ack in the kitchen, I find a pot of coffee and a plate of muffins. Blueberry, my favorite. I add one cup of coffee and a single muffin to my tab, then go in search of mementos for my trip.

The perfect photograph. I’ll accept nothing less.

Outside, the pink dawn has given way to a gray and yellow day of inconsistent weather: There, by the road, it’s cloudy and rainy; here at the front door, it’s shadowy and moist; down by the lake, it’s sunny.

As I walk down the path, the air is thick with mist. Birdsong bursts forth in Gatling gun spasms with every step I take. I snap several photographs before the swing set catches my eye. This is a magnificent specimen—obviously hand-built and carefully designed. It has a slide, two swings, and a fort.

I used to love swinging; at the house in Calabasas, Stacey and I spent hours in the air, side by side, and pushing each other. I go to the swing set, set my camera gently on a step, and wipe dew from one of the black leather seats. Sitting, I lean back and pump my legs until I’m practically flying. The lemon and charcoal sky fills my vision.

“Grown-ups don’t play on the swings.”

At Bobby’s voice, I stab my feet into the loose dirt and skid to a stop.

He’s standing near the skinned log stanchion. His eyes are bloodshot from crying. Tiny pink sleep lines crisscross his face. His curly hair is stick straight in places.

I feel an almost overwhelming urge to take him in my arms and hold him. Instead, I say: “They don’t, huh? Who says?”

He frowns at me. “I dunno.”

“You want to join me?”

He stares at me for a long time, then eases toward the other swing. There, he takes a seat and leans back.

“This is a great swing set. Someone worked hard on it.”

“My dad made it. A long time ago.”

Together we swing, side by side, up and down. The clouds overhead coalesce and disperse and float away.

“You see that cloud there?” I say, on the upswing. “The pointy one. What does it look like to you?”

Bobby is quiet for a while, then he says, “My mommy. She had puffy hair like that.”

“I think it looks like... hmmmm. A Zipperumpa-zoo.”

“A what?”

“You’ve never heard of Professor Wormbog and his search for the Zipperumpa-zoo?”

He shakes his head solemnly.

“Oh, my. I guess I’ll have to tell you the story sometime.”

“You promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

He finally smiles and leans back, pumping his legs. “How about that cloud? It looks like a pointy stick.”

“Or a piece of coconut cream pie.”

He giggles. “Or Gandalf’s hat.”

We swing so long I go from feeling airy and light to light-headed. I slow down, stare out at the lake. Quiet settles in between us, turns awkward. “Maybe it’s time for me to tell you that story now. We could sit on the grass.”

Bobby sighs. “I gotta go to youth group today.”

“Is that so bad?”

“Arnie Holtzner is there. And Father James always tries to talk to me about Mom. He thinks I’d feel better if I prayed. As if.”

I turn to look at him. “You don’t think it would help?”

“God let her die, didn’t he?”

“Ah,” I say, recognizing the emotion. “So you’re mad at Him.”

Bobby shrugs. “I just don’t wanna pray.”

The clouds bunch up above us, take on a steely tinge. Before Bobby finishes saying, “It’s gonna rain,” it’s pouring.

Laughing, we run for the house. Inside, I shake off, but no amount of movement will dry my clothes. I peel off my clammy sweater and wipe the rain from my eyes. “I have got to go to town for clothes.”

“There’s a lost and found box in your closet. My mommy kept everything in case people came back.”

“Really?”

“Unless Dad threw it away. He can’t wait to get rid of our stuff.”

I hurry to my room, open the closet, and there it is: a cardboard box marked Lost and Found. The box is heaped with clothing of all kinds and sizes. After a thorough search, I choose a black broomstick skirt with an elastic waistband that falls almost to my ankles, an ivory boatneck sweater, and black knee socks.

When I return to the lobby, dressed in my new wardrobe, Bobby is waiting for me. “Can we play more?”

“I thought you had to go to youth group.”

“Not till after lunch. Dad wants to finish painting the hall upstairs. So he can sell the place and move us to Bawston.”

I can’t help smiling at his perfect accent. I sit down on the floor beside him. “You don’t like Boston?”

“I like it here.”

“Have you told your dad that?”

“Like he listens.”

“Maybe you should try talking to him.”

