“Can’t you go to Jess’s another time?”

  Olivia answered with a sigh.

  “Or go. I don’t care.” The family had already been separated on Thanksgiving for the first time ever. What was one more family tradition broken?

  Olivia hesitated.

  “It’s fine, Liv.”

  “Not if you’re going to be mad.”

  “I’m not mad. Go, love. Have a good time.” She gestured toward the counter. “Take one of your pies over to her. You guys can enjoy it.” They had plenty left over, even if Joel and Dylan would disagree.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll stay.”

  “You don’t need to stay.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll stay.”

  “Okay. Suit yourself. It’s your choice.”

  “I’ll tell Jess I’ll come over later.”

  “Sounds good.” Jamie put away the last of the utensils. “Tell Joel he can start making the popcorn, okay? I’ll join you guys in a few minutes. I’ve got to make a phone call first.”

  “She’s here, already in bed,” Kit said. “I checked on her when I got home.”

  It was way too early for Wren to be in bed. That only confirmed something was wrong. Whenever Wren started sleeping too much, that was a warning sign. “Sorry to bother you, Kit, it’s just, mother’s intuition and all.”

  “I know. It’s so hard not to worry. I don’t think we ever stop worrying about our kids, no matter how old they are.”

  “So true.” It seemed the older they got, the more complicated the worries became. Jamie tried to think of something to ask that wouldn’t violate the boundaries they’d established, boundaries she knew were wise. And yet so difficult to honor. “But you’ll let me know if . . .”

  “I promise, Jamie. If I sense any kind of emergency, if I think she’s in any danger, I’ll let you know immediately.”

  Jamie sighed. “Okay. Thank you.” At least Kit was there to keep watch. That ought to give her peace. “But the sleeping a lot—that’s a danger sign. Or if she stops showering or getting dressed. She’s been doing okay with that, right? With the basic life stuff?”

  “She’s keeping all her work commitments at New Hope and doing a fine job with everything I’ve asked her to do. I’m grateful for her help, for her attention to detail.”

  “That’s good.” That meant she was stable, and stability was a gift. The adjustments her doctor had made to her prescriptions must be working. That had become a problem shortly after she got out of the hospital, some troubling side effects with the medications she’d been put on. Wren had said they would probably be changing them, but Jamie hadn’t asked her about it lately, not in a direct way. She didn’t want to pry. “And painting—it sounds like she’s doing some painting?”

  “She’s in her studio quite a bit. I haven’t asked her what she’s working on, but I think she’s finding life in her art.”

  Also a very good sign. “And her counselor appointments—I mean, I’m not asking for any details. She told me she’d found someone she seems to like, who seems to be helping, so . . .”

  Jamie knew she had been pushing toward the invisible line. Now she had crossed it. “So, we’ll keep moving forward,” she said, interrupting the awkward silence.

  “Mommy?” Phoebe was bouncing up and down on her toes in the bedroom doorway. “We’ve got popcorn.”

  “Okay, love. Be right there.”

  Phoebe scampered away, calling, “She’s coming!”

  “Sounds like you need to go,” Kit said.

  “Yes. Thanksgiving movie night. Everyone’s gathered downstairs.” Except for Wren. But Wren was safe and working at being well. She had exerted her own desires and expressed her own needs, and that was healthy. Jamie wanted her to do that. She was relieved and grateful she was doing that.

  “Enjoy it,” Kit said. “And when you’re feeling anxious, look at Wren’s sketch and picture her in God’s hand. Picture yourself in God’s hand too.”

  After she hung up the phone, Jamie stared at the framed sketch she kept on her nightstand. She had no trouble placing her daughter in God’s hand; she had trouble leaving her there. She had trouble trusting it was safe to leave her there.

  Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.

  Her fingers hovered over the keypad. She wouldn’t call. She wouldn’t risk waking her. She could send a goodnight and “I love you” text, though, and if she was sleeping, she’d find it in the morning.

  “You coming, hon?” Dylan called from the bottom of the stairs.

  Or maybe she should let it go.

  “Hon?”

  She would let it go.

  She would give Wren space to process whatever she needed to process and trust that if Wren needed her help, she would let her know.

  She set her phone down on the nightstand. “On my way,” she called, and headed down to join them.

  Wren changed out of her pajamas into jeans and a sweatshirt. She would need to be dressed in case she got the news that yes, Casey was in town and there was an emergency. She would need to be ready to go. She put her sneakers beside the bed, then crawled under the covers again to wait.

  She would want him to tell Brooke about her text, not to be secretive about it. And if he was too unwell to reply himself, Brooke might reply for him and say, “Tell me more about what he needs when he’s like this. How do I help him?”

  Wren would tell her to remind him that he had been in the dark before, and he had persevered. Remind him that he had made courageous choices before, and the despair wouldn’t last forever. Wren would tell her how important it was not to avoid him or ignore him, how he needed to be listened to, even if what he was saying sounded angry or irrational. She wouldn’t be able to argue him out of it. It was important to understand that. And it was important not to add to his burden of guilt or shame by pointing out that it terrified her to see him like this or that he needed to think about how his illness impacted the people who loved him. He couldn’t think about that right now. It would just make things worse.

