And then something Jonathan hadn't heard in weeks. His daughter laughed. The sound cracked something open in his chest. Cara looked up, saw him watching through the window, and smiled. Not a full smile, something tentative and fragile, but real.
That evening, they prepared supper together, moving around each other in the small kitchen with an ease that should have taken years to develop, not two days. She handed him the salt before he asked for it. He moved the kettle off the heat just as she reached for it. "You've done this before," he said. The baby things, the house things, all of it.
Carara's hands slowed on the bread she was slicing. I was married for 4 years. Spent most of it hoping. She set down the knife. The last few months.
I thought my hoping had finally been answered. What happened? But she shook her head. Not ready. Maybe not ever ready.
They ate in companionable quiet. Emma slept in her cradle by the fire, milkdrunk and peaceful, the storm continued its assault outside, but the house held warm and steady. That song, Jonathan said finally when the dishes were cleared and they sat with the last of the coffee. The one you sing to her. What is it?
Carara's cup paused halfway to her lips. Something my mother used to sing. Something I used to. She stopped. Set the cup down carefully.
Something from before. There it was again. Before that country they'd both been exiled from. It's beautiful. He said she loves it.
I know. Carara's voice barely rose above a whisper. I used to sing it to my belly every night telling her telling the baby about all the things we'd do together, all the places we'd go. Her the baby had been a girl. Jonathan filed that away.
Another piece of the puzzle he was slowly assembling. What happened? He asked again, softer this time. Cara stood abruptly, gathered the cups, turned her back to wash them in water that had gone cold. Another night, she said.
Maybe Thanksgiving for the wounded. The meal was simple. Salt, pork, and potatoes. Green beans seasoned with the last of the bacon drippings. Biscuits that rose golden in the oven.
A small miracle of cinnamon and sugar transformed into something almost like pie. Cara had set the table with care she didn't quite understand. Found a cloth napkin buried in a drawer and smoothed its wrinkles. Positioned the lamp so its light fell warm and golden across the plates. Jonathan carried Emma to the table, holding her against his chest as he ate one-handed.
A father's skill learned through necessity. This is the first Thanksgiving meal I've had since. He stopped. Tried again. Mary loved Thanksgiving.
Her favorite holiday. She said it was the only one that asked you to stop and notice what you had. Smart woman she was. He looked down at Emma. She would have loved being a mother.