Page 4 of Wishing Stone

“I’m decorating.”

“I can see that, but….” I trailed off and frowned, suddenly realizing what was different about the Christmas tree. “That’s a fake tree. Why didn’t you get a real one?”

“Because I couldn’t leave the house to pick one out.”

A sharp stab of guilt poked at my chest, knowing that was her subtle way of reminding me about the rules I’d dictated to keep her safe.

“We had one delivered last year, remember?” I reminded. “We just took a walk around the property while the crew was inside setting it up so there was no risk of exposing you to anything.”

“Oh, I remember it vividly. After they left, Vivian ran around the house spraying disinfectant. I ended up tasting it for a week,” she said with a wry smile. “But to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t happy with last year’s tree. It was short and lopsided even though we’d asked for a tall one to reach these soaring ceilings. That tree was anything but.”

I pursed my lips together and frowned as I recalled seeing last year’s tree for the first time. Krystina was right. It had been very crooked and not nearly as tall as it was supposed to be. Had I been in the house when it arrived, I would have sent it back. While she tried to hide the worst of the cockeyed angle by positioning the tree in a corner, it was still bad.

Nevertheless, Krystina loved Christmas, and there were specific must-do’s every year. Having a real tree was one of them.

“Angel, you’ve always insisted on having a real tree. Are you sure this is what you want?”

“It’s fine,” she waved off. “Buying a fake tree online was easy and safe, and I was able to make sure I got what I wanted. I’m totally good with this. In fact, I bought two of them. One for in here and one for the foyer.” As an afterthought, she added, “Oh, I also bought these little scent sticks that will make the rooms smell like pine.”

“Scent sticks?” I questioned skeptically.

“I hear your tone. Don’t judge. I mean, yes—I would love to have a real tree, but I can make do for a year. And, as silly as it sounds, I’m kind of hoping that the pine smell from the sticks will draw attention away from why I don’t have a real tree in the first place. This gilded cage can feel like a bit much sometimes,” Krystina reasoned with a flip of her hand, motioning to the room around us.

Her tone was light, but I knew the truth behind her words. She looked up at me with a small smile of reassurance. She seemed happy—truly content to make do, scent sticks and all—and I didn’t want to say or do anything to ruin that. She’d been through enough over the past couple of years. So instead, I pursed my lips and decided it was better not to push the issue of the tree any further.

Reaching for her, I pulled her tight to my chest once again. I just wished there was another way to keep Krystina and the baby we planned to have safe from harm. I hated that she was stuck in the house all the time—in a cage as she put it—and that it had been my decision to lock her up.

2

Alexander

Ididn’t particularly enjoy the holidays, but Krystina loved them. She usually did all the decorating, but I decided it wouldn’t kill me to help her this year. Having already finished our dinner of Vivian’s superb homemade squash ravioli in a delicious pine nut pesto, I worked alongside my wife to decorate the artificial pine. Krystina’s playlist of upbeat Christmas music provided a festive backdrop as she regaled me with stories of Christmas past.

“When I was growing up, we had this Christmas Eve tradition. My stepfather and I always looked forward to it, but my mother…” she paused and tapped her finger against her chin as if she were trying to think of the right words. “Well, you know how difficult my mother can be at times—too serious, even at Christmas. She tolerated Frank’s holiday shenanigans, but I loved every bit of the show he would put on.”

“Show?” I asked with a raised brow. I had a hard time imagining Krystina’s stepfather as a showman.

“Yeah, I guess you could call it that. Frank would get all decked out in this fancy Santa Claus costume. It was plush with shiny gold buttons. It looked so authentic, and no kid would dare question whether he was the real deal or not. He’d buy bags and bags of candy, and off we’d go to his car dealership where members of the local volunteer fire department would be waiting for us with their big red firetruck. That was the best part—riding in the truck. All the kids at school thought I was so cool for being allowed on a firetruck withtheSanta Claus,” she added with a laugh as she hung a silver ornament on one of the tree branches.

“As hard as I try, I can’t picture Frank dressed as Santa.”

“Oh, he did. He’d even stuff his suit, saying he needed to shake like a bowl full of jelly. Then he’d clamber to the top of the rig with his big ole’ stuffed belly, and I would ride inside with my mother. The firefighters would blast Christmas music and let me pull the horn while ‘Santa’ threw candy to all the kids in low-income neighborhoods. It was so magical to me—the decorated truck, the music, and the excitement from all the kids. Afterward, Frank would invite the firefighters to the dealership where he’d serve them a catered gourmet meal right there in the massive showroom, complete with homemade figgy pudding. It was his way of saying thank you for their volunteer service to the community.”

“I thought figgy pudding was just something made up for a song. It’s a real thing?”

“It sure is. It’s basically a molded pudding made from figs and other dried fruit. Frank’s mother was British. Before she died, she would make it and bring it to Christmas Eve dinner. I never particularly cared for it. What about you?”

“Do I like figgy pudding? I just said I didn’t even realize it was a real thing until—”

“No, no. Not figgy pudding. I meant traditions. Do you have any traditions from when you were…um, younger?” she finished hesitantly, knowing she may be asking a loaded question. I understood her caution. With my less-than-normal upbringing, anything was possible.

I shrugged indifferently.

“I’ve told you before, angel. Christmas was always just another day to me. With my dad constantly in between jobs, we had little money, but my mom did what she could for my sister and me. After everything happened with my mother and father, and Justine and I moved in with my grandparents, there were a few more gifts under the tree but not any traditions that I can remember.”

It didn’t surprise me that I couldn’t recall any special Christmas traditions. I’d suppressed many of my childhood memories. It was a symptom of my PTSD which I was still trying to work through.

“Hmmm…” she contemplatively murmured as she stood back to observe the Christmas tree that was near completion. “Maybe I’ll get some picture books and ask your mom if she remembers any tradition that you might have had. If there was one, maybe we could start it back up again—if not for you, then for her. It might make her happy.”

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