  She checked the time again. Forty-five minutes since she sent the first text.

  If he was at his parents’ house, that could have pushed him over the edge. They’d had a very volatile relationship over the years. His parents had never understood his illness. They hadn’t ever tried hard enough to work with it or be patient with him. She couldn’t count the number of times they’d kicked him out of the house, demanding he get his act together. Wren had tried to get along with them, but it was hard when she felt so loyal to Casey and defensive about him. And there were times it seemed they resented how close she was to their son. “You’ve been more like a mom to me than she’s ever been,” Casey had sometimes said.

  Maybe they’d had another terrible fight. His mother could get so angry. She could become so unreasonable. And Casey never stayed quiet. He always fought back.

  She would send another text. “Sorry to bother you,” she would say, “but I’m worried about you, and I need to know you’re okay. Please let me know you’re okay.”

  A thumbs up sign. That’s all she needed. Just a thumbs up sign. She sent a second text and waited.

  Though it seemed unlikely, maybe Brooke had never seen him unwell. When he left for his pilgrimage to Spain, he was well. Wren had been encouraged that he wanted to make such a trip, that he was open to self-reflection and seeking God again. And he was well—elated and hopeful—after he returned. Maybe Brooke had only ever seen him at his best. Their brief, mostly long-distance engagement probably wasn’t long enough to observe any of the darkness.

  Even if he had confided to Brooke about how he had battled over the years, she might not have believed it. Or she might have hoped it was all behind him. Because they were starting a new and wonderful life together, and she made him happy. Wren was so grateful he was happy. That was exactly what she had longed for, what she had prayed for him for many years, that he would be happy and hopeful. That’s what he prayed for her too, when he was well.

  She reached for his gray beanie on her nightstand and kept praying.

  Shortly after midnight Wren’s phone buzzed with a text. She fumbled for the lamp switch, then stared at her screen. A thumbs up sign.

  He was alive. Her shaking hands were evidence that she had been holding her breath, fearing the worst.

  He was okay. Or was he? Now that she thought about it, a thumbs up could mean many things: “Yes, I got your message,” or “I’m doing great, nothing to worry about,” or “I’m so glad I came to mind because I’m really struggling right now.” So, which was it?

  Impossible to know.

  A thumbs up could mean, “I’m really glad you wrote, and it’s okay for you to write again.” Or “I wish you hadn’t written, but since you did, here’s the shortest reply I can give to let you know I’m okay.”

  It was impossible to interpret. She stared at her phone. Now that she knew he was alive, she wanted him to either confirm or refute her discernment. She needed to know whether she’d heard correctly. Because maybe she was muddled about all of that too. And if she couldn’t trust her discernment in a small thing like feeling led to pray, then how could she trust her discernment in larger things like knowing how to move forward in life?

  No. This was important. She needed to know if he was really, truly okay. She sent one more clarifying text and waited.

  He had his phone with him. He would see that she had replied. If he didn’t send a text right away, did that mean he was angry? That Brooke was angry? Maybe they were talking about it right now. Maybe he was telling her he would send one last message and make it clear—again—that she shouldn’t contact him. Maybe Brooke was saying, You need to change your number. I want you to change your number.

  And then what? What would she do if the conduit for reaching him permanently closed? Casey didn’t have any social media accounts; he thought it was all ridiculously narcissistic. And Wren didn’t want to return to social media, even if it meant she could possibly track Brooke online. At Dr. Emerson’s urging, she had shut down all her accounts months ago. It wasn’t good for her, being continually bombarded with others’ success stories or subjected to the constant acrimony or an endless scrolling feed of bad news. For the sake of her mental health, those avenues needed to remain closed. Permanently.

  She stared at her screen.

  She wasn’t a stalker. And she wouldn’t keep sending him text messages. She probably should have made that clear in her last message, that she knew the boundaries and had violated them only because she had been worried. She had violated them only because she had been led to reach out and pray.

  Had she been led to contact him?

  Now she wasn’t sure. Maybe it was all her imagination. That’s what she needed to know.

  Her phone buzzed again. Everything’s fine. No need to worry. Happy Thanksgiving. Take care.

  He was okay! Thumbs up meant he was well and truly okay. That was good. It was good he was okay.

  Everything’s fine. It wasn’t just him that was fine. Everything was fine. Everything with him, everything with Brooke, everything with life. It was all fine.

  No need to worry. Her instinct had been wrong. The two of them were no longer connected by deep intuition. Her sense of urgency, her gut feeling that he was in danger, all of it was wrong. There was no need for her to worry. Because everything was fine.

  Happy Thanksgiving. That was the polite greeting to offer on a holiday. Even strangers said Happy Thanksgiving on Thanksgiving. Friends might say, Hope you had a happy Thanksgiving. Friends who wanted to engage in further conversation might say, How was your Thanksgiving?

  He was fine. He didn’t need her support. He had moved on with life.

  Take care. He hoped she would move on with hers.

