Barbies! Hannah had no Barbie dolls; I put three boxes in my cart. Then as an afterthought, I grabbed a Ken. Someone around here should have a man. I rounded the corner to the dress-up aisle. Into the cart went two dresses, one for each of my daughters. Shoes to match? Surely. I selected a new doll for Leah, as she only had hand-me-downs, and also picked out a canopy doll bed, complete with bedspread and pillow shams. I bought them each electronic reading systems, with a few books. I found markers, crayons, paints, coloring books, Play-Doh, and two pads of paper, along with a purple bucket to hold it all. By the time I was done, my cart was filled to the brim, not including the two bikes waiting at the register.
The total rang up to five hundred and seventy-five dollars, more than I had ever spent on Christmas for the two of them. A very small part of me was appalled, but more than that, I was excited. At the last minute, I threw in three rolls of wrapping paper and some ribbon, then ran my credit card to cover the difference. I was filling the void Greg had left in our lives with material possessions, and while some would argue it wasn’t healthy or was only temporary, I didn’t care. For the moment, I felt alive, human, and normal. And maybe my high would be contagious. Maybe some of that Christmas magic would rub off on the girls, and for one day, we would all be happy again.
However high on shopping I was, I knew my moods were fickle, and that by Christmas, I could very well be back underwater, drowning in sorrow, and all my efforts today would be for naught. But one person could help. He could buoy my capricious moods and keep the spirit of Christmas afloat despite the weight of sadness heavy in the air. I got in the car, started the engine to get the heat going, and pulled my cell phone out of my purse to dial a number I knew by heart.
“Hi, it’s me,” I said when he picked up. “Got any plans for Christmas?”
I stood in the guest bedroom, surveying the white sheets tucked under the mattress with folded precision. I’d never cared much about the state of the room for Drew, but it had somehow started to matter. I opened my grandmother’s handmade quilt— zigzag triangles of green and red on creamy white—and shook it out, letting it fall to rest squarely on the bed.
I thought of the Christmas four years ago when Drew had visited. Hannah was a newborn, red and colicky, and I was exhausted all the time. I’d invited him every year, and he’d always said no. But for some reason, that year, he agreed. When I opened the door, he handed me a bottle of red wine.
Greg stood behind me in the hall. “She can’t drink red anymore. Since the baby,” he commented, tilting his head to the side, in a way only I knew was condescending.
I rolled my eyes. He was right. My face burned bright at the first sip, a reaction to sulfites, I’d read. I didn’t care, though. Not that night.
“It’s fine.” I took the wine and went into the kitchen, retrieving two glasses from the cabinet. I set them on the counter and reached into the drawer for the corkscrew. Greg made a deliberate coughing noise in my direction and reached up to retrieve a third glass, raising his eyebrows at me with a small smile.
Drew stood over Hannah’s portable cradle, which we had set up in the living room, studying her. She was in a rare state of contented sleep. I crept up behind him and passed him a glass, cradling my own in my other hand.
“She’s so small,” he whispered.
“I know. She’s cranky, though. Wait ’til you see.”
“Nah. Uncle Drew is here. You wait. She’ll be a different kid; she’ll be so happy to see me.”
I nudged him with my elbow.
He nudged me back. “I can’t believe you’re a mom, now.”
“Right? I’m in charge of another person. God help us.”
“Oh, stop. You’re the most responsible person I know. You’ll be fine. Uncle Drew is going to have to show her how to have fun, though.”
Hannah twitched and then settled back into sleep with a soft baby moan. When I looked up, Drew was watching me, and our eyes caught, trapped by the shared sensation of a door closing. He gave me a small, sad smile.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.” He shook his head, ran his hand along the side of the cradle, then straightened and rubbed his hands together. “What’s for dinner? I’m starving!”
Drew and I cooked in a routine performed on sensory memory, having made dinners together for years, throughout college and beyond, whenever we’d gotten together. He always chopped onions. I always made the sauce. We had our strengths and our traditions.
Greg comforted Hannah as she screamed. The respite of concentrating on something other than Hannah, her needs, her comfort—or lack thereof—provided a balm for my remaining baby blues.
Drew nurtured a variety of mushrooms in butter, slapping my hand away as I tried to pick. Over Chicken Marsala, we reverted back to conversations about people from our childhood and from high school. At first, I tried to include Greg, but as I drank, I forgot. Greg shrank further and further into himself, tending to Hannah and finally getting up to put her to bed. We moved to the living room, where Drew and I reminisced about his parents—his mom’s homemade blueberry pie and his dad’s insistence that before Drew could get his license, he had to replace all the tires on the car.
“I miss them,” Drew said, letting his head rest against the couch cushion.
I assumed the same position and watched him. “Me, too. Remember your mom’s confused sayings? Brightest bulb in the drawer?”