Mondo hypocrisy. Suddenly I’m Dear Abby. Me, who ran away from a sister who wanted to talk. “My parents got divorced when I was about your age. My mom took my sister and me across the country for a new start. My dad just... let us go. I never saw him again.”

“You’re lucky.”

I look at him. “You really think so?”

A frown darts across his forehead. For a second, I think he’s going to say something. Instead, he gets up and walks over to the fireplace. On the hearth is an old wooden box; from which he produces two action figures. Gandalf in white with his staff and Samwise in full Orc regalia. “You wanna play?”

I can see how afraid he is to talk about his feelings for his father. How could I not understand that—me, who is on the run from real life?

I crane my neck, try to see into the box. “You have a Frodo in there?”

Bobby giggles. “Yeah. We’ll pretend he’s wearing the ring.”

Bobby and I spend the morning on the living room floor, battling our way through Mordor and up the steep brick sides of Mount Doom. Honestly, I can’t remember when I’ve had so much fun. We talk about things that don’t matter and laugh about them. Sometime around noon, Daniel comes downstairs. Splattered with paint, carrying two brushes and a bucket, he walks past us. “Come on, Bobby. It’s time for youth group.”

“I don’t wanna go.”

“Too bad. Move it.” Daniel opens the front door and sets his supplies on the deck. “Let’s go, boyo. We’ll have lunch at the diner first.”

“C’n Joy...”

“No.”

Bobby throws me a “see?” look and climbs to his feet. “I’m coming, Emperor.”

It’s all I can do not to smile at the tender defiance.

I would have called my dad a hell of a lot worse than emperor at his age. “Bye, you guys,” I say from my place on the floor.

Bobby looks back at me longingly. “You can keep playing if you want. You can even be Frodo.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

Daniel herds his son out the door. A few minutes later, I hear a car start up and drive away.

Then it’s quiet again.

I try to figure out what to do next. I could walk to town for clothes and film and food, or take a walk in the woods, or borrow a canoe and go out on the lake, or sleep. Last night was hard: nightmares plagued me.

I close my eyes. It feels so great here, lying on the soft woolen carpet, feeling the heat from a fading fire, listening to the quiet.

In my dreams, I’m lying on an air mattress, floating on Lake Curran. The sun overhead is hot and bright; when I try to open my eyes, it hurts. I can feel people around me, splashing in the water. My sister’s voice is the most constant: I’m sorry. The apology is repeated over and over. I know she wants me to open my eyes, take her hand, and tell her it’s okay, but it’s not okay. She’s broken my heart. I hear my mother in my dreams, too, telling me to wake up. I’m sure that she wants me to forgive Stacey also. I want to tell them I can’t do it, but then I’m floating away on the tide. I’m on the ocean now, alone... then I’m in a child’s bed, then in a white room.

“Are you KIDDING me?”

The sentence shakes me, jars me. With great effort, I open my eyes. At first, I expect to see water, blue and lit by the sun.

I see green carpet and wooden planks and the lower half of a plaid sofa.

I’m in the lodge, asleep on the living room floor. I blink, trying to focus, and push up to my knees.

Daniel is in the registration area, pacing, talking on the phone. “What do you mean, a fight?”

I frown, sit back on my heels.

“He’s eight years old,” Daniel says, then curses under his breath. “Sorry, Father. And do you think I’ve not tried? God’s the enemy now. And me.”

I get slowly to my feet and stand there by the fireplace. He hasn’t seen me yet, but when he does, I know he won’t be happy. He doesn’t want me in the lodge, let alone eavesdropping on personal conversations. But I can’t seem to move. He looks so... the right word escapes me. Not angry, not upset.

Wounded.

“Aye,” he says after a pause. Then, “I’ll be right down.” He slams the phone down on the table, then curses loudly and runs a hand through his hair. Slowly, he turns toward the living room.

I’m standing there, frozen, staring at him. “I’m sorry,” I say, lifting my hands.

“Well if this isn’t just what I need.”

“I was on the floor. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

His gaze slides past me—a pointed reminder that I don’t belong here—and catches on the photographs on the mantel to my left.

Family photos.

With another curse, he storms out of the lodge and slams the door shut behind him.

Outside, I hear the car engine start, and wheels sputtering on wet gravel. Only then do I move.

I turn to the mantel, pick up one of the photographs. In it, Bobby is a pudgy-faced baby in a blue snowsuit. Daniel is smiling brightly and holding a beautiful, dark-haired woman close. There’s no mistaking the love in their eyes.

