“I thank my lucky stars for it being Christmas,” Charlotte told me in the kitchen when we had a rare moment alone, uninterrupted by enthusiastic pajama-clad children running around. “We’re so focused on the kids and making everything festive and fun and happy this time of year. It helps.”
While Charlotte and Marco heave seemingly endless gifts from closets and secret hiding places to put under the tree and on the hearth, my father waves me into the garage.
“Wait till you see what I got Alice,” he says, beaming. He flips the garage lights on, bathing the space in fluorescents. We make our way past Charlotte’s minivan and over to a busy corner. Dad moves aside Marco’s set of golf clubs, followed by a few lightweight boxes I help move out of the way.
“You’re not here to show me some nest of mice babies, are you?” I say, suspicious. My father, for whatever reason, thought it cool to show young Charlotte and me a nest of mice that had claimed space in our garage. We both had nightmares about mice in the walls, in the ceiling, in our beds, for weeks.
Dad laughs to himself. “Just a valuable lesson in the ceaseless wonders of biology.” He grunts, lifting the surprise upward. “Here we are.” With a wide grin, he sets between us a black telescope. It has silver knobs and appears heavy, really solid. It isn’t a state-of-the-art professional scope, but it’s a far cry from the inexpensive ones you find at Toys “R” Us.
“Daddy,” I gasp, lightly running my fingers over the telescope. Immediately I think back on the telescope Charlotte and I had growing up. It was found one Christmas morning on the hearth, and it looked much like . . . “Is this?” I say, looking to my father.
He’s still wearing a wide grin. “It is. Your and Charlotte’s first telescope.”
He, too, runs his fingers nostalgically across the dull black body. It’s clearly used and aged but is still in impeccable shape.
“I figured Alice would really enjoy it, the science buff she is,” he says.
“Oh, definitely.”
“And maybe George will have some fun with it, too. Leah, when she’s a bit older.”
“Charlotte and I loved this,” I say, thinking fondly of the evenings my sister and I would share with our father in our backyard, stargazing, moon watching, planet searching. “I can’t believe you still have it. I thought Mom got rid of this long ago.”
“Oh no. I’ve had this ever since the divorce.” I can sense Dad flinch at his last word. He knows that Adam and I are about to begin divorce proceedings, and while he’s already conveyed his support and understanding of “whatever you decide and need, Halley,” it clearly hurts a father when his daughter follows, in a sense, the footsteps he’d rather not have made.
Not letting the joy of the present become lost, I quickly say, “I’m so glad you didn’t get rid of it, Daddy. This is a fantastic gift for the kids. Alice will love it. She’ll go nuts, in fact. You know she’s been begging Charlotte and Marco to get her one of these?”
“I know.” Dad lightly pats the telescope. “And dreams shall come true.” He lifts the telescope and gestures for us to make our way out of the garage. “Now that the kiddies are sound asleep,” he says, “how about we give this baby a test run?”
The air is crisp, a chillier December evening than most we’ve had recently. The sky is dark, few stars twinkling against the orange glow of the city’s lights. However, it is so clear tonight that those few stars are quite visible.
Dad fiddles with some knobs with his trademark scientific precision and care. I pull the cuffs of my wool sweater over my fingers and hug my arms to my chest, tilting my head back to survey the gorgeous Christmas Eve sky.
“There . . . we . . . go . . .” Dad squints through the telescope, then turns one more knob. He holds a hand out, inviting me to take a look for myself. “As good as new.”
I bend down and look through the telescope. A slice of the right side of the moon meets my eye. Its dark craters are just as awe-inspiring and magical as they have always been, no matter how many times my father and I have stood under the LA skies during nights much like this, observing the wonders of the universe.
“It’s still there,” I say of the moon in a childlike voice, something I rather preciously told my father every time we turned the telescope to the sky.
Dad laughs and says, “It’s waxing . . . Do you remember?”
“Oh, Daddy.” I stand upright. “It’s been so long.”
Ever a tad dispirited by the science aversion of his offspring, he says with a forgiving smile, “It’s waxing crescent.”
“Right. Of course. How could I forget?”
“Tomorrow night the moon’ll be first quarter, and if we have clear skies like tonight it’ll look—”
“Magical?” I say, recalling another childhood memory.
“Magical.”
“Gosh, Daddy,” I say as my father looks through the telescope. He huddles over it interestedly, moving the scope with care.
“What’s that, Halley?” His voice is low, almost a whisper, as he focuses on a view that he’s seen countless times but one that he’s never tired of.
“I’m sorry I didn’t really appreciate this growing up.”
He stands tall, looks at me, and points to the telescope. “What are you talking about? You and your sister loved this thing.”
“It was fascinating,” I assure him. “But it was spending time with you, on nights like this, in the backyard, that we loved most. We could have been looking at nothing more than a pitch-black sky with you, and we still would have been thrilled to no end.”
Dad smiles, his eyes wrinkling and his nose scrunching. “I know that, too, Halley.”
“What I mean is, I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate it as much as I could have,” I say. “Like become some smart and accomplished scientist.”
“Oh, Halley.”
“Now you’ve got Alice.”
