The Wish Read online

  “I set up a tripod on the beach and used a special cable release because the exposure time had to be super long,” he answered. “Obviously, my mom coached me a lot when it came to developing the print.”

  Because I was curious, Robert showed me the ultralight he was building with his dad. Staring at it, I knew I wouldn’t ride in the thing for a million dollars, even if it did fly. In turn, Richard showed me the video game he was creating, which was set in a world complete with dragons and knights in armor packing every weapon imaginable. The graphics weren’t great—even he conceded that—but the game itself seemed interesting, which was saying something, since I’d never seen the appeal of parking myself in front of a computer for hours on end.

  But hey, what did I know? Especially when compared to a kid—or a family—like that?

  * * *

  “Have you figured out what you want to get Bryce?” Aunt Linda asked. It was Friday evening, and Christmas was three days away. I was washing dishes at the sink and she was drying, even though she didn’t have to.

  “Not yet. I thought about getting him something for his camera, but I wouldn’t know where to start. Do you think we could run by a store after church on Sunday? I know it’ll be Christmas Eve, but it’ll be my last chance. Maybe I can figure something out.”

  “Of course we can go,” she said. “We’ll have more than enough time. It’ll be a long day.”

  “Sundays are always long.”

  She smiled. “Extra-long, then, because Christmas is on Monday. We have regular Sunday mass in the morning like always, and then midnight mass for the Christmas celebration. And a couple of other things in between, too. We’ll stay overnight in Morehead City and catch the ferry back in the morning.”

  “Oh.” If she heard the unhappiness in my tone, she ignored it. I washed and rinsed a plate and handed it to her, knowing it would be pointless to try to talk her out of it. “What did you get for Gwen?”

  “A pair of sweaters and an antique music box. She collects those.”

  “Should I buy something for Gwen, too?”

  “No,” she said. “I added your name on the music box. It’ll be from both of us.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “What do you think I should get Bryce?”

  “You know him better than I do. Have you asked his mom what he might want?”

  “I forgot,” I said. “I guess I could go over tomorrow and ask. I just hope it won’t be too expensive. I have to get his family something, too, and I was thinking I’d get them a nice picture frame.”

  She put a plate into the cupboard. “Keep in mind that you don’t have to buy Bryce anything. Sometimes the best gifts are free.”

  “Like what?”

  “An experience, or maybe you can make something, or teach him something.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything I can teach him. Unless he’s interested in makeup or painting his nails.”

  She rolled her eyes, but I could see the mirth in them. “I have faith you’ll figure something out.”

  I thought about it while we finished up in the kitchen, but it wasn’t until we moved to the living room that inspiration finally struck. The only problem was that I was going to need my aunt’s help in more ways than one. She beamed as soon as I explained.

  “I can do that,” she said. “And I’m sure he’s going to love it.”

  * * *

  An hour later, the phone rang. I guessed it was probably my parents and was surprised when Aunt Linda handed me the phone, telling me that Bryce was on the other end. Which was, to my knowledge, the first time he’d called the house.

  “Hi, Bryce,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “I was wondering if it would be possible for me to stop by on Christmas Eve. I want to give you your gift.”

  “I’m not going to be here,” I said. I explained about the double mass on Sunday. “I won’t be back until Christmas Day.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Okay. Well, my mom also wanted me to ask if you’d like to come by for our Christmas meal. It’ll be around two.”

  His mom wanted me to come? Or did he want me to come?

  Covering the receiver, I asked my aunt and she agreed, but only if he would join us later for our Christmas dinner.

  “Perfect,” he said. “I’ve got something for your aunt Linda and Gwen, too, so we can do the gift thing then.”

  It was only after I hung up that the reality of the situation hit me. It was one thing to see the flotilla with his family or drop by his house after walking the beach, but spending time at both our houses on Christmas Day felt like something more, almost like we were taking a step in a direction I was pretty sure I didn’t want to go. And yet…

  I couldn’t deny that I was happy about it.