No wonder Daniel is rude to me. This time is tough enough on him and Bobby without an uninvited spectator.

For the next half hour, I busy myself in the kitchen, making lunch and then cleaning up my mess. When I’m done, I return to my room, where I wash out my other clothes and hang them over the shower rod to dry, then I wander back to the lobby.

The fire is fading now, falling apart in a shower of sparks.

I am standing in front of it, warming my hands when they return.

Bobby comes in first, looking utterly dejected. “Hey, Joy. Dad says I can’t play my GameBoy for two days. And I didn’t start nothin’.”

I turn to face them.

Daniel sits in the chair opposite me. I can tell by the way he looks at Bobby that he’s been as bruised by this fight as his son. He doesn’t look angry; rather, I see sadness in him. “This is a family matter,” he says pointedly. “Don’t talk to her. Talk to me.”

Shut up, Joy.

Shut up.

I can’t do it. Daniel’s been out of his son’s life for a few years; maybe he hasn’t been around children in that time. “Kids get in fights,” I say as gently as I can. “I’m a high school librarian. Believe me, I know.”

“Not my dad,” Bobby says, sidling up beside me.

“Not me what?” Daniel says, irritated. When he looks at us—Bobby and me—he’s not smiling.

“You’d never get punched at school.” Bobby’s voice quivers. In the tremor, I hear how much he wants not to have disappointed his father.

To my surprise, Daniel smiles. “When I was a lad in Dublin, I got into plenty of scraps.”

“Really?”

“Aye. And I got my arse kicked, I’ll tell you. My own Da used to go after me. He said he didn’t wanna raise no Mama’s boy.” His smile fades. “There’s nothing wrong with bein’ a mama’s boy. She loved you something fierce, Bobby.”

“I know.”

“But she wouldn’t want you fighting at church group.”

“I know that.”

I want to jump in with some stellar bit of advice that changes their lives and draws them together, but I know it’s not my place.

For too long, we’re all quiet.

Finally Daniel stands. “I’d best get to work on the bedrooms upstairs. No one is going to buy this place in the shape it’s in. You coming?”

“I’m gonna show Joy my arrowheads.”

Irritation flashes in Daniel’s eyes and then is gone. “Fine. I’ll work alone then.” Without another glance, he goes up the stairs and disappears.

As soon as Daniel is gone, I look down at Bobby. “You aren’t too nice to your dad.”

“He isn’t too nice to me.” He pushes the hair from his eyes, revealing an angry purple bruise above his eye. “He yelled at me about fighting, and it wasn’t even my fault.”

I wish I could reach out for him, but he doesn’t seem ready for comfort. So, instead, I say, “How does the other guy look?”

“I missed,” Bobby says miserably. “And I wanted to hit him. I was so mad.”

“What happened?”

His shoulders lump in defeat. “Arnie Holtzner punched me.”

“The butthead? How come?”

“ ’Cuz I’m a crybaby.”

“You are no crybaby, Bobby. You’re a very brave boy.”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“We were makin’ Christmas ornaments out of cotton balls and Life Savers. I said I din’t want to make one, and Arnie asked why, and I said ’cuz the ornaments were stupid and he said I was stupid and I said I wasn’t. Then he socked me.”

I want to say, Arnie’s an ass, but I hold back. “Why didn’t you want to make an ornament?”

“ ’Cuz we aren’t gonna have a tree.” His voice catches. He glances at the door his father just slammed. “My mom would never forget Christmas.”

I know I should keep my mouth shut, but when I look down at this bruised little boy, I am drawn by some force that can’t be denied. “You never know, Bobby. Christmas is full of magic.”

For the remainder of the afternoon, Bobby and I play board games and watch Winnie-the-Pooh movies. All the while I can hear Daniel working upstairs—hammering, sanding, walking from room to room.

I tell myself to stay out of their business, but the admonition has a hollow, empty sound.

These two need help, and it’s Christmas. I may have lost my own holiday spirit, but I can’t watch a little boy lose his. Besides, this is my first real adventure. What kind of adventurer ignores the needs of others?

“Let’s play again,” Bobby says, reaching for his game piece.

I laugh. Three rounds of Candy Land are all any adult can reasonably be expected to survive, though, with Bobby drawing my cards and moving my game pieces, I must admit that I’ve hardly been paying attention. “No way. How about we do something else?”

