Chapter Twenty-Seven
Plot Moppet—a small child in a romance who exists solely to drive the plot forward or cause a shift in the romance between the main characters.
Rehearsal for the children’s performance is happening at the Pink Flamingo today. It’s amazing to think that only a couple of days ago I might’ve struggled with this. There are some shards of glass still embedded in my heart that cut a little bit, but I’ve figured out how to carry them better. I have my found family to thank for that. And so many things. Even the meddling.
Maybe especially the meddling.
The courtyard is in absolute shambles. There are children in angel robes, in stocking caps and scarves that they don’t need. There is a mitten floating on the top of my pool.
Alice is warming up at the keyboard, and the notes of “O Holy Night” are plinking through the air at an extremely high volume.
Angel, Sofia, and Emma are passing out snacks and generally acting as if they are the tiny managers of the motel. Which I suppose is fair, since they live here. I get a small kick of secondhand joy from seeing them own their environment like this.
Being seen as being on the inside is the kind of thing that makes you feel really special when you’re a kid.
It’s been a while since I let myself really look at children. Appreciate the pureness of their joy, the small things that make them happy.
The ruckus is loud enough that I know Nathan isn’t getting any work done. So when the door to room 32 opens and he steps out, I’m not surprised.
I do, however, feel the need to apologize.
“Sorry. Probably impacting your writing time.”
“I’m not worried about it. The big project is almost done, anyway.”
My heart squeezes slightly. “True.”
There are a few players missing during this rehearsal. There are no live animals, and Santa Claus is not in attendance. Neither are Mary, Joseph, or baby Jesus.
As rehearsal gets started, Emma comes over and grabs hold of Nathan’s hand. He looks at her, then at me, surprised.
“Nathan,” she says, regarding him with sincere eyes. “You should be the donkey.”
“I should be?” he asks.
I’ve seen him be kind to the children, but I haven’t really seen him interact with them. Not like this. But Emma and Sofia are fascinated by him, and I can’t blame them. He’s tall and imposing. Fascinating. A pirate , Emma thought.
“Amelia,” Sofia says. “You can be a camel.”
“Why am I a camel?” I ask.
“Because you are,” Sofia says, as if that is the most sensible thing and my arguing with it would be foolish.
Nathan and I are both brought to an area I assume is the designated stable.
“You have to be on all fours,” Emma commands.
Nathan looks at me, and my face gets hot. “There are children present,” I say.
“I didn’t say anything,” he says.
He doesn’t deny the children’s demands, so then I feel like I can’t. Which is how we find ourselves on our hands and knees on the Astroturf.
For the entire Christmas song set.
“It’s very creative,” he whispers to me.
“I think they’re singing in five different keys.”
“You have to give them credit for flourish.”
During “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” one of the little girls climbs onto Nathan’s back, as if it’s her job to be ferried by the donkey, and as if he is, in fact, method acting as a donkey.
He smiles and complies, making big clopping sounds and movements on his hands and knees.
I break the rules and sit up, watching him as he trots the small child around. He has a crowd of children around him, shrieking in delight, and now I know he’s going to get asked for rides endlessly by the smallest children.
He would make a great father.
That thought is like a punch to the gut. I’m not supposed to hope for things like that. I’m not supposed to hope for a child and forever . I’m supposed to be at peace with where I’m at.
It’s a fine line. Being at peace and hiding from your demons.
I know that’s true. I know that I would have to put any heroine through the fire on this one. I would have to confront her with the things she really wants, the things that hurt the most, the things she needs to heal from.
I would have to make her talk about her deep wound. I would have to make her go and find some kind of peace with her mother.
I would have to ... do so many of the things I’m already doing.
There have been a lot of pivotal moments over the last couple of weeks. Over the last few months. Over the last three years. This quiet, happy moment in the courtyard feels somehow the most altering.
Because I’m not just looking at my sadness. I’m not just examining my grief. I’m looking at potential happiness.
I’m looking at something that could be.
It’s like I had writer’s block and suddenly the words are flowing. But it’s not a page, it’s my life.
I stand up, and I realize that my hand is pressed to my chest.
Alice moves from behind the keyboard and makes her way to me, her hand resting on my forearm. “It’s okay to want that,” she says. “I hope you know. It’s okay to want everything.”
“What if I can’t have everything?”
“You’ll survive. You’ll keep on living. You’ll smile again. You’ll dream again. You get to be my age, and you realize that you had everything that was meant for you. So you might as well want it all, then see what comes.”
Maybe it’s greedy, standing here in the motel courtyard with so many people who love me, to want Nathan Hart to love me too. To want him to love me most of all.
I would let a fictional woman want all of this, so why can’t I?
I want him. I want everything.
The scene before me is devolving into utter chaos, but I have one more surprise. It’s the reminder I need to kick myself into gear.
“Okay,” I say, raising a hand. “Children. Who wants to help me decorate a special Christmas tree?”
The kids scramble over to where I’m standing. “I have an extra tree for the auction that’s happening at A Very Desert Christmas. I would love to auction it off and donate the money to help build you all a new school. I have all kinds of decorations, and I want you guys to just put as many on the tree as you want.”
I retrieve the tree from where it’s lying on the outside of the courtyard. It’s a silver tinsel tree, synthetic through and through.
Then I retrieve eclectic bins of ornaments. This will not be a tree with any theme other than childlike abandon.
The kids go to town on it, and the end result is a loud, glorious disaster.
Nathan helps lift small children up to hang ornaments near the top.
I like him.
I like him so much .
I’ve listened to his pain. I have licked him everywhere.
I feel a deep, profound connection with him. We recognize each other, at the deepest places we carry our pain.
But along with that, I can confidently say that I just like him. And that, I feel, is incredible all on its own.
It feels like something too big and bright to be contained.
I don’t want to contain it.
I just want to feel it.
When the kids are finished, the tree is like a great glowing horror, and they are overjoyed. They circle around the tree in excitement until their parents come to get them, and then Nathan carries it to my room for safekeeping until we can move it out to the auction site this weekend.
“That’s not a Charlie Brown Christmas tree,” he says. “That is something else entirely.”
“It’s joy,” I say.
He looks at me, his eyes grave. And then he grips my chin and kisses me. “I think you might be right.”
Joy. He feels it too. This big, beautiful, incredible thing. I want to tell him what I’m feeling. I want to tell him how much I like him.
Instead I kiss him. Instead, I let him take my clothes off. I say with my body what feels difficult to put into words.
We’ll have time for that.
I have to believe we will.