Jett turned off the engine. "Every year, instead of exchanging gifts, my family pools our money and spends it on the Toys for Tots program for kids who might not otherwise have a Christmas. It's my job to buy everything and deliver it to the fire department for distribution."
Something caught in my throat. Memories flooded back unbidden. Being seven years old in a cramped apartment somewhere in Missouri or Kansas—they'd blurred together. My mother struggling through one of her bad periods, barely able to get out of bed. No money for presents, no family to visit, just the two of us in a cold apartment with a dying space heater.
And then the knock on the door. A firefighter in uniform, holding a bag full of wrapped presents. A doll with curly hair. A coloring book and a fresh box of crayons. A stuffed bear that I'd slept with for years until its fur wore thin and its button eyes fell off.
"I remember," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I was a Toys for Tots kid once. Maybe more than once. I don't know—Mom moved us around so much. But I remember the firefighter bringing toys one Christmas when we had nothing."
Jett's hand found mine across the console, squeezing gently. "Then you know how much it matters."
"Yeah." I blinked hard against the tears threatening to spill over. "Thank you for asking me to come with you."
"Your being here makes it more fun for me too," he said simply, releasing my hand to open his door. "Come on. We've got some serious shopping to do."
I inhaled deeply to regain my composure, then opened the door, jumped down and ran to catch up with him.
December 16, Tuesday
cork finishbottles sealed with a cork closure, often associated with premium products
MY VANcoughed and sputtered as I turned onto Main Street.
"Come on, Ginger," I urged, caressing the dashboard. "Don't fail me now."
Poppy sat in the passenger seat, her backpack wedged between her feet, chattering about her day at school with the boundless energy of twelve-year-olds everywhere.
"And then Mr. Harrison said my essay on photosynthesis was the best in the class, which is crazy because Tommy Wexler is like a total science genius and his dad is a botanist or something." She paused for breath. "Do you think photosynthesis is cool? I think it's cool that plants basically eat sunlight."
"Very cool," I agreed, navigating around a delivery truck double-parked outside a restaurant. "You're doing great in school, Poppy."
"Thanks." She fiddled with her backpack straps. "Mom says education is the most important thing. That it's the one thing nobody can take away from you."
"Your mom's right. It's one of the reasons I want to finish my degree."
I pulled into the library parking lot and parked the van. I'd decided it would be a warm, quiet place to finish crocheting some gifts while Poppy looked for books to read while on holiday break.
We climbed out of the van into the cold December afternoon. The sidewalks were decorated for the holidays. We were halfway to the library entrance when I saw her.
Across the street, strumming a guitar in front of a guitar case open for donations, was Marilyn.
I stopped so abruptly that Poppy bumped into me. "What's wrong?"
I pointed. "Look, it's Marilyn."
"She's okay!"
I wasn't so sure. "I want to talk to her."
"Cool. I'll come, too."
We jaywalked across the quiet street, and as we got closer, I could hear Marilyn's voice—surprisingly clear and melodic—singing a stripped-down version of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." A few dollar bills and scattered coins lay in the open guitar case.
She looked different than I remembered. Thinner, maybe, but also somehow more present. Her hair was clean and pulled back in a ponytail, and her clothes, while worn, appeared freshly laundered.
When she finished the song, I stepped forward. "Marilyn?"
Her head jerked up, eyes widening with recognition and something that might have been fear. "Bernadette."
"Hi." I reached into my pocket and pulled out the cash I had—maybe twenty-three dollars in crumpled bills. I dropped it in her guitar case. "You sound beautiful."
