Джей Эшер: What Light

“We support you,” Mom says.

“Right.” Dad sits back and puts his arm around Mom. “We trust you.”

I move over to their side of the table and lean into a family hug. I can feel Dad crane his neck to look at Mom.

When I return to my seat, Mom excuses herself. She goes to their room to gather the small handful of gifts we brought with us. The least patient one of us is Dad—he’s a lot like Caleb that way—so he tears into his gift first.

He holds the box at arm’s length. “An Elf on the Shelf?” He scrunches his nose. “Are you serious?”

Mom and I nearly die laughing. Dad complains about that toy doll every year, swearing he will never buy in to it. Since he spends December in a trailer away from home, he assumed he wouldn’t have to.

“The plan was,” Mom says, “Sierra and I would hide it at home when you left for California.”

“And then,” I say, leaning forward for maximum effect, “you’d spend the entire month thinking about it, wondering where it was.”

“That would drive me crazy,” Dad says. He pulls out the elf and hangs it upside down by one foot. “You outdid yourselves this year.”

“I guess if there is a silver lining,” I say, “now you may get to look for it every day at home.”

“There’s another example,” Dad says, “of not always needing a silver lining.”

“Okay, my turn,” Mom says.

Every year, she wants to be surprised with a different scented body lotion. While she thankfully loves the smell of Christmas trees, after being immersed in them for a month, she wants to smell like something else in the new year.

She unwraps this year’s bottle and turns it around to read the label. “Cucumber licorice? How in the world did you find this?”

“It’s your two favorite scents,” I remind her.

She pops open the top, smells it, and then squirts a drop onto her palm. “This stuff is incredible!” she says, and she rubs it around her hands.

Dad hands me a small silver gift box.

I shimmy the box open and lift out a bit of cotton. A car key practically glistens beneath it. “You bought me a car!”

“Technically, it’s Uncle Bruce’s truck,” Mom says, “but we’ll have the insides reupholstered in whatever colors you want.”

“It may not be sensible for long drives,” Dad says, “but it’s great for the farm and getting around town.”

“Do you mind that it’s his?” Mom asks. “We couldn’t afford what you—”

“Thank you,” I say. I turn the box over so the key falls into my hand. After feeling its weight for several seconds, I launch from my seat again and hug them both so hard. “This is incredible.”

For tradition’s sake, after the dirty dishes are piled into the sink, we climb into my parents’ bed and watch How the Grinch Stole Christmas on my laptop. As usual, Mom and Dad are fast asleep by the time the Grinch’s heart grows three sizes that day. I’m wide awake, my stomach in a million knots because it’s now time to get ready for the candlelight service with Caleb.

Tonight there’s no need to try on a bunch of outfits. Before I even move from their bed, I settle on my simple black skirt and a white blouse. In the tiny bathroom, I flatiron my hair. When I’m carefully applying makeup, I see Mom’s reflection smile behind me in the mirror. She holds up a new pink cashmere sweater.

“In case it gets cold out,” she says.

I spin around. “Where did you get this?”

“It was your father’s idea,” she says. “He wanted you to have something new for tonight.”

I hold up the sweater. “Dad picked this out?”

Mom laughs. “Of course not. And thank your lucky stars, because if he did it’d probably cover more than a snowsuit,” she says. “He asked me to get you something while you girls were putting trimmings in the bags.”

I look in the mirror and hold the sweater up to myself. “Tell him I love it.”

She smiles at our reflections. “If I can wake him up after you leave, we’re going to pop some popcorn and watch White Christmas .”

They do that every year, usually with me cuddled between them. “I’ve always admired that you and Dad never got jaded about Christmas,” I say.

“Honey, if we ever felt that way,” she says, “we’d sell the farm and do something else. What we do is special. And it’s nice to know Caleb appreciates that.”

There’s a soft knock at the door. My heart pounds as Mom helps me pull the sweater over my head without messing up my hair. Before I can give her one last hug, she walks to her room and closes the door.

I open the door expecting to be overwhelmed at the sight of my handsome Christmas Eve date. Instead, Caleb wears a too-tight sweater of Rudolph’s huge face, pulled over a purple button-down and khakis. I cover my mouth and shake my head.

He opens his arms. “Well?”

“Tell me you didn’t borrow that from Heather’s mom,” I say.

“I did!” he says. “I really did. It was one of the few that she had with sleeves on it.”

“Okay, while I love your spirit, I will not be able to focus on the service if you’re wearing that.”

Arms held wide, he looks down at his sweater.

“You apparently have no idea why Heather’s mom owns that,” I say.

He sighs and then reluctantly tugs the sweater over his chest, but it gets stuck at his ears and I have to yank it the rest of the way off. Now he is dressed like my handsome date.

It’s a crisp winter evening. Many of the houses along the way kept their Christmas lights on late. Some look like their roofs are ringed in glowing icicles. Some have white-lit reindeer grazing on their lawns. My favorites are the homes that glimmer with many colors.

“You look beautiful,” Caleb says. He lifts my hand as we walk and touches his lips to each finger.

“Thank you,” I say. “So do you.”

“See? You’re getting better at taking compliments,” he says.

I look over at him and smile. Blue and white lights from the nearest house reflect off his cheeks.

“Tell me about tonight,” I say. “I’m guessing it’ll be packed.”

“They do two services on Christmas Eve,” he says. “The earlier one is for families, with a pageant and a million four-year-olds dressed like angels. It’s chaotic and loud and pretty perfect. The midnight mass, the one we’re going to, is more solemn. It’s kind of like Linus’s big speech in A Charlie Brown Christmas .”

“I love Linus,” I say.

“That’s good,” Caleb says, “because otherwise tonight would stop right here.”

We walk the rest of the way, up the gradually rising roads, hand in hand in silence. When we reach the church, the parking lot is full. Many cars are parked at the curb and even more people walk in from nearby streets.

At the church’s glass doors, Caleb stops me before we enter. He looks me in the eyes. “I wish you weren’t leaving,” he says.

I squeeze his hand, but I don’t know what to say.

He opens a door and lets me walk in first. The only light comes from candles flickering atop tall wooden rods mounted to the sides of each pew. Thick wooden beams along the walls on either side rise up, past tall windows of red, yellow, and blue stained glass. The beams touch at the center of the peaked ceiling, giving the effect of a large ship tipped upside down. At the front of the church, the edge of the stage is lined with red poinsettias. Stepped risers are already filled with a choir in white robes. Above them, an enormous wreath hangs in front of a set of brass organ pipes.

Most of the pews are packed shoulder to shoulder. We slip into a pew near the back and an elderly woman approaches us from the aisle. She hands us each an unlit white candle and a white cardboard circle about the size of my palm. In the middle of the circle is a small hole, and I watch Caleb push the top of his candle through the hole. He slides the cardboard a little more than halfway down the candle.