“Alice is a kid wonder. Halley, you not being a scientist has never disappointed me.”
I shrug. “I guess, but . . . it probably sure would have been nice to have been able to really share with your child what you love.”
“You know, Halley.” Dad leads me to the bench at the far corner of the yard. “We shared time together, and that’s what I loved. That’s what you loved.” I nod. “That’s all any father can ask for of being a parent. The chance to spend time with and love his children. To know that they’re happy.”
I sit next to my father, close enough that his warmth can radiate onto me against the cold breeze in the air.
“You didn’t have to become a scientist to make me proud, Halley.”
I laugh and tell him that of course I know that. “I’ve been a bit of a hot mess lately, though,” I add with a self-deprecating laugh.
“I want you to do what brings you joy, Halley. If that’s writing for your women’s magazine, splitting atoms, or running a metal detector along the Pacific Coast in search of buried treasure, you do Halley.”
“Be honest with me, Daddy,” I say, looking straight ahead.
“Always.”
“Do you think I’m making a mistake, choosing not to become a parent? Choosing to let Adam go because I won’t change my mind?”
My father sits silently for a moment. At last he says, “I want you to arrive at your decisions on your own, Halley. You know what’s best for you.”
“And you’ve always said to surround myself with loved ones and people who support and challenge and are good for me. That we’re not in this alone.”
He smiles and pats my knee. “Well then, my humble, honest opinion?”
“Yes.”
His brow knits and one side of his lips turns up in contemplative thought. He rubs at his chin and, without saying anything, looks up at the sky.
“Halley,” he breathes into the night, “I know this is hard for you. You and Adam divorcing is something you never saw coming. Something you never planned for. I know you’d never make such a decision lightly. And I don’t doubt for a second
that what you’re feeling right now is a lot of pain, a lot of uncertainty, a lot of new questions needing all-new answers.”
He looks to me for a second, eyes warm and gentle, before looking back up toward the sky.
“Your mother’s and my divorce was very different, Halley. But an unexpected change—a love you have to let go of and move on from—nevertheless is not an easy hurdle. You know you were unplanned, your mom becoming pregnant with you?”
“How can I forget?”
“I wanted you before you were ever born—were ever even a blip on our radar. And that’s why we named you Halley.”
“Halley’s Comet. Edmond Halley.” I knew the story. My astronomer father loved his unexpected gift of a child, just as he loved the possibilities of the universe. My name was his nod to his beloved community and life’s endeavors.
“That’s right. Edmond Halley was a brilliant and inquisitive mind. Extremely accomplished. You’re in great company, scientist or not,” he says with a smirk. “Halley’s Comet comes around every seventy-six years. It, like many comets, used to mystify the ancients. It used to be thought of as a forewarning of disease, famine, war, great storms. Today, we know it to be a comet. When I think of Halley’s Comet, and when I look up into the sky or through a telescope, I think of the endless possibilities out there, the unknown worlds, the universes we can’t even begin to identify and explore. So much possibility. So much beauty.”
Dad looks to me and says, “Halley, all I’ve ever wanted for you—all that any father wants for his child—is for her to live a full, happy, and meaningful life. We don’t know what kind of hand life will deal us. We all start with a clean slate.”
“A fresh page,” I say, running with the literary imagery.
“A fresh page, exactly. Then words appear on the page. You write your story. And then your muse visits.” I smile. “And words you didn’t plan for—you didn’t expect—appear, and they take the story in a different direction. And on and on and on you go, writing your story. We make hard decisions, and that’s the way of life. Adam is one of your hard decisions.”
“He is. I love him so much, Daddy.”
“I know you do.”
“I love him so much that”—I take in a big drink of air—“so much that I have to let him go.”
“I know you do.”
“And I really hate that this kind of love is one I have to let go of.”
“Do you know how I see this?”
“How?” I snuggle closer to my father, and he wraps an arm around my shoulders.
He points upward. “Your love for Adam, and your next chapter”—he winks—“is kind of like Halley’s Comet.”
“Forewarning of a disaster to the ancients?” I kid.
He ignores my jesting and says, “Halley’s Comet is on an amazing and lengthy journey. It, like everything in our solar system, is in free fall around the sun. It travels an enormous distance, falling to the edge of our solar system. Most don’t know that, that a comet’s falling.”
“Oh god,” I say in a tone of dread at the moribund sound of things.
Dad gives my shoulders a squeeze. “It’s falling away, and you think it’s just going to disappear. Go away, never to return. Like you and Adam right now, you’re falling. And it hurts.”
“Yes.”
“And then,” he says enthusiastically, “when the comet reaches the edge of our solar system it comes back around, free-falling its way back to the inner solar system. It starts its return. Let’s call that return your healing. Your . . . moving on to the next chapter.” The thought makes me smile.
“Halley’s Comet never leaves,” he says. “It’s in an orbit, free-falling back and returning to our skies, like clockwork, every seventy-six years. We can predict where in the sky it will return and on what path. It’s always there, Halley. Always has been, always will be.”
“Like my love for Adam. It’ll always be there, just in a different form, maybe?” I say.
