All the Little Lights
Page 81
“You’re up early,” she said, opening the door.
Mr. Mason entered, holding the handles of a large paper sack. “Are Noah and Simone coming over to open presents tonight?”
“They do every year.”
He held up the sack. “I brought a few more.”
“Milo, you . . . didn’t have to do that,” Mrs. Mason said.
Mr. Mason looked hurt. “They’re my nephew and niece, too.”
“I know. I just meant that . . .” She sighed. “I don’t know what I meant.”
He carried the sack to the Christmas tree and knelt beside it, unloading the presents. They weren’t wrapped nearly as elegantly as the others, and he’d used twice as much tape, but by the expression on his wife’s face, he’d won major points. “I brought a few for Catherine, too.”
“Oh, Milo,” Mrs. Mason said, holding her hand to her chest.
He took care to bring the purple present forward, keeping it front and center, and then stood, his gaze meeting Mrs. Mason’s.
“Do you have any plans?” she asked.
“I . . .” He reached for her, but she pulled away. As soon as it happened, she seemed to regret it, but it was too late. Mr. Mason’s eyes darkened. “Probably not a good idea. Don’t want to confuse the kids.”
“I don’t want you to be alone,” she said, fidgeting.
He peered over his shoulder but didn’t speak. Instead, he yanked the door open and walked through it.
Mrs. Mason stood motionless, looking down at the purple present, and then sat on her haunches, covering her mouth and nose with both hands. Her eyes glossed over, and then she wiped away her tears as they fell. “I’m so sorry you had to see that, Catherine.”
“Why? It was beautiful.”
“Pain is beautiful?” she asked, straightening the present.
“Pain . . . love. Can’t really have one without the other.”
She breathed out a silent laugh. “You always surprise me.”
“Who does the purple present belong to?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s . . . that’s Violet’s. She’s our daughter. Milo’s and mine. She was a Christmas baby.”
“You had a baby?” I asked, stunned. “I don’t remember you being pregnant.”
“I was barely seven months along when Violet was born. She lived only a few hours. She would have been five this year.”
“So before I was in high school.”
“Correct,” Mrs. Mason said, standing. “Christmas is hard for Milo. He’s never gotten over it.”
“But you did?” I asked, watching her walk back to the table.
She sat across from me, looking tired. “I chose to heal. Milo felt alone in his grief, even though I’d lived there with him for four years. He replaced the sadness with resentment, and then it was over.”
“And you’re happy now?”
“I’ve loved Milo since I was a girl. He use to look at me the way Elliott looks at you. I wish we could’ve gotten through it together. But, yes. Telling him it was over was like taking off an oversize fur coat in August. I was finally free to heal, and so I did. It’s still hard to watch him hurt.”
“You still love him?”
The corners of her mouth turned up. “I’ll always love him. You never get over your first love.”
I smiled. “Elliott said that to me once.”
“You were his first love?” she asked, resting her chin on the heel of her hand.
“That’s what he said.”
“I believe it.”
I felt my cheeks flush. “He wants me to follow him to college. If we, you know, survive this year without being arrested.”
Mrs. Mason hesitated before she said her next words. “If you had to guess, what do you think happened to her? There was no sign of struggle. No break-in. Not even any fingerprints other than Presley’s.”
“I hope she ran away, and I hope she comes back.”
“Me too,” Mrs. Mason said. “Okay, I’ve got to run a few errands today. Pick up some things for Christmas Eve dinner. Do you have any preferences?”
“Me? I thought I’d go home tonight. Check on Mama.”
“Catherine, you can’t. I’m sorry.”
“I can’t check on her?”
“I can have Officer Culpepper check on her if you’d like. I just don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go home just yet. What if she won’t let you leave? It’s just not a good idea. I’m sorry.”
“Oh.”
“I know it’s hard. Especially with the holidays, but I promise it’s better this way.”
The doorbell chimed, and Mrs. Mason raised her eyebrows. “We’re popular today.” She opened the door and then walked away smiling. “Your turn.”