  * * *

  Christmas Eve on Sunday was different than it was at my house in Seattle, and not just due to the ferry ride and two services. I guess I should have expected that for a pair of former nuns, it was important to find a way to honor the true meaning of the holiday, which is exactly what we did.

  After church, we did our normal run to Wal-Mart, where I found a pretty frame for Bryce’s parents and a card for Bryce, but instead of the usual garage sale circuit, we visited a place called Hope Mission, where we spent a few hours prepping meals in the kitchen for the poor and homeless. My job was peeling potatoes, and though I wasn’t that fast in the beginning, I felt like an expert by the end. On the way out, after Aunt Linda and Gwen had hugged at least ten people—I had the sense they volunteered there every now and then—I watched as my aunt surreptitiously slipped the shelter coordinator an envelope, no doubt a financial donation.

  At sunset, we attended a living nativity program at one of the Protestant churches (my mom would have made the sign of the cross had she found out about that). We watched Joseph and Mary being turned away from the inn and ending up in the stable, the birth of Christ, and the appearance of the three wise men. It took place outside, chilly temperatures making the play seem more real somehow. When that part of the program ended, the choir began, and my aunt held my hand as we joined in on the carols.

  Dinner came next, and then, because we still had hours until the midnight service, we went to the same motel we’d stayed at when I’d flown in from Seattle. I roomed with Aunt Linda, and after setting the alarm, we all took evening naps. At eleven, we were awake again, and if I was concerned about still being tired at the service, the priest used enough incense to keep anyone awake; my eyes couldn’t stop watering. It was also kind of eerie, but in a spiritual way. There were candles glowing throughout the church, an organ adding depth and resonance to the solemn music. When I glanced at my aunt, I noticed her lips moving with silent prayers.

  Then it was back to the motel, and onto the ferry first thing in the morning. It didn’t feel much like Christmas at all, but my aunt tried to make up for it. In the seating area, she and Gwen shared stories of their favorite Christmases. Gwen, who’d grown up on a farm in Vermont, told us about the time she’d received an Australian shepherd puppy. She was nine years old, and she’d wanted a dog for as long as she could remember. In the morning, after unwrapping all of her packages, she’d been crestfallen, not realizing that her dad had slipped out the back door. He reappeared a minute later holding the puppy, who was wearing a red bow for a collar—and even almost half a century later, she could still recall the joy she’d felt when the puppy bounded over and began playing with her. On a quieter note, Aunt Linda recounted how she had baked cookies with her mother on Christmas Eve; it was the first time her mom had allowed her not only to help but to do most of the measuring and mixing. She remembered how proud she’d been when everyone in the family raved about the cookies, and in the morning, she received her own apron with her name stitched on it, as well as her own baking utensils. There were more stories like that—and as I sat with them, I remember thinking how normal the stories sounded. It had never occurred to me that future nuns had ordinary childhood experiences; I just assumed that they g
rew up praying all the time and finding Bibles and rosaries beneath the tree.

  Back home, I chatted with my parents and Morgan on the phone, wrote the card for Bryce, then started getting ready. I showered and did the hair-and-makeup thing. On went the stretchy jeans—God bless them, by the way—and a red sweater. Outside the window, darker clouds had filled the sky, so just in case, I put on my rubber boots. Evaluating myself in the mirror, except for my ever-expanding bust, I thought I barely looked pregnant.

  Perfect.

  Tucking the gift under my arm, I started toward the Trickett house. In the Pamlico Sound, I could see small whitecaps in the swells and the wind had picked up, playing havoc with my hair, which made me wonder why I’d bothered to style it in the first place.

  Bryce opened the door as I was climbing the steps. In the distance, I heard a deep rumble echoing in the sky. The storm, I knew, would be coming soon.

  “Hey there. Merry Christmas! You look amazing.”

  “Thanks. You too,” I said, eyeing his dark wool slacks and button-up shirt, as well as his shiny loafers.

