Page 115 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

Guilt spears through me. Idotell him that. I’ve also told him the biggest lie of all, and he’s bound to find out someday.

I kiss the top of his head and get out, closing the car door behind me. Then I slide behind the wheel.

“What are you doing, Mom?” he protests.

“I’m bringing you home, honey.”

“But we need a tree! Even if Santa’s a lie, we still need a tree. We always have a tree.Always.Where are we going to put our ornaments if we don’t have a tree?”

The look on his face tells me how much he needs this small sliver of normalcy. But I also know he’s not ready to go back out there. Frankly, I’m not ready for him to go back out there.

“I’ll stay in the car,” he offers. “You can play carols for me.”

I turn the radio on, tears pressing against my eyes. Ever since he was a toddler, listening to Christmas carols has calmed him. Maybe because they help drown out all the other noise. “Too loud?”

“No, that’s good.”

I turn in the seat. “Did you like any of the trees we saw?”

“We need to get the Charlie Brown tree.”

“Oh,” I sputter. “You liked that one?”

He looks at me like I’ve just said something unforgivably stupid. “No, it’s a bad tree, Mom. Really awful. It’s probably the worst one I’ve ever seen. But I don’t want it to go in the woodchipper.”

“No, neither do I,” I say, feeling that press of tears again. Because I don’t. And heck, maybe a tree with mange is the perfect way to close out this horrible year.

I leave the car running, Christmas carols playing, and tell Aidan at least five times to call me if he needs me. Of course, the other attendant, the one who’s presumably not drunk, is busy assisting other customers, so I’m stuck with Not-Santa. I stroll up to him, all confidence—because that mask is somethingIneed—and say, “We’ll take the Charlie Brown tree.”

“You can have it for free.” He sounds almost sober now, but in a weird way that makes me feel worse. He clearly feels sorry for us, like he thinks there’s something wrong with my son because he’s different. “I wasn’t joking. It probably would have ended up in the chipper anyway.”

“No,” I say, getting the money out of my wallet. “Here. It said thirty-five on the price tag.” I shove the money at him. “Just so you know, though, I have every intention of writing reviews everywhere I can post them to warn unsuspecting parents that you enjoy crushing the dreams of six-year-old children. Merry Christmas.”

“Um. Don’t you need me to get it on the roof?” he asks.

Huh.

I nod regally. Or at least I hope it looks regal. “Right this way.”

As I lead him toward the car, where Christmas music is still streaming softly from the speakers, it occurs to me that Aidan probably won’t react well to Not-Santa opening his door, so I tell the man to get it on top and leave the rest to me. My father taught my sisters and me his Boy Scout knowledge of tying knots.

The guy works quickly, giving me a wide berth, and then backs away, like my problems might be the kind of disease that’s catching.

When I open the back passenger door to tie the twine around the metal loops affixed just inside the opening, my gaze falls on Aidan. His head is drooped against the side of his booster seat, his eyes cinched shut, but I know he’s not asleep. He looks so innocent, his dark hair curling slightly at the ends, his long lashes brushing his cheeks, and I just want to bundle him up and protect him from the whole world.

I try to assure myself that he just needs time, but it feels like I’m screwing up everything lately.

Maybe we should have stayed in Charlotte, where we lived when his father left us. We certainly shouldn’t have moved to Asheville in the middle of the school year. He’s not adjusting well to the change. Back in Charlotte, he barely ate anything; here, his diet resembles that of a baby bird. Well, no, I don’t do the whole chewing-up-food thing for him. It’s just that he barely he eats anything, even when I ply him with hot chocolate and gingerbread and other foods he used to love. Although he approves of his occupational therapist (Mondays at 4:30) and his teacher, Ms. Liu, whom he tells me wears “an agreeable mix of colors,” he hasn’t had much else to say about school.

Ms. Liu tells me he’s struggling. On Monday, she called to encourage me to sign him up for this program called Butterfly Buddies. It sounds like Big Brothers, Big Sisters but it’s specifically for kids on the autism spectrum. She thinks he’s lonely, and I know she’s right. It’s never been easy for him to connect with people, and inside, he’s a mess of emotions that he doesn’t know how to process.

These people work miracles, she said, and it took everything I had not to say,Oh, yeah? Can they give him his father back? Because that would be a true miracle.But none of this is her fault, so I didn’t, of course. I didn’t give her an answer either, because the idea of sending Aidan off with a stranger gives me hives. What if he hates his buddy? What if they’re a kidnapper? What if they’re a weirdo, or they steal Aidan’s social security number?

My sisters would tell me I’m going to be carried away on a river of what-ifs.

Ms. Liu did assure me that there’s a strenuous vetting system. Maybe it’s time to take a chance. Aidan needs something, and as much as it kills me, I’m clearly not giving it to him.

I don’t regret bringing my son here, though. Glenn doesn’t even live in Charlotte anymore, and although his parents do, and they’re great, I wanted to be closer tomyfamily. Being near my sisters is good for both of us, and I’ve arranged for Aidan to spend every other weekend with his paternal grandparents for a dose of normalcy. That’s all we need, really—a new normal. Once we find it, everything else will fall into place.

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