“I know!” He pops to his feet and runs upstairs; moments later he’s back, holding a mason jar full of rocks. “It’s my collection.” He flops down on the floor and dumps out the jar. Dozens of stones splatter out. Several arrowheads are mixed in with the pretty stones. Bits of beach glass add color to the pile.

I kneel beside him. “Wow.”

He picks them up one by one; each piece has a story. There are agates, beach rocks, and arrowheads. His voice runs fast, like a weed eater in summer as he talks. Mommy found this one by the river. This one was at the beach, hidden underneath a log. I found this one all by myself. When he’s finished, he sits back on his heels. “She always said she’d find me a white arrowhead.”

I hear the drop in his voice, the way grief sidles in beside him. “Your mom?”

“Yeah. She said we’d find it together.”

To change the subject, I say, “What’s that nickel doing in the jar?”

He barely looks at it. “Nothing.”

There’s definitely something in his nothing. “Really? No reason at all? Because those are your special things.”

He reaches for a perfectly ordinary nickel. “Daddy gave me this when we were at the county fair. He bought me a snowcone and let me keep the change.”

“And that blue button?”

It’s a moment before Bobby answers, and when he does speak, his voice is soft. “That’s from Daddy’s work shirt. It came off when we were playin’ helicopter. I...” He throws the nickel in the jar, then scoops everything back in. The arrowheads and rocks rattle and clang against the glass.

I smooth the hair from his forehead, but he is so intent on the nickel that he seems not to have noticed my touch. He looks as bruised on the inside right now as he is on the outside, and the sight of this poor kid, looking so lost, tears at my heart.

“How about if I read you a story?”

A smile breaks across his face. “Really?”

“Really. I don’t suppose you have Professor Wormbog and the Search for the Zipperumpa-Zoo?”

“No, but I got one my mom always read to me.”

I hear the tiny upward lilt in his voice, the single note of hope, and it makes me smile. “Go get it. And if you have a Dr. Seuss, get that, too.”

Bobby runs upstairs. I hear his hurried footsteps overhead, the banging of doors.

In moments he is back, clattering down the stairs, clutching a pair of books. “I found ’em,” he yells triumphantly, as if they were big game animals he’d bagged.

I sit down on the sofa and he curls up next to me, handing me a lovely blue book that is the Disney movie version of Beauty and the Beast.

I take it gently, open it between us, and begin to read aloud. “Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a magical kingdom where just about everything was perfect...”

The words take us to a place where plates and candelabras can be a boy’s best friend and a beast can become a prince. I lose myself in the words, and find myself. In the past years, as my job became more and more about computers and technology and Internet searches, I’d forgotten why I started. The love of books, of reading. There’s nothing a librarian likes better than sharing her love of words with a child. When I close the book, Bobby is beaming up at me. “Again!” he says, bouncing in his seat.

I put down Beauty and the Beast and pick up the bright orange Dr. Seuss. “Now it’s your turn.”

His face closes tighter than a submarine hatch. “I don’t read.”

“Come on.” I open the book, point to the first sentence, and read: “I am Sam.” Then I wait.

When the quiet stretches out too long, Bobby looks up at me. “What?”

“I’m waiting. It’s your turn to read.”

“Are you deaf? I can’t read.”

I frown. “How about just the first word?”

He glares at me, his chin jutted out. “No.”

“Try. Just the first word.”

“No.”

“Please?”

I can feel his surrender. He goes limp beside me and sighs.

He stares down at the book, frowning, then says, “I. But that’s just a letter. Big deal.”

“It’s also a word.”

This time when he turns to me he looks scared. “I can’t.” His voice is a whisper. “Arnie says I’m stupid.”

“You can. Don’t be afraid. I’ll help.” I smile gently. “And you know what I think of Arnie.”

Slowly, he tries to sound out the next word. When he stumbles, I offer a tiny bit of help and a heap of encouragement.

“S... A... M.” Bobby frowns up at me. “Sam?”

“You read the whole page.”

“It’s a baby book,” he says, but a smile plucks at his mouth.

“Babies can’t read I Am Sam. Only big boys can do that.” I turn the page.

By the time we get to Green Eggs and Ham? Bobby has stopped frowning. It takes a long time, but he finally sounds out the entire story, and when he finishes, he is laughing. “I read the whole book.”