Dad gives a closed-eyed nod of satisfaction. “Like your love for Adam,” he parrots. “And also like your movement from one chapter to another in life. Halley’s Comet returns, with a glowing halo and tail, letting you know it’s still there, burning bright as it shines across our skies. It never stops its journey. Love and life are like that, Halley. And you don’t want to miss out on a second of it.”
“Oh, Daddy.” I rest my head on his shoulder and let his arm envelop me, pull me into his side.
“Burn bright, Halley,” he whispers against my head before kissing it. “Burn bright and strong and with courage, no matter what you’re doing.”
“You know what, Daddy?”
“Hmm?”
“I think I’m going to get through this.”
“Of course you are.”
I sit up and look at him. “But not just get through it. Adam’s right. You’re right. We’ve got a whole life—a whole sky—out there. It’s our job to make the most out of it.”
My father smiles. “That’s all we can do.”
As we lean back on the bench, heads tilted, eyes skyward, I decide on two things.
“Are you going to be in town for New Year’s?” Dad asks.
“I will be,” I say happily of the first of my two decisions. I’m actually looking forward to, as with Christmas, not jetting off for a holiday vacation but spending it with family.
“There’s a full moon at the start of the year, so it’s not the best of telescope conditions. But if we’re lucky we’ll be able to see the Quadrantids. They should be spectacular!”
“Meteor shower?” I guess.
“You bet. It’s best to go out to the mountains or the desert for that. The city light can make visibility difficult. If you want to join—”
“I’d love to.”
“All right then.” I can’t think of a better way to ring in the New Year than with my father as we watch a beautiful, glittery light show in the sky.
It’s also under the soft glow of the moon and the evening sky where Santa’s making his rounds, making wishes come true, that I make the second of my two decisions. Now is the time to find myself. Whatever that means. Although I have a pretty good idea. I’m fairly sure it has something to do with courage. With that fresh, empty page. With that new chapter, waiting to be written by a Halley Brennan . . . No, Halley West, working writer, aspiring author. Like a comet, I’ve got to rocket to the edge of the solar system and back, fearless, shining in the sky and burning bright on the journey that is this messy and complicated, and nuanced, big beautiful life.
Epilogue
TWO YEARS LATER
It’s that time of year again. That time when the winds get gustier, the nights get dark earlier, the street lamps are bedecked with red-ribboned wreaths. It’s that time of year when you show your gratitude for those important in your life, when you look back on the year and recall its fond memories, when you say to yourself, Boy, time flies as you rip open the new calendar and prepare to hang it on the wall—a fresh set of days, weeks, and months, brimming with possibility and opportunity.
I drop my cell phone into my Gucci tote, a gift that represents one of the most significant and also most trying Christmases of my life better than it represents wealth, class, and sophistication. I check twice to make sure my keys are also inside my tote. I don’t have a roommate I can count on to open the door when she gets off work in the event that I forget them. (Although Marian does have a key to my place—my home is always hers, hers mine.) Marian and I live across town from each other now. I have my own place—my first own place—and I love it. This quaint first-floor studio apartment in a quiet Pasadena neighborhood, exactly zero minutes from my office, is home.
Marian and I lived together for a year after the divorce, which turned out to be a very speedy, clean, and drama-free ordeal, as Mika had promised. Fifty-fifty, everything down the middle. Marian and I had a lot of great times together as roomies, and she really helped see me through my divorce. But it was time to get a place o
f my own, turn toward that next chapter. I’d saved up some money and gotten some in the divorce settlement, and I came into some additional funds that helped me get on my own two feet.
It was also time for me to move out to make room for Cole. He and Marian did, indeed, go out on that New Year’s Eve date two years ago. And they did, indeed, make up for a lot of lost time. Marian actually offered for me to stay on as her roomie once Cole moved in. “It’s not like he needs his own room,” she’d said. The thought and offer were sweet, but it was time for Marian to fully live her happily ever after.
And now, during what I’m sure will be another historic, romantic Christmas season, I have a feeling someone’s going to be getting engaged soon. It’s hard to believe that Marian and Cole have been going out for two years, and have so much history on top of that, and they’ve yet to take that plunge. But they both insisted they weren’t going to have a repeat Runaway Bride moment. They’d take as long as they needed until the time was right, and no matter how long it took, it didn’t really matter, so long as they had each other.
They won’t be taking that much longer, though. Last week, when I was doing some Christmas shopping on Colorado Boulevard, I bumped into Cole in front of Tiffany’s, and he had the unmistakable Tiffany-blue bag in his hand. My mouth dropped open, his eyes grew wide, and he said, “Shh. Don’t tell,” a finger to his lips. It has taken everything I have not to call Marian and shout the exciting news.
What can I say? Some happily ever afters do turn out like fairy tales. Not all, but some.
I’m on my way to dinner with Marian and Cole right now, and I’m curious if she’ll be sporting something sparkly.
I pick up Marian’s Christmas gift, and I’m about to tuck it into my tote when I notice that the gold bow has popped off. Its sticky backing is weak, unusable, so I pull a spool of gold ribbon from my desk drawer and sit down to properly fix the wrapping.
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