“But, Michelle, I always knew she was your real mother. Genetics or not.”
“Mom,” she answered firmly. “No. You.” She caught my eyes with hers—hers and her father’s. “You. And if you think you’ll leave nothing behind, if you think that nothing matters but the dust our bones return to, then look again. There are a lot of mothers out there with you to thank.” She glanced toward the shelf again. “Your name should be on those plaques. Those awards.”
For long moments we said nothing, the only sound in the room a steady tick-tick-tick coming from the wall clock, counting away the seconds. “Well, well …” I finally said as a lone tear slid down my cheek. “What do you know about that …”
We sat in silence a few minutes until Michelle cleared her throat and said, “Kerry Livgren wrote ‘Dust in the Wind.’”
“What?”
“That song. Kerry Livgren wrote it.”
I raised my chin a little. “Did Patterson teach you that, too?”
“Well, he got me interested enough to know who wrote that and ‘Carry On Wayward Son’—Patterson was big into the 70s—and then I did my own research.” She shrugged. “I like music and, obviously, I like research.”
“I remember when you were big into the 70s.”
“Yeah, well, that was also Patterson’s influence.” She scooted forward in her chair. “Thanks to him, I fell in love with all types of music and I learned to research the stories behind the songs, the groups, the singers. That kind of thing.”
My daughter’s love for music—an interest that had grown during her senior year in high school—resonated in her telling. “I remember you playing Sinatra at Christmas.”
Her face lit. “Ah, yes. Francis Albert Sinatra. They don’t make ’em like that anymore.” She stood and indicated I should do the same. We were leaving. We were going home.
“You know, I told your father a long time ago—well, I may not get this quite right—but I told him that all the people in our lives touch us. They leave a fingerprint. Some for a moment, some for a lifetime.” Michelle flipped off the light as I continued. “Some of those people we never even meet.”
“We are influenced by all sorts of people,” she said, her voice playful. Philosophical. Dr. Phil again. “No doubt about it. Even those who ended up having a negative effect can leave positive breadcrumbs along the way.”
“You don’t say …”
Her arm looped with mine as the elevator door opened and, in unison, we stepped inside.
“He saw them in concert once.”
“Who?”
“Your daddy. He saw Kansas in concert.”
“Wow,” she said as though she were contemplating her father at a rock concert. “He never told me that.” Then she laughed. “Do you know, for the longest time, I thought they were singing, ‘Kerry, you’re my wayward son.’”
“What?”
“Seriously.” And then she sang the words. “Kerry, you’re my wayward so-on …”
The elevator doors slid shut to capture the echo of our laughter.
And somewhere, somehow, I thought I caught the rhythm of Westley laughing with us.
After
When I think back on it, I realize I never received a formal proposal of marriage. Not really, anyway. Westley never got down on one knee, never presented me with a diamond ring sparkling above a blanket of black velvet, prisms shooting out in the moonlight. There was no sweet scent of honeysuckle wafting from my mother’s garden. No violins playing in a quiet Italian restaurant while candles flickered atop checkered tablecloths. He never said the words women—especially those reared in the South—dream of. Never said, “Will you marry me” or “Will you make me the happiest man in the world and be my bride” or “my wife” or any of the phrases that accompany dreams.
Westley never promised me a perfect life. He never promised me forever.
What he said—if I remember the words clearly after all these years—was “Well, that sounds good.”
And I suppose it was.
The End
CHRISTMAS FICTION FROM EVA MARIE EVERSON
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