Everyone laughed at his joke, knowing that he was intentionally butchering Chanel and Versace, as I turned to Lucy and asked where the angel came from. I knew that she was eager to share any story related to her mother, and it was my job, I decided, to give her ample opportunity.
“Mom got it when she lived in Austria,” Lucy said. “When she was a little girl. It was one of her favorites. Right, Dad?”
“That’s right,” he said, although we all knew that Lucy was the authority on family heirlooms, and that he was likely just agreeing with her.
Caroline lunged for it while Lucy admonished her to be careful and said that she was going to hang this one because it was “very breakable and very, very special.” She placed the angel near the top of the tree in the glow of a white light, then gave her cart a little push, watching it swing for a few seconds before returning to her bins.
And so it went, Lucy unveiling ornament after ornament, tweaking our placement, telling stories about her mother. I never would have predicted it, especially based on her mood around Thanksgiving, but she seemed to be genuinely happy, no trace of melancholy despite the intense sights, scents, and sounds of Christmases past pummeling us with the reminder that something—someone—was missing. Harry Connick, Jr., was crooning in the background. The aroma of snicker-doodles, Mrs. Carr’s specialty, wafted from the kitchen. It was even turning blustery outside, wind beating at the windowpanes, which Lucy mused her mother would have loved. In fact, her mood was so unexpectedly stable that I started to suspect her little white pills were involved, or at least an extra kick in her eggnog. Then again, maybe she had simply reached another small turning point in her grief. Maybe time really did heal all wounds.
Just a few minutes later, however, I landed upon another theory—that it was only a very convincing con job—when I heard Lucy say to Caroline, “Honey, isn’t this a magical night?”
Caroline said it was, taking another cookie from the snowflake plate while Lucy fired off a frantic few digital photos, close-ups of her daughter’s profile, her own eyes glistening with a faraway sadness. Of course she wasn’t feeling any better, not on the very first Christmas without her mother. She was simply doing her best to head-fake her daughter, put up a brave front, follow the advice her mother would have given her: Make things perfect for your family, never mind your own feelings. Her mood was as contrived as their fake tree, but still artful and beautiful in its own way. Later, when she and Neil were alone in their bedroom, I suspected that the tears would flow, but, for now, she had embraced her solemn duty to diligently construct and create memories for Caroline. I felt my heart fill with admiration for her and wondered if I could be so strong in her shoes. I didn’t think so, but I suspected that motherhood has a way of bolstering your emotional reserves.
We all kept working until we neared the bottoms of the bins, where only the scruffy, trivial, recently acquired ornaments that Lucy humorously dubbed nouveau accoutrements remained.
“Time for the star. Neil, go get the stepladder.” She clapped twice as Caroline said, “Chop! Chop!”
“Wow. Did you hear that, guys? Chop, chop? See how my wife’s rubbing off on our child?” Neil announced to no one in particular. He clearly loved their mother-daughter sass, proud of the bossy women in his life, and he dutifully retrieved the ladder, setting it up as close to the tree as the branches would allow. He climbed three steps, then said, “Caroline, would you like to do the honors?”
She nodded and eagerly scrambled up the ladder, then swiped the star from her father and fearlessly reached for the top of the nine-foot tree.
“Careful, careful,” Lucy commanded as Neil gripped Caroline’s torso, lifted her slightly, and helped guide the star into place. We all oohed and aaahed and praised Caroline’s tree-topping prowess. Then, as Caroline and Neil descended, Lucy stood, cleared her throat, and said, “So now … Caroline has something to tell you … Caroline?”
Jumping and dancing and twirling about the room, Caroline screamed something about a sister, before falling to the ground in a dizzy heap. Lawton and Coach stared at her, confused, but I caught on instantly, my heart skipping a hopeful beat. Lucy was pregnant!
“Say it again, honey, slower,” Lucy said.
Caroline got up and tried again, forming her words more clearly. “I’m going to be a big sister!”
This time, Coach and Lawton understood, both of them belting out their congratulations while I simply smiled in the background. I allowed myself to study Coach’s face for the first time all evening, and could tell by his conflicted expression that he was thrilled by the news but also heartbroken that Connie wasn’t here to share it. Or maybe he was just digging down, doing his best to rise to the occasion, give Lucy what she needed, say and do all the things that his wife would have so effortlessly said and done.