she asks.
I smile, and Cory laughs. He wipes his face, and I kiss him on the cheek.
“Yes,” I say. “But we have to wait for Iris to help us decorate.”
“Okay,” Lily says. “But I get to lick the