Elliott walked in, and he slipped his camera strap over his head, holding out the other hand. I hugged him tight, melting into his arms as he wrapped them around me. He was wearing his black football hoodie, the cotton worn and soft against my cheek.
“What’s that?” Mrs. Mason asked, pointing to his camera.
“A hobby,” Elliott said.
“It’s more than a hobby. He’s pretty amazing,” I said. “You should have him show you some of his stuff.”
“I’d love to see it,” Mrs. Mason said.
“Really?” Elliott looked down at me, surprised.
I touched his chest with both hands. “Really.”
“How long have you been doing that?” Mrs. Mason asked, watching him put his things on the table.
“Since I was a kid. Catherine was my first muse. My only muse.”
Mrs. Mason busied herself with the breakfast dishes, waving me away when I offered to help.
“Why don’t you give him the tour?” Mrs. Mason asked.
I led him by the hand to the purple bedroom, wrinkling my nose when the door blew the smells of the Juniper into my face. “Ugh. Why didn’t you tell me I smelled like that?” I asked, gathering my clothes from the closet and drawers and putting them in a woven basket near the door.
“Smelled like what? What are you doing?”
“Laundry.” I picked up the handles and walked down the hall. There was a door next to the guest powder room that I guessed was the utility room, and I was right. I set the basket down and searched the cabinets for detergent.
“Everything all right?” Mrs. Mason asked from the hallway.
“She’s looking for laundry soap, I think,” Elliott said.
“Oh.” She squeezed past Elliott and opened the cabinet above the washer. “It’s a pod. They’re front-loading machines, so you just pop the pod into the drum with the clothes and close the door. Set it to regular for everything but delicates, and you’re good to go. That’s what I do anyway. The dryer sheets are in the cabinet above the dryer.”
“Makes sense,” I said, piling my jeans and dark clothing in the washer. I closed the door and did as Mrs. Mason instructed. The water began to pour into the turning drum, and the clothes began to roll. “Easy enough.”
Mrs. Mason looked down at the basket. “Are those all clean?”
“I thought so,” I said. “They smell like the Juniper.”
“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t notice. Let me know if you need anything while I’m out.”
Mr. Mason entered, holding the handles of a large paper sack. “Are Noah and Simone coming over to open presents tonight?”
“They do every year.”
He held up the sack. “I brought a few more.”
“Milo, you . . . didn’t have to do that,” Mrs. Mason said.
Mr. Mason looked hurt. “They’re my nephew and niece, too.”
“I know. I just meant that . . .” She sighed. “I don’t know what I meant.”
He carried the sack to the Christmas tree and knelt beside it, unloading the presents. They weren’t wrapped nearly as elegantly as the others, and he’d used twice as much tape, but by the expression on his wife’s face, he’d won major points. “I brought a few for Catherine, too.”
“Oh, Milo,” Mrs. Mason said, holding her hand to her chest.
He took care to bring the purple present forward, keeping it front and center, and then stood, his gaze meeting Mrs. Mason’s.
“Do you have any plans?” she asked.
“I . . .” He reached for her, but she pulled away. As soon as it happened, she seemed to regret it, but it was too late. Mr. Mason’s eyes darkened. “Probably not a good idea. Don’t want to confuse the kids.”
“I don’t want you to be alone,” she said, fidgeting.
He peered over his shoulder but didn’t speak. Instead, he yanked the door open and walked through it.
Mrs. Mason stood motionless, looking down at the purple present, and then sat on her haunches, covering her mouth and nose with both hands. Her eyes glossed over, and then she wiped away her tears as they fell. “I’m so sorry you had to see that, Catherine.”
“Why? It was beautiful.”
“Pain is beautiful?” she asked, straightening the present.
“Pain . . . love. Can’t really have one without the other.”
She breathed out a silent laugh. “You always surprise me.”
“Who does the purple present belong to?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s . . . that’s Violet’s. She’s our daughter. Milo’s and mine. She was a Christmas baby.”
“You had a baby?” I asked, stunned. “I don’t remember you being pregnant.”
“I was barely seven months along when Violet was born. She lived only a few hours. She would have been five this year.”
“So before I was in high school.”
