Page 62 of Season of Gifts

“You don’t want—” Shaking his head, Father sighed and gazed past him, over his head.Maybe he and the moose had a pact.

Father pointed at the grandfather clock between the windows.The tubes and hanging disk shone behind the tall glass front.The dark cabinet matched the rest of the wood in Father’s study.Father called it cherry, but it didn’t look anything like a cherry—not red, not delicious.Maybe like the hard pit Henry was supposed to spit out, but only carefully into his napkin.

“To bed with you, young man.You may kiss your mother goodnight, but don’t pester her for a story.”The fat silver pen slipped out of its holder and back into Father’s hand.“You’re old enough to be responsible for yourself.Off you go.”

Lina would have left fresh pajamas on his bed and a glass of water on the nightstand.Mother’s door at the end of the hall stood open a thin crack, with light falling through it.He pushed, and it swung silently away.“Mother?”

She called his name with glee.“Is it bedtime already?What book did you bring?Come sit with me.”

He halted at the edge of the bed, smoothing the tiny ripples in the quilt.“Father said not to.I’m not to bother you.”

Usually he would have a book in his hand and carefully pull himself onto the bed so as not to hurt her.Mother let him rest his head on her arm while she read; she said that was the best way for her to steal his playground energy and leave him sleepy enough for bed.

“You are never a bother, darling boy.You are my utter delight.”Today’s quilt was the all-white one with the extra white on top, fancy stitches in tiny patterns.Mother loved it because it was a gift from her mother.But it just looked like snowflakes upon snowflakes, all mounding over her body up to her arms.

He followed the edge of the snowbank all the way around to her side and strained on his tiptoes to reach her cheek for a kiss.“Goodnight, Mother.”

She smushed her lips together in a sad kissy face.“All right, then.ButIwant a story.Fetch me one, and I shall read it to myself.Out loud, if I like.”She lifted one eyebrow at him.“You may keep me company.”

He didwant a bedtime story.But Father said he was too old for that, and Father knew everything.Henry was supposed to kiss Mother, brush his teeth, put on his pajamas, and turn out his light.Father had said not to be a pest, but he hadn’t said what to do if Mother wanted a story.“Is that lying?If I stay for the story and say it’s yours and not mine?”

“A little white lie, perhaps.But those don’t hurt us, Henry.They are a kindness.”She rubbed her hand over his hair, her fingers soft.“Sometimes they are what keep us going.”

Keep going, yes.His knees ached.He was taking Mother to her room.The oxygen canister on its little wheeled cart rested beside the leg of the chair.

“Henry?”

He lifted his head, and the soft fingers in his hair slipped away.

“My apologies.I didn’t mean to shout.”More of a shouted whisper, but still.A man ought not behave so abominably toward his mother.He rocked back on his ankles and ignored his complaining calves as he stood.“Are you ready to continue?”

She studied him with too-knowing eyes.“We should talk about it, darling.The past is so close now; I almost imagine Dickens’ first specter will whisk me off to what might have been.”

Discussing the past was unnecessary.He had devoted much attention to it years ago; including art therapy in his college major had certainly been an emotional reaction to the difficult time when Mother had been so ill.“I should start dinner for us both.But I want you safely in bed, please.”

He positioned his arm in front of her as the rehab team had taught him, the steady grip bar Lina had used last weekend.Of course Lina would have known how to best assist; she’d undoubtedly helped his mother with innumerable tasks his younger self had been utterly unaware of.

Mother did possess a mulish glare when she wished.“You are wearing yourself out.I love having you here, darling.”She laid a hand on his forearm.“It eases my heart, yes.But it is also asking more of you than you should have to bear.”

She gripped, and her weight pressed down on him as she gained her feet.A basket of feathers, she was.

“You are never a bother,” he whispered.“You are an utter delight.”

Her lips curved in a warm smile.The oxygen mask dangled around her neck; she hooked one arm in his and nudged the tank carrier forward with the other.“You win, darling.If I cannot have my garden, then please bring me my studio.Sketch for me.Let the sound of you absorbed in work you love be my lullaby this evening.Draw me the garden.Draw me the seashore.Draw me your spouses’ beautiful faces.”

The tension planting him in place released.“A fair bargain.After dinner, then.”

He settled her in the bedroom and plugged in the baby monitor Lina had left for him on the nightstand as promised.Her grandchildren no longer needed it.He would consult with the full-time nurse, once they had one in place, on the best long-term solution.He tested the system, then left Mother with her book and her glass of water, carrying the portable walkie-talkie style listening device with him to the kitchen.If she needed him, he would hear her.

The rhythms of cooking, so familiar, proved soothing as he neared thirty hours of wakefulness.Mother’s request for sketching after dinner might send him to sleep as easily as her.Once they had a nurse—the nurse candidate.He’d been scheduled to meet with her today.Dammit.Six-thirty now, likely past their office hours, but he could call and ask to reschedule at her earliest possible convenience.

He finished his prep work on the soup and urged the stovetop to a boil.Washing his hands in pure cold from the tap woke his sleepy mind further, and he set the electric teakettle on to boil as well.His phone showed no urgent notifications from Alice or Jay thus far today; he left an apologetic message for the nursing service and recorded an audio update for his spouses before the kettle boiled.After hunting for a small tray suitable for the bedside table, he assembled the tea things—including a plate of cookies much reduced from their usual gluttony, to make Mother laugh—and lowered the temperature under the soup to a simmer.

The nagging sense that he’d missed something remained.

Chapter thirty-three

Jay

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