And that was one feeling Mike just couldn't handle.
“Your turn's over, Khalil,” Ruth said gently, moving toward him to usher him on. Suddenly, the little boy's hands went to Mike's shoulders, the kid floppy in some parts, rigid in others, as he came in for what Mike realized was a hug.
Ruth gasped.
Sandy took pictures.
“Want Mama,” Khalil said into his ear. “May you please give mama.”
And then he let go abruptly and walked off, not looking back. Ruth did, though, calling over her shoulder, “Thank you so much!”
Leaving Mike and Sandy a puddle of emotional goo.
They blinked at each other, Mike gasping for air, the next family waiting respectfully, though the kids were restless.
Order. Mike needed order. The pieces of him in disarray had to fall in line somehow before he could function.
And then he knew exactly what to do.
No one was going to like it right now, because the squirming, impatient kids in line deserved to have their turn.
Too bad.
“I need to make a call,” Mike said to Sandy, terse and hard in a way he hadn't been for years.
“But the line – ”
“Sandy.” His firmness jolted her, and he didn't care. “What hospital is Khalil's mother at?”
“The only one within a hundred miles, of course.”
“And who is in charge of billing there? And the pediatric division for whatever an autistic kid needs in terms of therapy and support?”
Dawning recognition lit up her face as she grabbed his forearm, eyes starting to glisten. “Oh, Mike.” Shooing him toward the camp office, which happened to be right there in the lodge, she waved him off. “I'll keep everyone happy.” She turned to the line. “Who wants a special treat if you can wait ten more minutes. I have chocolate-covered Santa marshmallows!”
The crowd roared. Crisis averted. Sugar bought him time.
“You go make that call,” she insisted, as she reached into a green basket and grabbed foil packets, shooing him off.
After leaving Bournham Industries under a cloud of scandal, he'd simplified his financial affairs, his accounting and tax team helping him to create a foundation. Between his and Jeremy's non-profits, they distributed significant sums to charity, Jeremy focusing more on developing countries and entrepreneurship, Mike giving to larger institutions in the U.S.
One call was all he needed to make. His executive director would handle the rest.
He wasn't gone for more than seven minutes, a chain of actions put in place.
For once, his old life, all his old sacrifices, came in handy.
“Ho ho ho!” he chuckled as he came back to a line of twenty faces, some smeared with chocolate, all eagerly tipped up to watch the magic man the kids adored. Lydia was in the room, too, eyes amused and so sweet he wanted to kiss her. Hold her. Be with her.
Breathe with her.
Eyes drifting to her midsection, he then looked at every child in the room.
Would he have one of these in line to see Santa one day?
And just like that, the question dissolved as clarity struck.
Yes.
Yes, he would.
They would.
10
Lydia
Christmas Morning
The boxes from the drugstore were so unassuming. Simple cardboard, they had logos and words on them, silver-wrapped plastic sticks inside with computer chips and displays.
Magic, really.
Pee on the stick, and the magic would tell you your future.
Who knew a simple pregnancy test could be like visiting a psychic with a crystal ball?
She had waited on purpose, not wanting to tempt fate. Her period was now two days late, though she'd always had a range. Two days was nothing, but it was everything, too.
Everything.
Did she want to be pregnant? Yes and no. Yes, because over time, she'd become attached to the idea of her body creating new life. Of feeding it. Of nurturing and sustaining, then sharing that life with Mike and Jeremy. If she was, indeed, pregnant, this child would grow up surrounded by so much love.
And more than enough parents.
Her mom and dad would be beside themselves with joy, she knew, though the social awkwardness of a grandchild with two dads and a mom would be, well...
It would be reality.
The no regarding pregnancy was trickier. Slipperier. Hard to explain why the no was even there, given the excitement she felt at the prospect of being with child. The no wasn't just a relic, though. It was full-throated and very much a formed idea whose shape had substance.
This was not planned.
This was not discussed.
This was not prepared for.
And yet, here she stood, in the bathroom, one hand on the long zipper of her footed pajama suit, the other holding a pregnancy test stick.
All that stopped her from the truth was pee.
And not raccoon pee.
Holding her bladder in the mornings was a time-honored tradition when Maine turned from fall to winter, the morning chill enough to make anyone want to stay under the covers to milk the warmth for just a few more precious minutes, but on a morning like this, it was different.
This was fate.
“Urine for a surprise,” she joked aloud, undressing enough to sit and do the deed.
And then she set the stick on the counter, wiped, washed her hands, set the timer on her phone, and closed her eyes.
Patience was never her strong suit.
If that test result was positive, she'd have to learn. Children were nothing but patience extractors, her mother used to say, mining for more of it from whatever human they could prospect.
Bing!
This was it. Opening her eyes slowly, she looked.
“Not Pregnant.”
The words came out of her mouth as if spoken by someone else.
Someone who wasn't born yet.
Tension she didn't know she'd been holding in her body released like she was melting, her breath coming into her like a long ribbon of freedom, slow and steady, almost sonorous. The air had a taste, a scent, a brightness she couldn't quite name.
And then it didn't.
Everything was gray.
As quickly as she'd perked up and relaxed from the negative result, she'd deflated, eyes wide but not wet, heart full but not hurting.
Negative.
Mike had suggested she test twice, just to be sure, so she did as recommended, the thin tendril of hope barely cracking the surface of emotion. Yet again, she tore the foil packet open.
And the she paused.
Because she'd emptied her bladder the first try.
Filling a water glass, she laughed at her own reflection, then watched as tears filled her lower lids.
“Silly,” she admonished herself, as if the person in the mirror weren't her. Gulping the contents of the small glass, her hand was on the faucet before she was done, running more water, wondering if she was watering everything down.
The test didn't require first morning urine, but she'd given it to the stick.
And the stick said NO.
If she had to wait until her bladder put out, she might as well do something constructive with her time.
“Floss and polish, or pluck those eyebrows?” she asked herself, half expecting her reflection to give an answer.
Nothing.
“Fine. Teeth it is.”
Jeremy swore by brushing his teeth once a week with baking soda (toothpaste the other days), declaring it better than any dental cleaning, though he was careful with those, too. All three of them were so... adult about their self care.