A Little Hope(25)

Kay reaches up and says, “Thanks, my dear. We appreciate that.”

Alex winks at her. Freddie rests her palms on the table. When Addie places her small hand on top of Freddie’s, Freddie slides hers out and they start playing the stacking hand game.

Addie looks at Greg, and her blue eyes light up. Her bangs are swooped to the side, and she looks at him like she has just remembered something. “My Daddy taught me this,” she announces.

Greg puts down his spoon. Freddie knows he feels his illness most when he thinks about Addie, these small crumbs of life he might have given her in the whole scheme of things. He tries to smile at Addie, who looks to him for approval, but his face crumbles. Freddie’s face burns; she feels like she’s been kicked. Greg is the tragic hero. He has done nothing but try, try, try to beat this. Freddie watches him dissolve.

For a second, Freddie tries to remember holding Greg’s hand. She tries to remember a time when she and Addie and Greg were at a restaurant putting their hands in a pile. Just like this with nothing else but the fun of it. How Greg would always be so fast to rip his hand out, how eventually he’d flick his hands like windmills and upset the pile. How he’d dart his hands down to tickle Addie when the game was over.

As the four people at the table look at this tired man in his ski cap, his eyes so injured, his iceless soda in front of him, he pushes back his chair and stands up. He looks at Addie and at Freddie with the sorriest eyes she’s ever seen. “I need to get out of here,” he says, and the waitress stands over them now carrying a giant tray with all their entrées. “I’ll wait in the car.”

“Say, Addie,” Alex whispers. “Show me that music game on that phone. Can an old guy like me learn it?”

“I’m sorry,” Greg says to the waitress, backing away.

Freddie can see how his black sweater hangs on his frail body. She can see how pale his skin is in this dim light. She can see what her husband has become, feeble hands at his sides.

At that circular table with their laminated menus stacked next to the napkin dispenser, in the corner of the restaurant next to the Christmas tree whose lights blink on and off, Freddie breaks her rules. She looks at him leaving, and the tears come spilling out, even though she doesn’t want Addie to see, even though she wants to keep it together for the confused waitress and the Lionels, and she whispers, “Please, God, please.” She uses her hand to cover her face as she watches her tired husband walk away.





9. The Star in the Box




Lucas,

I do look forward to your letters.

However, as you know, letters do not take the place of seeing people, and I wish you would remove that restriction you’ve placed on us. Thanksgiving was not the same without your jokes about my oyster stuffing. I sometimes have to remind myself that you are not oceans away but merely a quick drive.

Anyway, I hope you like this Christmas card. The kid on the front reminded me of you when you used to put on your mittens and boots to play in the snow. Remember those red boots you had? I hope you put this check to good use—may I suggest starting a small retirement account as you are still young but the years will fly by, to which I can well attest? Or, just ignore me and use it for groceries or parking or anything you want. Maybe buy yourself a nice sweater at least (not acrylic please). You look handsome in navy blue, but I will stop meddling.

Betsy has been restored, and I would like to talk with you about her. I’d love if you’d stop by the house. Just stay a few minutes, and I guarantee I won’t be critical or say anything remotely impolite. Bring your new gal, if you’d like.

I put up the tree in the living room, and it would be nice if you came to see it with the lights on. I kept the star in the box because I remember that used to be your favorite part.

Love and peace, Your mother





10. How We Love Them




She is famous for Finland.

Suzette Campbell knows this. Knows they are all waiting to see if she can go through with this wedding. Knows they think the paisley dresses are ridiculous. Who picks paisley? And green paisley. She loved the fabric when she saw the dresses at the bridal show in Boston. She swears she didn’t pick paisley to be quirky.

She resents that she is famous for Finland. No matter what else she does, how many kids and teenagers she helps as a dual-certified social worker/counselor.

Suzette has done at least a hundred things to prove herself as stable and responsible—got engaged, bought a house and renovated it this past year, gotten countless people’s power turned back on when they couldn’t afford their electricity bills, worked with schools so kids’ lunches could be covered, drove her mother everywhere after her knee surgery. But she is still the girl who went to Finland and came back less than a week later. She hates that reputation.

And hates that right now, with her wedding coming, she feels the way she did when her plane landed in Helsinki.

Trees and lakes. She remembers how dense they were in Finland. The snow and frozen land. She remembers the overnight flight, and how the sun was just coming up when the plane descended, the sky orange and pink behind buildings still black with darkness. She remembers the feeling, like the first day of kindergarten—her mother’s writing on the inside of her jacket, heavy lunchbox in her fingers, the world seeming overwhelming and vast. She remembers her older sister Lisa walked her to Mrs. Tussle’s kindergarten room, holding her hand the whole time, and then patted her when it was time to part. “See you on the bus,” Lisa said. “Bus number six, okay?” And Suzette felt nervous and empty as she watched Lisa walk away.