And she imagined that the break in the storm he’d seen in New York City had vanished as soon as he headed up the Hudson, and he’d pulled over into any one of the hotels that were open on Christmas Eve.
Evan had been working and traveling nonstop, so he’d probably hit that bed and fallen hard asleep.
All of that made perfect sense.
But something was really wrong. And she felt it deep in her chest where all the true things she knew about herself lived.
She got out of bed and pulled on her sweatpants and one of Evan’s sweatshirts, the big, thick Boston College Crew one that he always wanted back and she refused to return.
Evan, she thought and then she prayed it.
Please, Evan. Please.
It was four in the morning. A cold and quiet time. The fire had burned to embers and the heat it had been pumping out all evening had disappeared. She stirred the embers the way Max had taught all of them, laying down kindling and blowing on the tiny flames until they caught. Soon the fire was crackling and sending out sparks.
The Christmas tree had been unplugged, probably by Alice, so Helen got on her hands and knees and plugged it back in, and then crawled out from under the tree, with pine needles in her hair.
“Helen?”
“Hey Mom.” She got to her feet and turned to see her mother standing at the bottom of the big staircase. She wore leggings and a flannel shirt. Her hair, the kind of silver blond women paid a gazillion dollars for, was in a messy ponytail. “What are you doing up?”
“I don’t know. I just had a strange feeling.” Her mother rubbed her chest. That same place where Helen felt the heavy certainty that something was wrong. “Evan must have gotten in late.”
“He’s not here yet.”
They blinked at each other. And Helen knew, the way she always knew with her mother, that they were thinking the same thing.
Something is wrong.
“Well,” Mom said with false cheer. “I hope he’s not at that terrible Motel 8 in Binghampton. Because that’s the—”
There was a heavy knock on the door. The kind of knock that didn’t bring good cheer and glad tidings.
Not at four a.m. Not on Christmas Day.
It was the kind of knock that changed everything. That drew a line down the middle of a life. Before and after.
“Helen,” Mom whispered and reached for her, grabbing her hands just when Helen thought she might pass out.
Another knock. Louder.
“We need to get it before everyone wakes up.”
Helen crossed to the door, feeling the chill grow the further she got from the fire. The closer she got to whatever was going to happen next.
Mom was beside her and that was good. Helen felt like she was watching the whole thing from a million miles away. Like looking through the wrong end of a telescope, so instead of large and close everything was tiny and distant.
She pulled open the door and there was a State Trooper in his full foul-weather gear. His nose and cheeks were pink from the wind.
It was a bad storm. That’s what I’ll say about tonight, she thought. That’s how the story will go that I’ll tell my baby. It was a really bad storm.
“Sorry to bother you ma’am,” he said and took off his hat.
Don’t, she wanted to say. You’ll get cold.
“I’m looking for Helen Larson,” he said.
“That’s me,” she whispered and put a hand over her belly like she might protect the baby from what was about to happen. The State Trooper saw the gesture, realized she was pregnant, and closed his eyes like he, too, was praying.
Tears were falling down her face, because she knew. She knew in her chest where all the sure things lived for her.
“There’s been an accident,” he said. “A tractor trailer lost control on the highway just outside Binghampton.”
“Evan Daniels?” she asked. I was going to be Helen Daniels. And we joked that if we had a boy we’d call him Daniel and he’d hate us, but also might be a country music singer.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. He died on the way to the hospital.”
And she’d known. She’d known so well and so completely that this was the thing wrong. That Evan was gone, that it wasn’t even shocking.
But the world went black all the same.
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Christmas At The Riverview Inn Page 19