  21

  We’re entering a time of amplification,” Hannah reminded the congregation. Christmas was the time of year when everything was amplified, the joys and the sorrows, the celebration and the grief, the gift of community and the pain of isolation. That’s why it was so important to be mindful of Advent, she said. Advent was a season for keeping watch in darkness, for naming the anguish of waiting, and for pressing forward with hope, even when everything seemed bleak and desolate. So, along with their songs of praise—which were right to sing, she said—they would also sing songs of lament. And they would remember in prayer those who found the season particularly painful, those who were grieving losses, those who were unemployed, those who battled chronic illness, whether physical or mental, those who—

  Wren clicked the pause button on the audio file and removed her headphones. She would listen to the rest of the sermon later.

  She tidied the bottles on the housekeeping cart and pushed it down an empty hallway at New Hope. Though she had spent more than half her Christmases in the northern hemisphere, and though she appreciated the symbolism and poetic synergy of winter and Advent, she longed for the Decembers of her childhood when Christmas signaled the start of summer, and Pop and Gran and Mum and a host of friends would gather for a picnic and bonfire at the beach near Thirroul.

  She hadn’t appreciated it then. As a child she pined for the kind of Christmas described in the books she read and films she watched: Christmas in winter, with snow blanketing the earth and twinkling lights brightening the darkness. As she buried her toes in hot sand on Christmas Day, she imagined children across the world, bundling up to build snowmen or barrel downhill on sleds or saucers. That was what Christmas was supposed to look like.

  “You’ll have that now,” her mother had said when they moved to Michigan. Wren was excited. Instead, she discovered that the short, gray days of winter exacerbated her homesickness and sense of disequilibrium. Her new dad bought her a special lamp that simulated sunlight. It was supposed to help, but most days it didn’t. She didn’t tell him that. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings; he was trying so hard.

  She paused at the threshold of the chapel, then entered with her cart. Kit was rearranging evergreens and berries around an Advent wreath. “Ahhh, here’s the artist,” she said. “I’m making a mess of this.” She stepped back and motioned for Wren to give it a try.

  “Is it all right if I start over?”

  Kit laughed. “Of course! Have at it.”

  Wren removed a plastic garbage bag from her cart and spread it out on the floor so she had a place to lay all the branches. Then she began to weave them back together.

  “I want to ask you something,” Kit said, “and feel free to say no.”

  Wren said, “Okay.” But given Kit’s generosity, it was hard to imagine saying no to any of her requests.

  “I got a call the other day from the artist who has painted some of the Journey to the Cross stations for me. He’s had some health trouble and isn’t going to be able to do it this year. Now, we have plenty of art from our past events, and I’m happy to use some of it again. But I wondered, given your gifts, whether you’d be willing to paint for me?”

  Wren was so surprised, she pricked her finger on the sharp edge of a branch and began to bleed.

  Kit took a tissue box from the cart and handed it to her. “I wish I could offer you a living wage to paint,” she said. “I’m a big believer in patrons for the arts. And we do have a stipend set aside. It’s not much. But I’d also buy all your materials—paints, brushes, canvases, anything you might need—and then you would be free to sell your work after the exhibition.”

  Wren pressed a tissue more firmly against her finger. She wasn’t a real artist, not like the man who had painted Jesus on the cross. She could see it from where she stood. She couldn’t paint like that. There was no possible way her art could equal what had been displayed before. And to accept a stipend when she wasn’t even sure she would be able to deliver the final product? No. She couldn’t do that. It was an incredibly kind and generous offer, but she couldn’t accept it.

  Kit smiled at her as if reading her thoughts. “Think about it. And if you’d like someone to help you process any resistance you might feel about saying yes, I’m sure your dear pastor would be happy to be alongside.”

  That afternoon in her studio Wren stared at a painting that was going nowhere. She had hoped to paint a corner of the New Hope courtyard, where a memorial bench had become a favorite gathering place for birds. She wanted to capture the scarlet of the cardinals against the white linen of fresh-fallen snow dusting the weathered gray beams. She liked the sturdy horizontal lines of the bench beneath an arbor laden with bare twining vines. The scene had good structure, good balance. But if she couldn’t even paint a snow-covered bench and some birds, what chance did she have of painting Christ’s suffering?

  She dipped a wide brush in white paint and smeared it all over her work.

  It was one thing to draw sketches for people at a psychiatric hospital or homeless shelter; it was another to paint meditative art designed to usher people into the presence of God.

  She couldn’t do it. She wasn’t skilled enough.

  But Kit thought she was. Or maybe she only felt sorry for her.

  They had enough art from past years, Kit had said. They could use that. So really, it wasn’t a huge risk asking her to paint, was it? If she failed, the exhibition would still move forward. The event didn’t rest on her shoulders.

  That was good. Because she couldn’t manage that burden of responsibility. She couldn’t bear the thought of people counting on her and then disappointing them, either by not being able to paint anything or by painting mediocre, useless work. And then how would she feel?

  “But it’s a commissioned work,” Casey would say. “How could you say no? Artists dream about that kind of opportunity. You need to get over yourself and go for it, Wrinkle.”

  She wished she could hear a real pep talk from him. When he was well, there was no better encourager.