“You did really well,” I say. Gently, I add, “Maybe you could read with your dad.”

“No. I heard him tell my teacher that I needed a too-tor. That’s something for dumb kids.”

“A tutor is not something for dumb kids. I tutor kids in the library all the time.”

“Really?”

Before I can answer, I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Bobby and I both look up.

“Come on, boyo,” Daniel says tiredly. “Let’s go get some dinner in town.”

“C’n Joy come?”

“No.”

The curtness of Daniel’s answer hurts my feelings—as ridiculous as that is—until I see his face. The question has wounded him. He is jealous of me—of Bobby choosing to be with me. I know a thing or two about jealousy, how it can cut you to the bone and bring out the worst in you. I also know that it is grounded in love.

“Talk to him,” I whisper; the irony of my advice doesn’t escape me. Apparently a woman running away from a conversation with her sister has no problem telling others to talk.

“Come on, Bobby. They run out of meatloaf early on weekends. And it’s your favorite.”

Bobby gets up. His shoulders droop sadly as he walks away from me. “No, it isn’t. I like pizza.”

Daniel winces. His voice tightens. “Let’s go.”

After they’re gone, I sit on the sofa, listening to the dying fire. Rain hammers the roof and falls in silver beads down the windows, blurring the outside world. It is fitting, that obscurity, for right now, what I care about is in this lodge.

I have to do something to help Bobby and Daniel.

But what?

That night, I have trouble sleeping again. There are too many things on my mind. Sleep comes and goes; too often I am plagued by nightmare images of my sister and Thom, of the wedding invitation she handed me, of the plane crash.

But when dawn finally comes to my small, small room and taps on the window, I have only one worry left. The others I have let go.

Bobby’s Christmas.

This is a problem I can solve, unlike the issues in my own life. Here and now, I can do something that will make a difference in someone’s life, and perhaps that—the simple act of helping someone else—will help me in my own.

After a quick shower, I redress in my “new” clothes and head for the lobby.

As I suspected, Daniel is outside already. I can see him on his tractor, clearing the area down by the lake. Already, I know him well enough to know that he will work most of the day. Now is the time.

Running upstairs, I go straight to Bobby’s room and find him still in bed. “Bobby? Wake up.”

“Joy?”

“I have a plan.”

He rubs his eyes. “What for?”

“A secret mission.”

He sits up. “Like we’re spies?”

“Exactly like that.”

He throws back the covers and climbs out of bed. In his Spiderman jammies and clotted hair, he looks incredibly young.

“Downstairs,” I say, checking my watch. “It’s 9:07. You have five minutes or you’ll miss the mission. Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

He giggles.

I’m smiling, too, as I head for the door. Four minutes later, he comes barreling downstairs like a Saint Bernard puppy, all feet and exuberance.

“Did I make it?”

“Right on time. Now, Agent 001, we need to be quiet and careful.”

He nods solemnly.

I lead him outside. We move cautiously, not wanting to be seen. Not that it matters. Daniel is deep in the trees now, out of our view.

We go to the spot where Daniel was working yesterday. There, at least a dozen young fir trees lay on their sides, waiting to be chopped into firewood. “Hmmm,” I say, tapping my chin with my forefinger. “Which of these trees wants to come to your house for Christmas?”

Bobby gasps. “We’re going to put up a Christmas tree?”

“We are.”

“My dad won’t like it.”

“You let me worry about your father,” I say with more bravado than I feel.

Bobby giggles again. “Okay, Secret Agent Joy...”

“Shh. You can’t say my name out loud.”

He clamps a hand over his mouth and points to a rather sad and scrawny tree, which he drags back to the lodge.

Once there, we move quickly and quietly. Bobby runs upstairs, then returns with a poinsettia-decorated red box full of lights. He makes this trip several times, until there are four boxes and a tree stand on the stone hearth.

It takes us almost twenty minutes to get the tree in the stand and positioned correctly. I am no help at all, which wouldn’t surprise my sister. Bobby and I giggle at our ineptitude and hush each other. Every few minutes we go to the window and make sure that Daniel is busy. It isn’t until I stand back to inspect the tree that I really feel it.

A tug of loss and longing. I can’t help remembering how it used to be between me and Stacey at this magical time of year. Like the time she gave me the Holly Hobbie doll Santa had given her, just because I wanted it more. And there was the hellacious camping trip when we were little. Mom had been in full headband-wearing, tie-dyed T-shirt glory in those days. Singing and smoking and drinking through seven desert states. Stacey’s sense of humor had kept me sane.

