Jay Asher - What Light

“There’s another example,” Dad says, “of not always needing a silver lining.”

“Okay, my turn,” Mom says.

Every year, she wants to be surprised with a different scented body lotion. While she thankfully loves the smell of Christmas trees, after being immersed in them for a month, she wants to smell like something else in the new year.

She unwraps this year’s bottle and turns it around to read the label. “Cucumber licorice? How in the world did you find this?”

“It’s your two favorite scents,” I remind her.

She pops open the top, smells it, and then squirts a drop onto her palm. “This stuff is incredible!” she says, and she rubs it around her hands.

Dad hands me a small silver gift box.

I shimmy the box open and lift out a bit of cotton. A car key practically glistens beneath it. “You bought me a car!”

“Technically, it’s Uncle Bruce’s truck,” Mom says, “but we’ll have the insides reupholstered in whatever colors you want.”

“It may not be sensible for long drives,” Dad says, “but it’s great for the farm and getting around town.”

“Do you mind that it’s his?” Mom asks. “We couldn’t afford what you—”

“Thank you,” I say. I turn the box over so the key falls into my hand. After feeling its weight for several seconds, I launch from my seat again and hug them both so hard. “This is incredible.”

For tradition’s sake, after the dirty dishes are piled into the sink, we climb into my parents’ bed and watch How the Grinch Stole Christmas on my laptop. As usual, Mom and Dad are fast asleep by the time the Grinch’s heart grows three sizes that day. I’m wide awake, my stomach in a million knots because it’s now time to get ready for the candlelight service with Caleb.

Tonight there’s no need to try on a bunch of outfits. Before I even move from their bed, I settle on my simple black skirt and a white blouse. In the tiny bathroom, I flatiron my hair. When I’m carefully applying makeup, I see Mom’s reflection smile behind me in the mirror. She holds up a new pink cashmere sweater.

“In case it gets cold out,” she says.

I spin around. “Where did you get this?”

“It was your father’s idea,” she says. “He wanted you to have something new for tonight.”

I hold up the sweater. “Dad picked this out?”

Mom laughs. “Of course not. And thank your lucky stars, because if he did it’d probably cover more than a snowsuit,” she says. “He asked me to get you something while you girls were putting trimmings in the bags.”

I look in the mirror and hold the sweater up to myself. “Tell him I love it.”

She smiles at our reflections. “If I can wake him up after you leave, we’re going to pop some popcorn and watch White Christmas.”

They do that every year, usually with me cuddled between them. “I’ve always admired that you and Dad never got jaded about Christmas,” I say.

“Honey, if we ever felt that way,” she says, “we’d sell the farm and do something else. What we do is special. And it’s nice to know Caleb appreciates that.”

There’s a soft knock at the door. My heart pounds as Mom helps me pull the sweater over my head without messing up my hair. Before I can give her one last hug, she walks to her room and closes the door.

I open the door expecting to be overwhelmed at the sight of my handsome Christmas Eve date. Instead, Caleb wears a too-tight sweater of Rudolph’s huge face, pulled over a purple button-down and khakis. I cover my mouth and shake my head.

He opens his arms. “Well?”

“Tell me you didn’t borrow that from Heather’s mom,” I say.

“I did!” he says. “I really did. It was one of the few that she had with sleeves on it.”

“Okay, while I love your spirit, I will not be able to focus on the service if you’re wearing that.”

Arms held wide, he looks down at his sweater.

“You apparently have no idea why Heather’s mom owns that,” I say.

He sighs and then reluctantly tugs the sweater over his chest, but it gets stuck at his ears and I have to yank it the rest of the way off. Now he is dressed like my handsome date.

It’s a crisp winter evening. Many of the houses along the way kept their Christmas lights on late. Some look like their roofs are ringed in glowing icicles. Some have white-lit reindeer grazing on their lawns. My favorites are the homes that glimmer with many colors.

“You look beautiful,” Caleb says. He lifts my hand as we walk and touches his lips to each finger.

“Thank you,” I say. “So do you.”

“See? You’re getting better at taking compliments,” he says.

I look over at him and smile. Blue and white lights from the nearest house reflect off his cheeks.

