86. Breath of Heaven

My mom contradicts herself. I guess all of us do. But when you’re an adult you gotta be careful because kids are watching, you know? I’m old enough that I no longer get so confused. I’m kinda over all of it. But still I have to find it funny—or perhaps ironic—to see my mother’s actions.

She celebrates Christmas, and not just in a small way either. With all of her anger at my father for his newfound faith—maybe I should call it a righteous anger, now wouldn’t that be ironic—she still seems to almost believe in the whole child-in-a-manger thing. Guess that’s okay. Yeah, Jesus was born in a manger in a town called Bethlehem. That’s a safe thing to believe in. I mean, if you don’t, then you can’t have all those great Christmas carols, including my favorite, “We Three Kings.”

It’s the other part, the Easter part, that Mom has a problem with.

She’s okay with the birth, just not the death. And especially not the resurrection.

As for me, like I said, I’m over it. I’m indifferent.

The only thing that concerns me is Jocelyn celebrating this day with us.

And as for Jocelyn, well—she takes Christmas very seriously.

Christmas Day comes, and with it comes snow, and with that comes safety. I don’t know why, but I know that nothing’s going to happen on this day. Maybe because it’s supposed to be sacred or maybe because the strangers outside are too busy to watch. I don’t know. All I know is that Jocelyn is planning on coming over later to celebrate Christmas Day with a party of three.

Mom has already told me that we won’t be celebrating with our aunt. Something tells me that Aunt Alice won’t exactly be celebrating Christmas.

She’ll be too busy sticking needles in her voodoo dolls.

I’m sure Mom would tell me to knock it off if she could hear my thoughts.

I hear the song in the background. Christmas music is okay and it pipes out loud: one of those solemn, contemporary Christmas tunes, one I’ve heard a bunch of times before.

Glancing out the window, seeing the thick flakes dancing around as I watch the driveway for Jocelyn, I feel depressed. Listening to The Smiths or Interpol or something like that should be depressing, but Christmas music? But this song is sad. Like I need any more sadness in my life.

I remember this one since it’s on this CD my mother plays every year. The lyrics stand out. In a world as cold as stone, the woman sings. Must I walk this path alone?

I can relate. Not the “breath of heaven” part, but the walking alone part.

The wind outside blows as the woman sings of hope, almost like a prayer.

It’s nice to think that someone is up there listening to a prayer such as this in the middle of the darkness, but I don’t buy it.

Just like there’s no Santa and his reindeer in the North Pole, the same goes for the little baby Jesus coming to the world to save us all.

I haven’t been saved, and don’t see salvation coming any time soon.

Help me, the song goes.

Yeah.

Help me.

Hold me together.

A nice thought.

But we’re all alone down here, and no song can ever change that.

I see the Jeep pull up and watch Jocelyn step out.

She takes my breath away. That’s all I know and all I care about.

She can help me and hold me together. And I can do the same for her.

“I don’t want to leave.”

“Then don’t.”

Jocelyn is lying on the couch with her legs over my lap, a blanket covering both of us. We’re stuffed and warm and comfortable, and life is good.

“I have to,” she says. “My aunt wants me home.”

“How about tomorrow? Mom would you let stay over.”

“I don’t want to leave my aunt alone. I already spent most of Christmas with you.”

“I’m greedy.”

My eyes don't move off of her. Sometimes it seems like I could study her all day and all night long.

“Thank you for today.”

The gifts are scattered around the room. Mom and I got several things for Jocelyn. Nothing huge, like an iPhone or a diamond ring, but small, nice gifts. Mom has been in her room for the past hour, giving us some space.

I gave Jocelyn a couple more things then, when Mom went to take a nap. One of those was a mix CD with songs all designated to mean something between us. The other was a little booklet I made up that had an assortment of pictures and descriptions (most printed off the Internet) of Chicago. The title of the book was quite subtle: A Place We Will Escape to One Day.

I told Jocelyn I was serious, that I wanted to take her to Chicago one day, that maybe we could do it sometime in the new year. I’d tell Mom we were visiting my father, but we wouldn’t have to do that. Jocelyn had smiled and kissed me and thanked me for the thoughtful gifts.

It’s already nine, and I know she has to leave. She still hasn’t given me her present.

“Did you really get me something?” I ask.

“I did.”

“Are you going to give it to me before you leave?”

“It is a Christmas gift.”

“Then let me see.”

“I didn’t have time to wrap it.” She produces a small box that fits in my palm.

“If this is a ring, don’t you think it’s a little soon to be talking marriage?” I ask with a smile.

“Just open it.”

I open the box and see a round, brown strip of leather. A wrist band.

“Cool,” I say.

Jocelyn smiles, taking the band and putting it on my right hand. She ties it carefully.

“My mother gave this to my father when they were dating. She got it on a mission trip. She told him that she wasn’t ready to give him anything else, but she still wanted something round that stuck to him. Something that he never took off that would remind him that they belonged to each other.”

Suddenly what I’m wearing seems priceless.

“I can’t wear this,” I tell her.

“It’s my gift to you.”

“Jocelyn—”

“I wouldn’t give it to you if I didn’t mean it.”

I lean over and put my hand to the side of her face, then kiss her lips.

When I pull away, I remain close to her face.

“I love you,” I tell her.

“I know. Thank you for today.”

“We can do this tomorrow if you want. And the next day. And the next.”

There it is again, the sad smile, the melancholy glance. She lets out a sigh and tells me she needs to go.

I look at the leather bracelet as we get up.

“What are you thinking?” she asks.

“This feels right.”

“I know. I always wondered—but I won’t. Not anymore.”

“Wondered about what?”

“If someone would come along—someone that fit me—someone that belonged with me. I’ll never have to wonder anymore.”

I hold her for a long time before she opens the door and walks out into the cold darkness.

I watch her car drive off into the night.