Chapter 39
The tree is up, though currently bare. Clementine and I are sorting through the decorations—many handmade over her school years, some from when I was a child, some from Wyatt’s Christmases before I joined the family.
All Christmas trees are artificial now, thanks to tree-protecting environmental policies, and so made of recycled and sustainable materials.
Occasionally I miss the scent of a freshly cut pine in the living room, though ours has a built-in scent diffuser.
However, the smell isn’t natural enough for me, and it’s somewhat overpowering, so the diffuser remains off.
It’s Sunday, a nonwork day, and while I’m with my family in body, my mind is elsewhere.
The Leclerc monopolizes my focus and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to stay out of my studio.
Especially because I’m hyperaware of how quickly time is passing.
As the weekly MotherWise e-zines (the plum is now a pomegranate) pile up in my inbox, so does my impatience to finish the conservation.
I have to complete it before this baby arrives—there’s no other option.
Wyatt’s job is the lights, and he’s twisting the branches to turn on the laser-powered, fiber-optic channels that stretch down each branch. Soon the tree illuminates, a soft and warm glow emanating from every needle.
“Remember this one, Wyatt? You were so proud.” She turns to Clementine. “Your dad made this when he was your age.”
Clementine takes the hat from her nana, inspects the stitching. “Pretty good, Daddy.”
“Bless your heart, sweet girl,” Wyatt says, laughing. He’s ensuring all the branches are evenly lit but turns from the tree and task to smile at Clementine. “I think that was the first and last time I used a needle and thread.”
“Well then, you should be proud of yourself, Daddy.” Clementine sets the hat in a row of decorations on the coffee table. “Nana, can I have a cookie before we ice them?”
Shelby glances at me and I nod. The shortbreads are a family recipe and baked only during the holidays. Clementine loves them.
“The boss says yes! Lucky us!” Shelby stands, holding out a hand. “Let’s go choose one each.”
“Bring me one too, okay?” Wyatt says.
Clementine says she will as she scrambles to her feet, hand in hand with Shelby. In the kitchen she’s debating which cookie to pick. (“I think the Christmas tree one is taller, but the sleigh is wider…which one do you want, Nana?”)
“She has such a sweet tooth,” I say, laughing.
“Takes after her dad.” Wyatt steps back from the tree, checking his work.
“Great job with the lights, hon.”
Wyatt comes behind me, wrapping his arms around my midsection. With his hands clasped across my stomach, it becomes clear how much I’ve popped recently.
“We have so much to look forward to this year.” Wyatt rests his chin between my shoulder and neck, and I lean back into him.
“By next Christmas we’ll be five, including Shelby,” I murmur. A pulse of joy moves through me. “And Clementine will have a sibling.”
“I know. I can’t wait, babe.”
“Me neither.” I twist my head to kiss him. The moment lingers, a stirring beginning in my body. But it’s soon dashed by Clementine, who returns with a cookie in each hand.
“Here you go, Daddy. I brought you a Christmas tree.” She has a sleigh-shaped cookie in her other hand.
“Thanks, Clem. Good choice.” He takes a big bite of the cookie and groans. “Mom, as delicious as ever.”
Shelby smiles, looking pleased.
I’m basking in these happy moments with my family, so the tickle on my arm barely registers. At first. But soon the itching can’t be ignored. I scratch lightly at the underside of my wrist.
Wyatt offers his last bite of cookie to Stanley, who has been waiting patiently at his feet for a morsel. “Good boy,” he says, scratching Stanley under his white-whiskered chin.
Scratch, scratch, scratch. I itch my arm in time with Wyatt’s scratches on Stanley’s chin.
There’s a slightly raised red circle around the tattoo, though the dots remain clear and glossy.
Not darkened, like before. Maybe a reaction to the new laundry detergent I bought recently?
Or dry skin? I used the last of my lotion yesterday, am waiting to buy more in case a bottle ends up in my stocking.
Either way, likely nothing to be alarmed by.