A rush of conflicting emotions flooded Angie’s chest as she seated herself in front of her mother’s rocker. Her dad’s words filled her mind ...
My Miriam came back to life, Angie. You brought her back to me. And I ... I don’t know if you can ever understand love like I have for her, but she ... she’s my everything. She’s my world. And seeing her become whole again ... I just let it be. I let her believe ...
Her mom reached out, touched Angie’s hand, her skin cool. “It’s so good to see you, Ange.”
“I brought you something, Mom.”
“A Christmas present? What is it?” she said with glee and a childlike clasp of her hands.
Angie smiled, her old love for her mother warring with the new information, the secrets revealed, her complicated feelings around it all. She still felt a lingeringneedfor this woman to be her mother, and she also felt a new hole in her heart knowing that her biological mom was still out there. Dead or alive. Unknown. An unsolved mystery.
“Sort of a present,” she said. “It’s something special to me, from a very special young woman—I thought you might like to look after it for me and enjoy it for a while.”
Angie could not keep the jewelry box in her apartment—that little dancer in a pink tutu. It was too close to her little girl in pink who lived deep inside her mind. And giving the box to her mom felt right. It met a need in Angie to share something of herself—her work, her life—with her adoptive mother, who could no longer understand things with a simple telling. Angie hoped this symbol, this gesture, might fill that role somehow. Mothers and daughters. And the tricky love they shared.
Her mother frowned in confusion. “But it is from Angie?”
“Her name was Gracie.”
She opened it. The music tinkled, the little dancer wobbling in her pirouette. Tears filled her mother’s eyes. She clasped her hands together again, both a child and a woman confused in her own memories.
Angie took her leave from her mother, feeling hollow.
“Merry Christmas,” the orderly said on her way out.
She nodded. Yeah. “Merry Christmas.”
At least she understood her own emotions around Christmastime now, Angie thought, stepping out into the cold night.
SUNDAY, DECEMBER24
They were holding a service for Merry Winston on a promontory that jutted out into the sea between two bays. It was a place where Winston apparently used to go sometimes, to just sit and watch the water.
On her way to the service, Angie pulled into the driveway of her childhood home. She sat in her vehicle a moment, looking at the shell of a house, the vessel of so many memories. True ones. False ones. Lies. Love misguided and misunderstood. Inhaling deeply, she got out of the car and took a big wicker basket from the backseat.
Wind tugged at her hair and coat as she set the basket at the front door.
She was about to leave when the door swung open.
“Angie?”
“Dad. Hey.” She dug her hands deep into her coat pockets. He looked old. He was wearing baggy jeans and his oversize comfy sweater with the leather patches on the elbows. Seeing him big and familiar was yet another emotional punch to her gut.
“I ... uh ...” Angie looked up at the sky as if gravity might hold it all in or show her answers. Everything felt so goddamn close to the surface right now. “I brought you a small turkey and fixings and stuff.” She jerked her chin to the basket. “I ... know you’re going to visit Mom this evening. The orderlies told me. They said some families like to bring a festive meal to the center, share.” She swallowed, that old picture of them all in front of a Christmas tree shimmering into her mind, along with a fresh sense of betrayal.
“Come with me tonight, Angie,” he said.
Her mouth tightened, and she shook her head. “I can’t. Not now ... not yet.”
He looked at her long and hard. “We didn’t mean harm.”
She nodded, stuffed her hands deeper into her coat pockets. “I know.”
“We loved you ... we still love you.”
She nodded again. Cold wind whipped hair across her face. “I need to go.”
“Work again.”
