This year Lydia would drape tiny white lights along the deck railing. And hang the three artificial wreaths with ruby red ribbons she bought at the after-Christmas sale last year on her front windows. Where did she put them? Peter had been gone nearly four years. It was time for light, relief, a welcoming of spirit.
Lydia sat at the kitchen table to test four strings of LED bulbs she’d picked up at Harvey’s Hardware earlier in the day and three didn’t work, so she strung the one functional strand on a small section of railing visible from the kitchen window. Surely, the gentle light will soften the darkness ushered in by the winter sunset. It comes too soon. The night was still the loneliest time. Dinner for one but made for two had become tolerable, yet white lights visible from the kitchen window might just pull her away from the drone of the evening news and the ease of the living room couch. Lydia set the timer on the single strand to begin at that very moment, four-thirty pm, just as the sun starts to lower in the west, with reds and oranges spilling out from behind the naked treeline of black walnuts and elm, performing a final, luminous dance to welcome dusk.
The next morning Lydia stood at the returns counter to explain her situation to a group of skeptical, red-aproned clerks and without a receipt, was given a prompt and immediate scolding, as anticipated. At Harvey’s, you’d better know what you need and make good choices the first time around.
Dismissive and barely looking up from his inventory sheet, Phillip peppered her with questions while two part-timers bobbed back and forth into the conversation, scowling and unconcerned she could hear their lowly assessment of her. No receipt. Who does she think she is?
“They look fine to me,” Phillip began, “but maybe we should put batteries in to test ‘em out.” Lydia felt insulted by his assumption she could not know when something was broken. Phillip lay the inventory sheet down and looked more closely at the woman behind the counter. He’d seen her somewhere before, he was sure of it.
“I did that, Phillip.” Lydia pressed, gently, she’d recognized him from the grief group at the church. It had been a few years, but it was him, she was sure of it.
Phillip was interrupted before he could think too deeply about how this woman knew his name,
“Do we even sell those here?” asked a teen hovering nearby. A seasonal employee, fresh and unspoiled, he was poised to leap over to the Christmas lights aisle for proof of fraud if necessary. After a long huddle and a heavy amount of side-eye, Lydia’s exchange was approved. Relying on an antiquated system of hand-written return slips to be presented to the cashier at the check-out counter, Phillip began the multi-step process. With a scorecard pencil, he wrote the product codes in careful print on the tiny form, as if everything was done in miniature, a painstakingly slow process, by design. He glanced at Lydia, now and again, trying to place her. He could ask, but that would be talking, and Phillip preferred not to do that.
Lydia found and paid for three more packages of lights, returned home, sat at the kitchen table, and filled each battery case, expecting a soft glow of white. A splash of reds and blues and purples flashed on and off.
“Nuts.” The word ‘multi’ printed with indecipherably small lettering at the bottom of the package was missed. How could she not see that? She missed so many things these days.
Recalling the inquisition by the Red Apron Gang, Lydia tried to talk herself into liking the blinking strands but couldn’t imagine looking at lights she didn’t want. There would be no compromise, she was giving up on herself a little too much lately and this was as good a place as any for a pivot.
“I shall return to the Returns!” she said with forced enthusiasm.
“I need to exchange these. I actually wanted white.” Lydia told Phillip and the rest of the huddle, who collectively tried to shame her again. Not today, she just wasn’t having it. Dutifully, Phillip wrote up the necessary slip and Lydia took it from him with an open hand. Phillip paused as he lay the slip on her fingers, as if he might say something, but said nothing, now having remembered where they’d met. To open up would mean he would have to acknowledge his loss, his pain, something he held close. To let go of pain could mean letting go of love, he worried.
“Thanks,” said Lydia and once released, she went in search of more strands of working white lights with her prized exchange slip in possession. Phillip watched her walk away, wishing he’d offered more than minimal conversation, now having remembered how kind she was in the beige, awkward room plastered with Sunday school posters alongside all the other mourners, nearly four years ago. In a gesture of self-preservation, he allowed himself only to remember what he could contain, and no more.
Lydia reached the Christmas light aisle and found an empty shelf where the little white lights should’ve been. There were no more. Surprising herself, she felt satisfied with what she already had. She took her credit and went home to sit in her kitchen to have dinner for one but made for two, grateful to gaze upon her one strand of perfect lights. It already made her happy, it was enough. Letting go of nourishing and familiar traditions for nearly four years felt like a failure, but something had shifted. Lydia remembered she was human and could begin again whenever possible. Hope is renewable.
Phillip placed his thermos of bad coffee, now cold, back into his lunchbox and left for home after a long day behind the returns counter to sit in his kitchen alone and eat his dinner for one but made for two, having lost his Gwen nearly four years ago, which still feels incredulous, only to look expectantly out his back window at a string of flashing colored lights and wait for the peace that comes with acceptance that may or may not arrive.
“I remember now,” he said quietly. “her name is Lydia.”
Copyright (2021) Suzanne Bayer. All Rights Reserved