Ornaments

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My contribution to this year's 750-word story challenge.

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Bright June sunlight streamed through the bay window as he adjusted the branches on the Christmas tree, bending them to conceal any gaps.

"Better?" he asked.

Elaine nodded in her chair.

"From our honeymoon," he said, placing an ornament with an illustration of Niagara Falls near the top.

Amber sat behind them on the couch. She was unwrapping ornaments from boxes she'd pulled from the closet. The sound of crinkling tissue paper filled the room.

"52 years ago," he said, shaking his head. "Hard to believe. Your first time on a boat. You were scared to death, but you knew I loved the Maid of the Mist, so you went anyway."

He smiled at her. She returned the smile, but there was no recognition behind her eyes. Today was a particularly bad day.

He handed her two red and green paper chains. She draped them over a low branch.

"Can't believe those have held up," he said. "From David and Emma's preschool class. Mrs. Gordon, I think it was."

Elaine had always loved ornaments. She bought one every year to commemorate a special event or trip: a hearth for their first home, baby shoes for Emma's birth, a rattle two years later for David, a Yosemite Valley scene for their 15th anniversary, mouse ears for Disney with the grandchildren.

Sharing the stories that accompanied each ornament was their favorite Christmas tradition. It crushed him to know that these objects, once infused with the vibrant glow of shared experience, had for Elaine dulled to inert pieces of glass and ceramic.

Still, he kept his voice light as he lost himself in familiar stories. She seemed to enjoy listening.

A mortarboard celebrating Emma's graduation slipped from Amber's hands and clattered across the floor.

Elaine started. She stared at Amber as though noticing her for the first time, then turned to him in panic.

"Who is she?"

"That's Amber. She's helps us most afternoons and...

Elaine's eyes flashed. "You're having an affair! You're cheating on me!"

He exchanged a glance with Amber. She nodded, rose from the couch, and disappeared into the kitchen.

"Here. Would you hang this one for me?" he asked, handing her a sandcastle ornament from their first beach trip.

As she searched the branches for a place to put it, he could see her face soften.

Deflection was usually the best approach when she became angry or frightened. It didn't always work, though. This morning she'd been convinced it was almost Christmas and had insisted they put up the tree.

As he watched her, a memory he'd been suppressing for months fought its way to the surface. A conversation from ten years ago, not long after the diagnosis.

"They have Memory Care units," she had said. "When it gets bad, promise me you'll take me to one."

"We can afford to have people at the house. You can stay with me."

She squeezed his hand. He felt a surge of guilt that she was comforting him. "You're not a full-time caregiver. You're my husband. Visit me. Every day, if you want. But don't destroy your own health taking care of me. I can't live with that. Please. It would be the greatest gift you could give me."

He couldn't form words, so he'd simply nodded.

Now, it was past time. He knew this. The nighttime wanderings. The violent outbursts. Even with help at home, it wasn't safe anymore.

To do nothing, as he had been, meant betraying the promise he'd made to the woman from his past. But to fulfill that promise felt like he was abandoning the woman who sat beside him today.

He turned and saw her staring blankly at the sandcastle in her hands. He remembered the real sandcastle they'd built together that trip, soaring spires and turrets adorned with colorful shells. It had taken hours.

"The waves will just wash it away," she'd said.

"I know," he'd replied. "But it's here now."

She turned the ornament delicately between her fingers, as though worried it might crumble. "It's so pretty," she said. "Who's it for?"

He had delayed long enough. He had promised her a gift.

"It's for you," he answered.

Her mouth widened into a delighted smile. "Thank you!" Then her brow furrowed and her smile faltered. "But I didn't get you anything."

He glanced at the tree, its branches brimming with ornaments. "Yes, you did."

Relief washed over her face. "Oh, I'm so glad. Merry Christmas."

He squeezed her hand. "Merry Christmas, my love."