Page 42 of The Art of Being Merry
“Nope, not an option,” Dax says, striding toward the boxes on the couch, stopping short of reaching in. He spins around, a sheepish expressionon his face. “Oops. Got a little carried away.” He’s about to step away from the contraband, but I don’t let him.
“You’re here to help, so help.”
“Yeah, Dax. We want this completed tonight, so get working.” Atlas issues his demand with so much consideration and concern, my heart melts. Not only for my son, but for the way he’s including Dax in this, not caring he’s not a part of our family.
“Well, if you say so.”
Giddy, Dax joins in, hanging ornaments on my tree like nobody’s business. He lifts Jace so he can put some of his higher. He laughs with Atlas about a funny one. He hums and sings along to the Christmas music playing in the background like it’s an ordinary task. I’m so enthralled with his procedure, I’ve barely hung any.
“Where are the ones we bought yesterday?” He glances around the room covered in boxes and tissue paper.
“We decided to hang those last. To make sure they get the most prominent spot.”
“So they don’t get lost,” Atlas adds, warming up to the idea more.
When I mentioned it earlier, he wasn’t quite on board, wanting to get those on the tree first because of their importance. I convinced him by hanging them last, they’d have less chance of getting put in a spot we couldn’t easily see them.
“So smart.” Dax looks at me when he says it, and my ego bursts. His opinion is everything to me, no matter what my conscious thoughts lead me to believe.
“Thanks. Thought you’d like it.”
He seems like he wants to say more, but his lips remain parted in a smile.
I retrieve the bag from the store, carefully taking out the goods. The cashier wrapped all of them individually, so I unwrap them one at a time.
First is Jace’s. “I know the perfect spot.” He takes the ornament from me carefully and rushes to stand in front of Dax. “Little help here, Dax,” he spews, sounding so much like Atlas, it elicits a laugh, one deep from the depths of my abdomen. Too busy laughing, I can’t reprimand him.
Dax laughs too, but picks him by his waist, lifting Jace so he can reach the spot he’s chosen. I wish I had the forethought to take a picture because this is what memories are made of.
“Wait. Don’t put him down yet, Dax. Mama needs a picture.” I’m shocked by Atlas’s words, how he read my mind, until he adds, “It’s tradition. At least one photo of everyone putting on an ornament. Where’s your phone, Mama?” He turns to me. I’m sostunned, I can only point near where I left it. When I don’t think he’s paying attention, he does something like this to prove me wrong.
He returns to the living room, my phone in hand, passing it over. He’s already opened up the camera app, and I steady my shaking fingers enough to get the shot. I can’t tell which part of the image is my favorite: their matching smiles or the way Dax so carefully holds onto my son, nothing “friendly” about it.
I will the tears forming not to fall. Not here, not now. Tonight, after the boys go to bed, if I still feel the urge, I’ll let them go. As I’ve done many times before.
But not now.
I unwrap the next one, handing it to Atlas. He searches for the best spot and angles himself toward my camera without prompting, his smile cheesy and wide.
Reaching into the bag, I pull out two more. Confused, I hold them both up. “I thought we each only got one?”
“The extra one’s for you,” Dax supplies, his cheeks the faintest pink, giving away whatever secret he’s kept since yesterday.
“Oh.” I choose one of the two, unwrapping it to reveal the one I picked out.
“Open the other one, then put them both on the tree,” Dax suggests.
Only because I’m so curious to learn what he picked out do I listen. With nimble fingers, I tear back the paper, finding what looks to be the back of some sort of red shirt. I turn it over and glimpse a sweater. Anuglysweater, the words “Be naughty. Save Santa the trip” painted on. I burst into another fit of laughter, knowing exactly how perfect his gift is, more so after tonight.
“Fitting, right?” Dax says, humor in his voice.
“Very. I love it. Thank you.”
His gaze locked with mine, he nods. It’s the briefest movement of his head, but it’s so Dax.
“What is it, Mama?” Jace wonders.
I hold it up. “It’s an ugly sweater. Sometimes people have parties to celebrate them where everyone wears the ugliest one they can find.”