Now she’ll be having Christmas morning without me. That’s never happened before, not in the whole of our lives. I believe in reconciliation for Daniel and Bobby, but what about for me and Stacey?

“Why are you crying?”

I wipe my eyes and shrug. How can I possibly fold all that longing into something as small as words?

We pause for a moment, taking strength from each other, then we get to work. I decide to let him choose and place all the ornaments and lights. It’s his tree, after all; my job is encouragement and understanding.

He goes to the box. Choosing takes a long time. Finally, he reaches down and finds an ornament. It is an intricately painted globe that reflects the rainforest. He shows it to me. “My mommy made this one.”

“It’s beautiful.”

He puts the ornament on the tree, then returns to the box. For the next hour he moves in a ceaseless, circular pattern, from the box to the tree and back again. At each ornament, he says something, gives me some piece of himself.

Finally, he comes to the last ornament in the box. “This was her favorite. I made it in day care.”

He hands it to me. I take it gently, mindful of the fragility of both its structure and sentiment. It is a macaroni and ribbon frame, painted silver. Inside is a photograph of Bobby and a beautiful dark-haired woman with sad eyes.

“That’s her,” he says.

Below the picture someone has written: Bobby and Maggie/2001.

“She’s lovely,” I say because there’s nothing else. I wish he’d turn to me, let me hug him, but he stands stiffly beside me. Pushing the hair from his eyes, I let my hand linger on his warm cheek. “It’ll get better, Bobby. I promise.”

He nods, sniffs. I know he’s heard those words before and doesn’t believe them.

“She drove into a tree at night,” he says. “It was raining. The day after Halloween.”

So recently. No wonder he and Daniel are so wounded.

I wish I had something to say that would comfort him, but I’ve lost a parent. I know that only time will help him.

“I didn’t say good-bye,” he says. “I was mad ’cause she made me turn off X-Men.”

My heart twists at that. Regret, I know, is a powerful remainder; it can bring the strongest man to his knees. One small boy is no match for it at all. No wonder he “sees” his mom.

He looks at me through watery eyes. Tears spike his lashes. The ugly purple bruise reminds me how broken he is on the inside. “I told her I hated her.”

“She knows you were just mad.”

“You won’t leave me, will you?” he asks quietly.

For the first time I glimpse the danger I’ve walked in to. I’m a woman running away from trouble; that’s hardly what this boy needs.

The silence between us seems to thicken; in it, I hear the distant sound of water slapping against the dock and the clock ticking. I can hear Bobby’s sigh, too, as quiet as a bedtime kiss.

“I’m here for you now,” I say at last.

He hears the word that matters: now.

“Bobby...”

“I get it. People leave.” He turns away from me and stares at the Christmas tree. For both of us, I think, some of today’s shine has been tarnished now.

People leave.

At eight, he already knows this sad truth.

The Christmas tree takes up the entire corner of the lobby, between the fireplace and the windows. Dozens of ornaments adorn the scrawny limbs; there are so many the tree looks full and lush, even though they are oddly placed. It is, in every way, a tree decorated by a young boy. On the rough-hewn wooden mantel is a thick layer of white felt covered with glitter. Dozens of miniature houses and storefronts dot the “snow.” Tiny street lamps and horse-drawn carriages and velvet-clad carolers line the imaginary streets. Bobby’s favorite Christmas album—the Charlie Brown soundtrack—is playing on the stereo. Music floats through the speakers and drifts down the hallway.

He looks toward the window. “Is he coming?”

It is the fifth time he’s asked me this question in five minutes. We are both nervous. An hour ago, it seemed like a good idea to decorate the house. Now, I’m not so sure. It seems... arrogant on my part, like the actions of a flighty relative who means to help and causes harm.

Last night, as I lay in my bed, spinning dreams of today to fight the nightmares of my real life, I imagined Daniel happy with my choice.

Now I see the naïveté of that.

He will be angry; I’m more and more certain of it. He won’t want to be reminded of the past, or of his own carelessness with his son’s holiday. He’ll see me as an interloper, a problem-causer.

Bobby sits on the hearth, then stands. He goes to the window again. “How long has it been?”

“About thirty seconds.”

