Monday evening, I stood in front of the Walden Inn clutching the box of sample wedding odds and ends. It had become clear, over these last two weeks of January, that my mom was not going to bounce through this pregnancy, never mind down the aisle on Valentine’s Day. Bed rest, I came to learn, meant that someone else had to do the meals, dishes, laundry, and shopping. Stanley tried to pitch in, but he was so overworked with his research that it looked like he was the one suffering from preeclampsia. The big surprise was my dad helping out when and where he could, driving my mom to some of her doctor’s appointments, and even occasionally shoveling out our driveway so I could get to school, work, or run my mom’s bullet-pointed errands. The woman was nothing if not calculating — a true mathematician. On top of all this, I had rehearsals three nights a week. The physical demands of the dancing were a welcome diversion to everything else that was going on, but still I felt a little guilty for having a life. At least my mom’s odd combination of Pollyanna Does Polynomials resulted in her absolute confidence that she and the baby would be fine. She, therefore, insisted that the rest of us carry on and be go-getters to her stay-putter.

I gave a half-cocked salute to the overly friendly front-desk clerk, who smiled and waved like we were long-losts. I wasn’t in the best of moods, as a crush of obligations was balanced on my head like some primitive earthen water jug — we’re talking both heavy and slosh-prone. Design projects for The Snow Queen production had been turned in that day, and all weekend, Penny and I had drawn until our fingers cramped — gnarled for life a real possibility. I felt good about the costumes, but the set designs had me nervous. Particularly as even glass-so-full-gonna-spill Penny had deemed them “not our best work.” Because of the design project, editor in chief Pedro had extended the deadline for my column and Penny’s article until tomorrow, but that only meant I had a night of writing ahead of me. The breakup between Penny and Pedro was still raw and made our lunchtime journalism club more awkward than Diversity Day at Dunder Mifflin.

Lately, it seemed everyone and everything in my life was cause for worry. Health concerns for my mom and Hulda. Afi so homesick for Iceland that he was symptomatic: fatigued, achy, red-eyed, and sniffly, which only meant that the mysterious Ofelia was a full-time rather than part-time lurker. And Brigid was still slinking around, writhing her way into every corner of my life and charming the Diesels off my dad, the too-short Haggars off Stanley, and the Levi’s off Jack. Jack: another raw edge. We were both so busy that, lately, our relationship had been boiled down to text messages. I was really beginning to hate that smiley-face icon.

With all this bearing down on me, I pushed through the doors to the catering office. Julia smiled up at me.

“Kat,” she said, “your mom e-mailed me you were on your way. It’s such a shame they’ve had to postpone. How’s she doing?”

“OK.” I set the box on her desk. “Bored, more than anything else.”

“And a summer wedding will be beautiful. We can have the ceremony in the gardens.”

“That sounds pretty.” I was reminded of how the essence of my half sister had been revealed to me via a dream sequence as a shy, red-haired lover of nature. She would like an outdoor ceremony.

“And it’s something for everyone to look forward to during these next few months,” Julia said with unreserved cheer.

I felt instantly shamed. Julia had — because of me — recently buried her only child, yet I was the one Eeyoring over every aspect of life while she reminded me how lovely the Hundred Acre Wood would be come summer. Gads, did I never learn?

“I’ll try to remember that,” I said.

“And we’ll make it very special. Twinkle lights and fireflies outshined only by the bride.”

“Fireflies. Jacob would have liked that.” I had no idea where the comment came from. Even I thought it was random. “What little boy wouldn’t, right?” I asked, trying to cover for my blunder.

Julia put her hand to her throat. “He just loved them. That’s probably why I even thought of them. He was fascinated by them. Called them sparkler bugs.”

“How cute.”

Julia’s face flushed pink. At first I thought I’d embarrassed her or made her sad, but then I somehow knew she was happy to remember him, to share bits of who he was with me, with anyone.

“So if Thomas the Tank Engine had needed the help of fireflies to get him out of a dark tunnel . . .” I said with a small lift to my shoulders.

“Oh. Now. Jacob would have thought such a story had been written just for him.”

I pulled my gloves from my pocket. “Thanks again for all your help. We’ll keep in touch.”

“Please do,” Julia said.

And I intended to. I finally had a plan, even.

That night — after making pasta for my mom and me, writing my column, and running a load of towels — I took out Thomas. A part of me had felt silly just buying the book, never mind paging through it, but to read it out loud? The other part, one I was trying to develop, felt determined. I cleared my throat and began. “Thomas the Tank Engine: The Complete Collection by the Rev. W. Awdry. Thomas was a tank engine who lived at a Big Station. He had six small wheels, a short stumpy funnel, a short stumpy boiler, and a short stumpy dome. He was a fussy little engine. . . .”