Sweet Caroline(93)

Andy locked his misty eyes with mine. Then he shoved past Mercy Bea, still squealing like a poked pig, and buried me in a ginormous hug.

“God bless you, Caroline Sweeney. God. Bless. You.” Then, without shame, he cried.

Russell, Luke, and Paris open cards to find thousand-dollar Christmas bonuses. Courtesy of Kirk, who discovered his hunger for the joy of giving.

Then we had the best Christmas party ever . . .

“Caroline,” Cherry taps my arm softly. “The service is over.” She smiles. “You were lost down some memory lane.”

I stand. “It’s a nice place to get lost.”

“There’s Mitch.” Cherry nudges me. “Want to go over? Wish him a Merry Christmas?”

“Actually, we’ve said all we’re going to say to each other. Besides, look, he’s got a horde of lovely ladies waiting.”

“Oh, Caroline, are you sad?” Cherry bends around to see my face, pausing just outside the sanctuary doors.

“If I wasn’t, then Mitch never meant anything to me, right?”

“Nice thought.” She brushes my hair away from my face.

“So, yes, a little, but mostly I’m happy, Cherry, looking forward to the days to come.”

“Caroline Sweeney, you are my hero.”

I laugh. “Cherry, you’ve got to get out more. Really.”

Talking, we walk arm in arm toward the rest of the family in the churchyard. Elle calls “Merry Christmas” to me, waving as she heads off with her family.

“Ready?” Dad says, popping his hands together. He’s excited. His first Christmas in eons without loneliness, angst, guilt, or regret. The presents under our tree rival any kid’s dream.

But this year, I have a specific gift longing. Walking over to Henry, I link my arm with his. “Ready to give me my Christmas present?”

He balks. “Now? Tonight? Shouldn’t we wait for Santa to come?” Since hanging out with little kids, he’s fallen in love with this holiday.

“This is a special present I picked out for myself. From you to me.”

He narrows his eyes, glancing at Cherry. “Don’t look at me,” she says.

Henry: “What’s this going to cost me?”

Me: “Everything.”

After a small debate—some things never change—Henry reluctantly agrees to drive me where I want to go. Cherry heads home with Dad and Posey.

“Where are we going?” Henry asks, starting his car.

“To see Mama.”

“Sneaking around a graveyard on Christmas Eve . . . Sort of sick, don’t you think, Caroline?”

Henry’s protesting wears me down. But I refuse to give up my Christmas mission. “We’re not sneaking around. We’re visiting our mother’s grave.”

“This is ridiculous. She hated Christmas.” Henry slows by her grave-site and cuts the engine. He remains stiff and stubborn behind the wheel.

Reaching to the floorboard, I pick up the wreath I bought at a closing-down Christmas tree stand. “Let’s go.”

“I repeat, this is ridiculous.” Henry jerks on his door handle, chin up.

“Humor your little sister, then.”

After placing the wreath on Mama’s headstone, I stand back next to Henry. “Merry Christmas, Mama.”

“She’s laughing at us,” he scoffs.

“Your turn.”

“I’m not talking to a granite stone, Caroline. This is your deal. I only came because you claim this is your Christmas present.”

“Tell Mama you forgive her.” In the light of the street lamps, my brother’s raw emotions coat his round features. He is the physical image of our mother. “That’s my Christmas present—from you to me.”

I go first. “Mama, it’s Christmas. I know you didn’t care much for holidays, but Jesus’ birthday feels like a right time to forgive people. So, it’s okay, Mama. Life just didn’t deliver like you wanted, did it? I wish you could see how good Henry and I turned out.”

Henry begins to tremble.

Stretching forward, I pat the tombstone. “Rest in peace.”

He snorts, loudly, almost urgently. I wait for him to speak. When he doesn’t, I squeeze his hand. “Let her go. Forgive her. Not for her sake, but yours.”

He rolls his shoulders back and looks beyond her grave into the darkness. “Why should I?”

“Because being bitter hurts you, not her. Frankly, I’m tired of it. It shadows your relationship with Cherry, and your future kids. With me and Daddy. You’re not saying she was right, you’re simply forgiving.”

Henry’s turmoil increases. I can feel it, but I’m determined. “We’re not leaving until you say something.”

So we stand in cold silence.

Finally, as if punched from behind, he bursts out, “Mama, I used to sit up nights waiting for you to come home.” His confession is pluff-mud soft. “Cried myself to sleep more times than a teen should. I missed your perfume, your voice, the soft touch of your hand on my cheek.” He brushes his face with the back of his hand. “I hated you for leaving us. But I . . . I forgive you.”

As a sudden gust of wind whooshes around us, Henry falls against me and buries his face in my shoulder, weeping. Rising up on my tip-toes to shoulder his burden, I pray quietly for the Christ of Christmas to heal my brother’s wounded heart.