“D’you think he’ll be mad?”

“No,” I say after too long a pause to be credible. Both of us hear my uncertainty. Bobby, who has been talking to a ghost for two months, seems attuned to the tiniest nuance of sound.

“He used to love Christmas. He said it was the best day of the year.” He pauses. “Then Mommy and me moved out here and they got divorced.” He goes to the window, stares out.

I can see his watery reflection in the window.

“He kept telling Mommy he was gonna visit me but he never did.”

I have no idea what to say to that. I remember the day my own father left. I was just about Bobby’s age, and I spent more than a decade waiting for a reunion that never came. My mom tried to ease my hurt with reassurances, but words fall short when you’re listening for a knock at the door. Bobby knows about silence, how it leaves a mark on you. Then again, I know about divorce, too. It’s possible that Bobby doesn’t have the whole story. It’s never one person’s fault. The thought shocks me. It’s the first time I’ve admitted it to myself. “The thing is,” I say slowly, “he’s here now. Maybe you should give him a chance.”

Bobby doesn’t answer.

Outside, a bright sun pushes through the clouds. The lake looks like a sheet of fiery glass.

“Here he comes!” Bobby runs to me, stands close.

The door opens.

Daniel walks into the lodge. He’s wearing a pair of insulated coveralls, unzipped to the waist. Dirty gloves hang from his back pocket. His black hair is a messy, curly mass; his green eyes look tired. “Hey, there,” he says to us without smiling. He’s halfway to the registration desk when he stops and turns toward the tree. “What have you done, boyo?”

I feel myself tensing up. It would be so easy for him to say the wrong thing now...

“We done it. Joy and me.”

“Joy? Our house is her business now, is it?” he says quietly as he walks over to the tree.

Bobby glances worriedly at me.

We shouldn’t have done it—I shouldn’t have done it. That truth is bright and shiny now. I know nothing about them, not really. Sometimes memories hurt too much to be put on display. I am the grown-up here, the one who should have known better. I have to soften it for Bobby. “Daniel,” I say, taking a step forward. “Surely...”

“You used all her favorite ornaments,” Daniel says, slowly touching a white angel ornament.

“You bought her that one,” Bobby says. “Remember? At the farmer’s market by Nana and Papa’s house.”

Slowly, Daniel turns to face us. He looks still and stiff, like a man chiseled from granite. I wonder how he can bear it, the distance from his son. “Where’s the star?” he asks at last.

Bobby glances at me. “It’s on the table. We couldn’t reach the top.”

Daniel reaches down for the hammered tin star on the table. He is about to place it on the top of the tree; then he stops and turns to Bobby. “Maybe you and I can do it together?”

I hear the uncertainty in Daniel’s voice, the fear that his son won’t comply, and it reminds me how fragile we all are, how easily we can wound one another, especially when love is involved.

Stacey.

I close my eyes for just a second, awash in regret. When I open my eyes, Bobby is moving toward his father. The sight of them coming together makes me smile.

Daniel scoops Bobby into his arms and stands up. Daniel hands his son the star, and Bobby puts it on the tree.

They step back, admiring their work.

“It’s grand,” Daniel says. I hear a thickness in his voice.

“Tell Joy, Dad. It was her idea.”

“I’m sure she knows I appreciate it.”

“No. Tell her. She’s right there.”

Slowly, they turn to face me.

When Daniel looks at me, there’s no mistaking the sheen in his green eyes. I can tell that he is a man who loves his son fiercely, maybe more than he knows how to bear. In that moment I forgive all his rudeness. Lord knows I understand how grief and love can break you. “Thank you, Joy.”

“You could talk to her, Daddy. She’s nice.”

“I’ve not talked to women well in a long time. It doesn’t come so easily anymore.”

“It’s okay,” I say, feeling oddly connected to him. We are survivors of divorce, both of us; victims of a common war. Though I’ve been divorced for months, I hardly feel single. I feel... halved, or broken perhaps, and Daniel is right: conversation no longer comes as easily as it once did.

That’s all it takes—the word, divorce—and I’m plunged back into reality. Suddenly I’m thinking of Stacey and Thom, of who we all used to be, then I’m thinking of the tree strapped to my Volvo, dying in the blackness of long-term parking.

“Joy, are you okay?”

Bobby’s voice pulls me back. I smile at him, hoping it looks real. “I’m fine.”