  Inside, the house was a picture-perfect version of Christmas Day. The remains of wrapping paper had been crumpled up and packed into a cardboard box beneath the tree; the aromas of ham and apple pie and corn simmering in butter filled the air. The table was set, some side dishes already in place. Richard and Robert were on the couch in their pajamas and fuzzy slippers reading comic books, reminding me that as smart as they were, they were still kids. Daisy, who’d been nestled at their feet, rose and wandered toward me, tail wagging. In the meantime, Bryce introduced me to his grandparents. While they were perfectly friendly, I barely understood a word they said. I nodded and smiled, and after Bryce finally maneuvered me away, he whispered in my ear.

  “Hoi Toider,” he said. “It’s an island brogue. There’s maybe a few hundred people in the world who speak it. People on the islands didn’t have much contact with the mainland for hundreds of years, so they developed their own dialect. But don’t feel bad; half the time, I can’t understand them, either.”

  Bryce’s parents were in the kitchen and after hugs and greetings, his mom handed him the mashed potatoes to bring to the table.

  “Richard and Robert?” she called out. “Food’s almost ready, so wash up and come find your seats.”

  Over dinner, I asked the twins what they’d received for Christmas and they asked me. When I explained that my aunt and I planned to open our gifts later, Robert or Richard—I still couldn’t tell them apart—swiveled his gaze to his parents.

  “I like opening the gifts on Christmas morning.”

  “Me too,” the other one said.

  “Why are you telling me this?” their mom asked.

  “Because I don’t want you to get any crazy ideas in the future.”

  He sounded so serious that his mom burst out laughing.

  When everyone was finished eating, Bryce’s mom opened the gift I’d brought, for which she and her husband thanked me graciously—and everyone pitched in to clean the kitchen. Leftovers went in Tupperware and then into the fridge, and when the table was cleared, Bryce’s mom brought out a jigsaw puzzle. After dumping out the contents of the box, Bryce’s parents, brothers, and even the grandparents began flipping the pieces, turning them right-side up.

  “We always do a puzzle on Christmas,” Bryce whispered to me. “Don’t ask me why.”

  As I sat beside him, trying to find matching pieces along with the rest of the family, I wondered what my own family was doing. It was easy to imagine Morgan putting her new clothes away while my mom cooked in the kitchen and my dad caught a game on television. It occurred to me that after the morning frenzy of opening gifts, aside from the meal, everyone in my family did their own thing. I knew that families had their own holiday traditions, but ours seemed to keep us dispersed while Bryce’s gathered them together.

  Outside, it began to rain, then pour. As lightning flickered and thunder boomed, we worked steadily on the puzzle. There were a thousand pieces but the family were absolute puzzle wizards—especially Bryce’s dad—and we finished it in about an hour. Had it been me putting it together alone, I was pretty sure I’d still be working on it until next Christmas. His family put on Scrooge—a musical version of Dickens’s classic—and not long after it ended, it was time for Bryce and me to go. After fishing out a couple unopened gifts from under the tree, Bryce grabbed umbrellas and his truck keys while I hugged every member of his family goodbye.

  It felt darker than usual as we drove the quiet roads. Heavy clouds blocked the starlight while the wipers pushed the rain aside. The storm had abated to a drizzle by the time we got to my aunt’s, where we found her and Gwen in the kitchen. I savored another round of delicious aromas, even though I wasn’t hungry in the slightest.

  “Merry Christmas, Bryce,” Gwen called out.

  “Dinner should be ready in twenty minutes,” Aunt Linda informed us.

  Bryce put his gifts beneath the tree with the others and greeted both women with hugs. The house had been transformed in the hours I’d been gone. The tree was glowing, and candles flickered on the table, the mantel, and the end table near the sofa. Faint strains of holiday music drifted from the radio, reminding me of my childhood, when I’d be the first to sneak downstairs on Christmas morning. I’d wander to the tree and check out the gifts, noting which ones were for me and which ones were for Morgan before taking a seat on the steps. Sandy would usually join me and I’d stroke her head, letting the anticipation build until it was finally time to get everyone up.

