Page 5 of Wishing Stone

An ache constricted in my chest as I thought about Helena, the woman who birthed me, residing in the west wing. The semi-private rooms, complete with a small kitchenette, were added onto the house specifically for her and the live-in nursing staff who cared for her. I hadn’t visited her today, which was unusual. I typically stopped by at least once a day to check on her. Even though I made sure my mother had every amenity imaginable to keep her comfortable, the pain I felt every time I left her never seemed to ebb. While she had come to recognize the man I was now, she had no memory of me prior to our reintroduction four years ago—and she had no idea I was her son. She didn’t even remember having any children, and telling her the truth would only confuse and upset her.

And all because of my father.

I gritted my teeth and my hands involuntarily flexed as I tried not to think about the physically and mentally abusive asshole. His death had allowed him to get off easy—but not before he reduced my mother to a shadow of her former self. The brain damage she’d suffered by his hands had been so severe that she struggled with even the most basic verbal and motor skills. Krystina’s mention of picture books was another reminder of my mother’s limited ability to communicate. Because she struggled to form words, her therapists showed us how to use pictures to converse with her. She had the mind of a small toddler trapped in an adult’s body.

Nevertheless, Krystina had been good with my mother right from the very beginning. The way my mother’s face would brighten whenever my wife walked into the room moved me in ways that were impossible to explain. Since my mother had no memory of my sister, Justine, or me, I doubted she would have any memory of a holiday tradition. If there were any traditions back then, Hale would most likely know about them. He’d been there through it all.

“You might have better luck asking Hale,” I told Krystina.

“You might be onto something there. He was close with your grandparents,” she mused. “Maybe I’ll get with him on it.”

After packing up the empty ornament boxes, the two of us lugged them into the storage room in the basement. Once they were all neatly stowed away, Krystina and I returned to the living room and discovered that Vivian had made us mulled spiced cider. Two steaming mugs sat next to a plate of cinnamon biscotti. I heard a loud crackle and glanced toward the fireplace. Vivian had also added more wood to the fire.

A slow grin spread across my face, appreciating our housekeeper’s ability to predict my desires—sometimes before even I knew what they were. It was no secret that decorating wasn’t my thing, and as much as I always enjoyed my wife’s holiday spirit, Vivian knew I would have other ideas for how Krystina and I should end the night—and she’d set the stage perfectly.

“I swear. I was literally just thinking about getting horizontal on the couch with you,” I remarked. Stepping closer to Krystina, I snaked my arm around her waist. “Vivian is a mind reader.”

“Yeah, she is,” Krystina said quietly as her brows pushed together in a frown.

“What’s wrong, angel?”

She didn’t immediately answer and seemed to sink deeper into thought. When she eventually spoke, she couldn’t mask the worry in her voice. “Once you think it’s safe for people to come and go in the house again, I think we should consider hiring a part-time assistant for Vivian.”

I pictured Vivian’s deep smile lines and graying hair that she kept swept up into a bun. I nearly laughed when I thought about how our loyal housekeeper would react to such an idea. She was past retirement age, but I knew her well enough to know she was a perfectionist who thrived on staying busy.

“Vivian will never go for it,” I replied. “She’s way too particular. You know that. It’s why I’ve trusted her with so much over the years.”

“Maybe, but I think we should broach the subject with her. She does most of the cleaning and cooking for the household, including your mom’s nursing staff. It’s a lot for her. She’s getting up there in age and should rest more. Tonight is a perfect example. It’s after ten o’clock. She shouldn’t be waiting on us at all hours as she does.”

Sitting down on the curved Neiman Marcus sofa, I picked up a mug of hot cider and took a tentative sip of the hot liquid. While I’d preferred a nightcap with a bit more kick, I’d given up alcohol as a show of support for Krystina after she’d sworn off all alcohol and caffeine while we were trying to get pregnant. Giving up her favorite Washington State Riesling hadn’t been too hard but switching to decaf was another story. Her penchant for coffee was something I would never understand. The love affair she had with caffeine ran deep

Settling back, I crossed one ankle over my knee and draped an arm over the back of the sofa. “Vivian likes doting on us—and she adores you. I dare you to try and tell her to stop. She won’t listen.”

Krystina sighed and bent to pick up her mug. “You’re probably right, but I still think we should talk to her about taking on an assistant.”

Walking over to the large floor-to-ceiling windows, she looked out into the dark night. At the moment, nothing but blackness could be seen, but I knew the view of the backyard to be breathtaking by day.

The house sat on a thirty-six-acre lot, of which five acres had been cleared to leave only a line of lush pines and tall maples dotting the landscape. They formed a natural path, following the gentle slope of the land to a large retention pond near the tree line. Krystina loved it out there in the summertime. On the weekends, when she wasn’t lounging by our inground pool, she could often be found wandering the path around the pond. She had wanted to ice-skate on it during the winter months, but the unusually warm temperatures over the past few years meant thin ice—or sometimes no ice at all—and she hadn’t been able to.

I studied my wife as she stared out into the black night. I couldn’t help but notice the tension in her shoulders.

“Angel, come sit down,” I told her. “You seem anxious.”

“Do I?” she asked distractedly without looking at me.

“A little. If it makes you happy, I’ll bring up the subject with Vivian this weekend.”

Turning away from the window, Krystina came to sit down on the sofa. As she folded her legs under her, I wrapped one arm around her shoulders so she could curl into me.

A silence settled between us, one that seemed to stretch on for hours even though only about five minutes had passed. I loved the woman beside me in more ways than one, and despite the quiet, I knew my angel was deep in thought over something—and it had nothing to do with Vivian. As much as I wanted to dig into that brilliant and complex mind of hers, I decided not to poke the embers and stoke the flame. I had a suspicion about what she was thinking. If I was correct, as I almost always was when it came to her, it was best to stay silent and let her take the lead.

“Do you remember what today is?” she finally asked.

There it is.

Of course, I remembered what day it was. There was no way I would forget the third anniversary of her first miscarriage. The pregnancy came only a few short months after we were married. It hadn’t been planned, but we were both excited by the news. When she lost the baby after only six weeks, it was a shocking blow.

“I remember,” I replied with a slow nod. “That’s why I came home from work early today. I didn’t want you to be alone for too long.”

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