“Of course she’s okay,” Daniel says, “it’s Christmastime. And now, as much as I’d love to chat with you and Joy, it’s time for your doctor’s appointment.”

“Aw, nuts,” Bobby whines. “I don’t wanna go.”

“I know, boyo.”

“Can Joy come? Please?” he pleads, looking from his father to me. “I’m scared.”

“But I’ll be with you, Bobby,” he says.

“I need Joy.”

I see how hurt Daniel is by that.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say, studying Daniel’s profile.

“Pleeease, Joy?” Bobby whines. Tears glaze his eyes.

I can’t disappoint him. “Okay, but I’ll stay in the waiting room.”

Bobby wiggles out of his dad’s arms and slides to the floor. “I gotta get Freddy.”

As Bobby runs up the stairs, I stand there, staring at Daniel, who is looking now at the Christmas tree with an unvarnished sadness. I can see how much it has wounded him, this decorating of ours, and perhaps, his absence from it. I should say something, do something, but any word from me will be an intrusion.

And then my chance is gone. Daniel is moving past me, going up the stairs. Fifteen minutes later, he is back in the lobby, dressed in worn jeans and a forest green sweater. We leave the lodge and head for the truck. Bobby opens the door and climbs up into the cab, settling into the middle section of the bench seat. He is clutching a battered, well-loved stuffed lamb. I slide into place beside him. Daniel shuts the door and goes around to the driver’s side.

The drive to town takes no time at all, but even in the mile and a half or so between there and here, I am blown away by the beauty of this place. Giant evergreen trees grow everywhere—along the roadsides, in great, dark forests that block the path to the snow-covered mountains in the distance.

“It’s beautiful out here,” I say, seeing the ghostly image of my own face in the window glass; behind it, all around me, are the green and black blur of the trees we pass.

The town is exactly as I remember it: a few blocks of quaint storefronts, draped in holiday garb. Traffic is stopped here by signs and pedestrians; there are no traffic lights. On this bright blue afternoon the sidewalks are busy. Everywhere I look, pods of people are gathered to talk. It looks like a Hallmark card until we turn a corner.

Here, the street is overrun with people and vans.

“Damn it,” Daniel says, slamming on the brakes. “This is getting old.”

I am just about to ask what’s going on when I see the letters painted on the side of the van beside me.

KING TV.

It’s the media.

The crash.

Of course. I turn my face away from the window instinctively. I know they aren’t looking for me—can’t be—but, it’s better to be safe than sorry. Still, I catch a glimpse of the police station and the crowd clamoring at the door.

Daniel turns onto another road and we are in the clear. He maneuvers the old truck into a parking spot and kills the engine, which slowly sputters and dies.

In the silence that follows, Bobby looks up at his dad. “How come I gotta see the doctor again?”

Daniel unhooks Bobby’s seat belt. “You’ve had some hard knocks, boyo. Anyone would be sad after losing their mum.”

Bobby sighs and crosses his arms. There’s a wealth of emotion in the sound. “But not everyone talks to her ghost.”

Daniel sighs. “I’m tryin’ to help, Bobby.”

“It would help if you believed me,” Bobby says. Slithering out of the cab, he runs on ahead.

I walk across the parking lot with Daniel. We are so close our arms are nearly touching, but neither of us pulls away. For a moment, as we enter the building, I imagine we’re a family, the three of us, here for Bobby’s regular checkup. If it were true, I’d follow them down the hallway and turn into the doctor’s office. I’d answer all the doctor’s questions about my son’s health. No doubt the three of us would go for ice-cream cones when it was over.

Instead, I go to the waiting room and sit down, alone. At some point, while I’m staring out the window at a rhododendron the size of a luxury car, a nurse comes up to me. She puts a hand on my shoulder and peers down at me.

The touch startles me. I hadn’t even heard her approach.

“How are we today?” she asks.

I frown. Had I fallen asleep? Had some kind of nightmare? I don’t think so. I was staring out the window, thinking about the big green leaves on the rhododendron; that’s all. I open my mouth to say “I’m fine, thanks,” but what comes out is, “I’m alone.”

The nurse with the plump, apple cheeks smiles sadly. “You’re not alone.”

It makes me feel better, that assurance, but when she leaves, I am alone again. Waiting.

For the first time since I ran away from Bakersfield and the crash, I wonder what it is I’m waiting for.