  As I recalled those mornings, I could feel Bryce’s curious gaze on me.

  “Good memories,” I said simply.

  “It must be hard being away from your family today.”

  I met his eyes, feeling warm in a way I hadn’t expected. “Actually,” I said, “I’m doing okay.”

  We took a seat on the couch and chatted in the glow of the lights from the Christmas tree until dinner was ready. My aunt had made turkey, and despite eating only small portions, I felt like I was going to pop when I finally put my fork down.

  By the time we cleaned the kitchen and retreated to the living room, the storm had passed; though lightning still flickered on the horizon, the rain had stopped and a light fog had begun to roll in. Aunt Linda had poured herself and Gwen a glass of wine—it was the first time I’d ever seen either of them drink anything with alcohol—and we began opening gifts. My aunt loved the gloves; Gwen exclaimed over the music box, and I opened the gifts that my parents and Morgan had sent. I found a nice pair of shoes and some cute tops and sweaters that were one size larger than I usually wore, which I supposed made sense considering my situation. When it was Bryce’s turn, I handed him the envelope.

  I’d picked a fairly generic card, with room to write my own message. Because the light was so dim in the living room, he had to turn on the reading lamp to see what I’d written.

  Merry Christmas, Bryce!

  Thank you for all your help, and in the spirit of the holidays, I wanted to get you something I knew you would love, a gift that just might keep on giving for the rest of your life.

  This card entitles you to the following:

  My aunt’s super-secret biscuit recipe; and

  A baking lesson for the two of us, so that you can learn how to make them on your own.

  Obviously, this gift is from both my aunt and me, but it was my idea.

  Maggie

  P.S. My aunt would like you to keep the recipe secret!

  As he read the card, I stole a peek at Aunt Linda, whose eyes were glittering. When he finished, he turned first toward me, then toward her before finally breaking into a grin.

  “This is great!” he declared. “Thank you! I can’t believe you remembered.”

  “I wasn’t sure what else to get you.”

  “It’s the perfect gift,” he said. Turning to my aunt, he said, “I don’t want you to go to a lot of trouble, so if it’s easier, we can go to your sh
op early and watch you prepare them like you always do.”

  “In the middle of the night?” I said, my eyes widening. “I don’t think so.”

  Both Aunt Linda and Gwen laughed. “We’ll figure it out,” my aunt said.

  Next were the gifts from Bryce. As my aunt carefully unwrapped the gift he’d given both of them, I caught a glimpse of the frame and knew immediately he’d given them a photograph. Curiously, my aunt and Gwen both stared at it without speaking, causing me to rise from my spot on the couch and peek over their shoulders. I suddenly understood why they couldn’t stop staring.

  It was a color image of the shop taken early in the morning, and from the angle, I suspected that Bryce had to lie in the road to take it. A customer—I guessed he fished for a living based on his attire—was leaving with a small bag in hand just as a woman was entering. Both were bundled up and you could actually see their breath frozen in space. In the window, I spotted the reflection of clouds, and beyond the glass, I could see my aunt’s profile and Gwen placing a cup of coffee on the counter. Above the roof, the sky was slate gray, accentuating the faded painted siding and the weather-beaten eaves. Though I’d seen the shop countless times, I’d never seen it appear so arresting…beautiful, even.

  “This…is incredible,” Gwen managed to say. “I can’t believe we didn’t see you taking this.”

  “I was hiding. I actually went out there three mornings in a row to get just the shot I wanted. It took two rolls of film.”

  “Are you going to hang it in the living room?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding?” my aunt replied. “This will be front and center at the shop. Everyone should see this.”

  Because my gift came in a box similar in shape and size, I knew that I’d been given a photograph as well. As I unwrapped it, I silently prayed that it wasn’t a picture of me, something he’d sneakily taken when I hadn’t been paying attention. As a general rule, I disliked photos of myself, let alone a photo taken while I was in baggy sweats or ugly pants with my hair being blown in every direction.