Page 77 of The Bright Side of Christmas
“Taking the picture,” she explains simply—typical Wren.
I move down the hall, my focus on finding Wren amongst the people in the photos, and I smile each time I do, until my heart stops when I see a familiar face. I move in front of it, taking her in. She’s a bit younger in this photo than I remember, though not by much, and standing in front of the town hall, all lit up. I supposed I always knew that at some point I’d see the reason I settled on this town, but after not bumping into her, I figured there was a chance she was a part of some lucid dream that had instead led me to Wren.
“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing at the woman.
“Who’s who?” Wren asks, moving closer to me. A small breath leaves her lips, and when she turns her face to me, there’s a melancholy look there, a look that is just as much joy as it is pain before she speaks. “That was my grandmother.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
The January before last, I had a layover in the Denver airport on my way to New York, but a storm had all planes grounded for the foreseeable future. I was sitting at a bar nursing the dregs of a drink when an older woman sat next to me.
“A glass of white, whatever you recommend,” she said, smiling up at the bartender who came over. “And whatever else he wants.”
I turned to her and couldn’t help it—I smiled. Even though I wanted nothing to do with anyone, being that not only was I stuck in an airport when I should be in the sky, but also because I’d just gotten word that Blacknote Records had rejected all four of the songs I was trying to sell them, I smiled at this woman.
She was in her late seventies to early eighties, by my best guess, with short, gray hair curled on her head and big, wire-rimmed glasses attached to a pink stone chain. She was wearing a light pink cardigan set and had a matching rolling suitcase, which made me wonder if she had chosen that outfit intentionally. The stool was high, and she was short, so she had to give a little hop, grabbing the bar top to help boost herself as she got onto the stool. But once she settled, she let out a deep sigh and turned to me, putting a hand out.
“Dottie,” she said.
I stared for a moment, and even though I always made every effort to avoid talking to strangers because there were few things on this earth I hate more than small talk, I shook it. She didn’t seem the type that you simply ignored.
“Adam.”
“How long have you been stuck here?” she asked.
“Three hours with endless more in sight.”
She nodded and smiled. “You looked like you could use some company.”
I wanted to argue, to tell her I didn’t. To say I didn’t need nor want company. But before she had come over to me, I was scribbling out ideas onto a cocktail napkin, trying my best to think of something new to offer the label, and coming up with nothing. Having her here gave me a good excuse not to continue down that depressing path.
“You’re right,” I said, and when her smile widened and the wrinkles around her mouth deepened, showing me clearly that she did it often, I knew I had made the right choice.
Over the next two hours, she told me everything there was to know about her. She was from a small town and was on a trip because she had gotten a nasty diagnosis recently and wanted an adventure before she was too sick to travel. She was on her way back from an Alaskan cruise when she got stuck in the airport. She had two children, five grandkids, and a great-granddaughter.
In exchange, I confessed my own stories to her, ones I usually kept close to my chest. I was in a band, and I now write music for a living.
I was stuck.
“I’m coming back from a stay in a cabin in Montana. I was hoping it would help with my writer’s block,” I said as I swirled the dregs of my second drink, casting my eyes down.
“Did it work?” The question wasn’t asked the way Greg asked, laced with annoyance or pity. It was a genuine question, like she genuinely wanted the answer.
Still, I gave her a safe one.
“Travel is always worth the adventure,” I said, even though I didn’t know if I really believed that anymore. She looked me over, clearly reading that it wasn’t an answer at all, but appearing to go with it all the same.
“I wish my grandkids were adventurous. They’ve never left our little town.”
I nodded, relieved to be off the topic of my writing. “Oh yeah? And where’s that?” I crossed my arms on my chest and leaned back, looking her way.
She smiled widely, as if even the memory of her home brought her joy and peace. “Holly Ridge, New Jersey. The best little town in the whole world.”
“Maybe they love it so much they don’t want to leave?” I asked, and she shrugged.
“My grandsons, maybe. My granddaughter…she has the bug. She wants to see the world, to travel about.”
“But?” I asked. There’s always a but.
