He stared at her.
Eight years old.
Already trying to protect him from money.
“You wanted one.”
“It’s okay.”
She said.
“We can draw one.”
Caleb looked away because he could not let her see his face break.
Then Nora unbuckled enough to lean toward him.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“You promised I won’t be alone.”
“I know.”
“I can promise too.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to be alone either.”
Caleb covered his eyes.
He cried.
Nora waited.
Children sometimes do not know what to say, so they offer the one thing adults forget is enough.
She put her hand on his sleeve.
They sat there until Caleb could drive.
When they reached their apartment building, Nora shouted:
“Dad!”
Caleb looked.
A Christmas tree stood in their living-room window.
Small.
Maybe five feet.
White lights.
Colored lights.
Both.
Caleb stared.
“What the…”
He parked.
Nora was out of the truck before he fully stopped.
“Tree!”
They ran upstairs.
The apartment door was locked.
Caleb opened it.
The tree stood beside the window exactly where Nora had planned.
Around it were grocery bags.
A box of wrapped presents.
A stack of freezer meals.
A gift card for the supermarket.
Another for the gas station.
An envelope sat against the tree stand.
Caleb opened it.
Inside were thirty-seven signatures.
Under them:
“Rent first.”
“Tree second.”
“Pride last.”
“Merry Christmas.”
There was cash.
Too much.
Caleb immediately felt uncomfortable.
He began counting.
Nora was already circling the tree.
“Who did this?”
Caleb recognized Ronan’s handwriting on the envelope.
“My friends.”
“From work?”
“Yes.”
“The ones who left?”
Caleb looked at her.
“How do you know that?”
“Mrs. Foster called the school office.”
He closed his eyes.
Of course she had.
Nora picked up one wrapped box.
“Is this for me?”
“Probably.”
“Can I open it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Christmas is three days away.”
“That is unreasonable.”
“Life is hard.”
She put it down dramatically.
Caleb found another note beneath the envelope.
From Mara:
“Before you start returning things, don’t.”
“Everybody chose what they gave.”
“Let people love you without turning it into debt.”
That sentence stopped him.
Emily used to say something similar.
Caleb sat on the couch.
Nora brought her homemade ornament from the cardboard box.
She hung it from the little tree.
“There.”
She said.
“Now it’s your work tree.”
Caleb laughed.
“It’s at home.”
“You’re at home.”
“That’s how it works.”
Apparently, yes.
At six-thirty that evening, Caleb finally called Miriam Caldwell.
She answered herself.
“Mr. Mercer.”