All ofthevisible ornaments were of lassos, sheriff badges, and bucking broncos, whilethe nicer glass baubles and family heirlooms seemed to be hiding in the back.
Dad had clearlybeen in charge ofdecorating this year.
“Again?” I asked,shooting a sidelong glare at my brother as I tipped my glass of eggnog to mylips.
The sounds of childrentormenting our mother in the kitchen floated into the living room, and Iscoffed as I took a sip. Better her than me, I figured.
“I don’t even know whywe split in the first place, man,” my brother admitted. “We get along so well,and I mean, I know it’skindasoon to be jumping intocommitment—”
I snorted against therim. “Youused to be married.”
“Okay, okay.” Jeffrolled his eyes. “It’s soon to be jumping into commitmentagain, is what I mean. But, we’re happy, and I’ve spent too much ofmy life avoiding that.”
Gazing up at the gaudytinseled star at the top of the tree, my thoughts drifted to that firstChristmas, after Beth died. I didn’t put up a tree that year. It was too soon.Too soon for trees and stars and presents. Too soon for wrapping paper andjoyful noises. The year after that, though, I did it. For the girls. Theydeserved to have Christmas, even if I felt I didn’t.
This year, though … Iwanted it. Maybe even more than they did. We had bought our little treetogether, one night a couple of weeks ago, knowing it’d be the last in oursmall apartment. We had decorated it whileElfplayed in the background, and afterward, when the decorations were hung and thelights were lit, I’d pulled my keyboard from my bedroom and played Christmasmusic while the girls giggled and spun in circles.
And that, I’d done forallof us. For the girls. For myself.For Beth. For the life we had, and for the life I was leaving behind.
“God, you’re not evenlistening,” Jeff grumbled, and I pulled myself from my reverie to see his gazehad dropped to his own glass.
“No,” I shook my headadamantly, “I am. I’m sorry. I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Beth,” I repliedhonestly. “Happiness. Life. Whatever.”
“It’skindaweird, isn’t it?” He pursed his lips, nodding.
“Yeah, it really is.” Ipulled in a deep sigh before drinking from my glass again, and after I took asip, I said, “You should do it. Get remarried to your ex-wife.”
Jeff sniffed a chuckle.“Well, now that I have your blessing, I guess I will.”
Clapping a hand againstmy shoulder, he asked, “And what about you? When are yougonnastop being an idiot and stop wasting your time on being unhappy?”
I shrugged and allowedthat to be my answer. Because the truth was, I hadn’t decided yet. Hell, Iwasn’t sure it was even up to me, when everything in my life felt so completelyout of my hands.
Jeff snorted and shookhis head. “Man, I hope something comes along and knocks some sense into you.”
“Yeah,” I mutteredagainst my glass. “We’ll see.”
***
A week after Christmas, and the apartmentwas empty.
Void of all ourbelongings, it no longer felt like home. That place we moved into after I hadproposed. Where we’d brought each of our daughters after they were born. Theplace we had lived. The place she died.
Everything was gone,except for one last thing, and I walked over the mottled green carpet to Beth’spicture, still hanging on the wall above where the couch once was. My handsgripped the flimsy metal edges of the frame with a nagging reluctance, almost asthough I had to talk myself into doing what must be done. And when I finallylifted it off the nail it hung on, I looked into her eyes and startled myselfwith a gasped sob. How long I had been holding it in, I couldn’t say, but itfelt like a relief to let it go.
Then, pressing my backto the barren wall, I held the picture to my chest, and allowed myself thefreedom to cry. Allowing myself to hurt one last time, and God, did it feelgood to slide along that wall and sit on that ugly old carpet. To releasemonths’ worth of agony, heartache, happiness, guilt, shame, and everything inbetween. To bow my head against the cool side of that frame and listen to herask that old question,what are youdoing, Jon?
“I don’t know what todo,” I answered aloud for the first time. “I don’t know what the fuck to do.”She wasn’t there to scold me for cursing, and still, I felt the need to say,“Sorry.”
I imagined what she’dsay next. The eye-roll at the slip of a forbidden four-letter word. The cock ofher hip against the kitchen counter.Whatdoyouwantto do? What would makeyouhappy?
“Youweren’t happy.”
Thisisn’t about me anymore. It’s about you, and Lilly, Shelly, and Annabel. Whatwould makeyouhappy?