“Correct,” Mrs. Mason said, standing. “Christmas is hard for Milo. He’s never gotten over it.”
“But you did?” I asked, watching her walk back to the table.
She sat across from me, looking tired. “I chose to heal. Milo felt alone in his grief, even though I’d lived there with him for four years. He replaced the sadness with resentment, and then it was over.”
“And you’re happy now?”
“I’ve loved Milo since I was a girl. He use to look at me the way Elliott looks at you. I wish we could’ve gotten through it together. But, yes. Telling him it was over was like taking off an oversize fur coat in August. I was finally free to heal, and so I did. It’s still hard to watch him hurt.”
“You still love him?”
The corners of her mouth turned up. “I’ll always love him. You never get over your first love.”
I smiled. “Elliott said that to me once.”
“You were his first love?” she asked, resting her chin on the heel of her hand.
“That’s what he said.”
“I believe it.”
I felt my cheeks flush. “He wants me to follow him to college. If we, you know, survive this year without being arrested.”
Mrs. Mason hesitated before she said her next words. “If you had to guess, what do you think happened to her? There was no sign of struggle. No break-in. Not even any fingerprints other than Presley’s.”
“I hope she ran away, and I hope she comes back.”
“Me too,” Mrs. Mason said. “Okay, I’ve got to run a few errands today. Pick up some things for Christmas Eve dinner. Do you have any preferences?”
“Me? I thought I’d go home tonight. Check on Mama.”
“Catherine, you can’t. I’m sorry.”
“I can’t check on her?”
“I can have Officer Culpepper check on her if you’d like. I just don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go home just yet. What if she won’t let you leave? It’s just not a good idea. I’m sorry.”
“Oh.”
“I know it’s hard. Especially with the holidays, but I promise it’s better this way.”
The doorbell chimed, and Mrs. Mason raised her eyebrows. “We’re popular today.” She opened the door and then walked away smiling. “Your turn.”
Elliott walked in, and he slipped his camera strap over his head, holding out the other hand. I hugged him tight, melting into his arms as he wrapped them around me. He was wearing his black football hoodie, the cotton worn and soft against my cheek.
“What’s that?” Mrs. Mason asked, pointing to his camera.
“A hobby,” Elliott said.
“It’s more than a hobby. He’s pretty amazing,” I said. “You should have him show you some of his stuff.”
“I’d love to see it,” Mrs. Mason said.
“Really?” Elliott looked down at me, surprised.
I touched his chest with both hands. “Really.”
“How long have you been doing that?” Mrs. Mason asked, watching him put his things on the table.
“Since I was a kid. Catherine was my first muse. My only muse.”
Mrs. Mason busied herself with the breakfast dishes, waving me away when I offered to help.
“Why don’t you give him the tour?” Mrs. Mason asked.
I led him by the hand to the purple bedroom, wrinkling my nose when the door blew the smells of the Juniper into my face. “Ugh. Why didn’t you tell me I smelled like that?” I asked, gathering my clothes from the closet and drawers and putting them in a woven basket near the door.
“Smelled like what? What are you doing?”
“Laundry.” I picked up the handles and walked down the hall. There was a door next to the guest powder room that I guessed was the utility room, and I was right. I set the basket down and searched the cabinets for detergent.
“Everything all right?” Mrs. Mason asked from the hallway.
“She’s looking for laundry soap, I think,” Elliott said.
“Oh.” She squeezed past Elliott and opened the cabinet above the washer. “It’s a pod. They’re front-loading machines, so you just pop the pod into the drum with the clothes and close the door. Set it to regular for everything but delicates, and you’re good to go. That’s what I do anyway. The dryer sheets are in the cabinet above the dryer.”
“Makes sense,” I said, piling my jeans and dark clothing in the washer. I closed the door and did as Mrs. Mason instructed. The water began to pour into the turning drum, and the clothes began to roll. “Easy enough.”
Mrs. Mason looked down at the basket. “Are those all clean?”
“I thought so,” I said. “They smell like the Juniper.”
“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t notice. Let me know if you need anything while I’m out.”