“Tell me about tonight,” I say. “I’m guessing it’ll be packed.”

“They do two services on Christmas Eve,” he says. “The earlier one is for families, with a pageant and a million four-year-olds dressed like angels. It’s chaotic and loud and pretty perfect. The midnight mass, the one we’re going to, is more solemn. It’s kind of like Linus’s big speech in A Charlie Brown Christmas.”

“I love Linus,” I say.

“That’s good,” Caleb says, “because otherwise tonight would stop right here.”

We walk the rest of the way, up the gradually rising roads, hand in hand in silence. When we reach the church, the parking lot is full. Many cars are parked at the curb and even more people walk in from nearby streets.

At the church’s glass doors, Caleb stops me before we enter. He looks me in the eyes. “I wish you weren’t leaving,” he says.

I squeeze his hand, but I don’t know what to say.

He opens a door and lets me walk in first. The only light comes from candles flickering atop tall wooden rods mounted to the sides of each pew. Thick wooden beams along the walls on either side rise up, past tall windows of red, yellow, and blue stained glass. The beams touch at the center of the peaked ceiling, giving the effect of a large ship tipped upside down. At the front of the church, the edge of the stage is lined with red poinsettias. Stepped risers are already filled with a choir in white robes. Above them, an enormous wreath hangs in front of a set of brass organ pipes.

Most of the pews are packed shoulder to shoulder. We slip into a pew near the back and an elderly woman approaches us from the aisle. She hands us each an unlit white candle and a white cardboard circle about the size of my palm. In the middle of the circle is a small hole, and I watch Caleb push the top of his candle through the hole. He slides the cardboard a little more than halfway down the candle.

“These are for later,” he says. “The cardboard catches the drips.”

I poke my candle into the circle and then set it in my lap. “Are your mom and sister coming?”

He nods toward the choir. Abby and their mom are both on the center riser, smiling and watching us. His mom looks so happy to be standing next to Abby. Caleb and I wave at the same time. Abby begins to wave, but her mom pulls her hand down as the choir director now stands before them.

“Abby’s always been a natural singer,” Caleb whispers. “She’s only practiced with them twice but Mom says she blends right in.”

The opening carol is “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”

After they sing a few more songs, the pastor delivers a sincere and thoughtful talk about the story of Christmas and what the night means to him. The beauty of his words and the gratitude in how he presents them touches me. I hold on to Caleb’s arm, and he looks at me with so much kindness.

The choir begins singing “We Three Kings.” Caleb leans over and whispers, “Come outside with me.” He takes the candle from my lap and I follow him out of the sanctuary. The glass doors close behind us and we’re back in the cool air.

“What are we doing?” I ask.

He leans forward and kisses me softly. I reach up and touch his cold cheeks, which make his lips feel even warmer. I wonder if every kiss with Caleb will feel this new and magical.

He turns his head to the side, listening. “It’s starting.”

We walk around to the side of the church. The walls and the steeple loom over us. The narrow windows above are dark, but I know they’re made of stained glass.

“What’s starting?” I ask.

“It’s dark in there because the ushers went around and snuffed out the candles,” he says. “But listen.”

He closes his eyes. I close mine, too. It’s soft at first, but I hear it. It’s not just the choir singing, it’s the whole congregation.

“Silent night… Holy night.”

“Right now there are two people at the front of the church holding lit candles. Only two. Everyone else has the same ones as us.” He hands me my candle. I hold it near the bottom, and the cardboard circle rests atop my closed fingers. “The two people with the flames, they step into the center aisle; one heads to the pew on the left, and the other goes to the right.”

“Holy infant, so tender and mild.”

Caleb pulls a small booklet of matches from his front pocket, tears out a match, folds back the cover, and strikes it. He lights the wick of his candle and then shakes out the match. “The people in the first two pews, whoever is closest to the aisle, they tilt their candles to the ones with fire. Then they use that flame to light the candle of the person beside them.”

“Glories stream from heaven afar.”

Caleb moves his candle toward mine and I tilt mine sideways, holding the wick to his flame until it begins to burn.

“This goes on, candle by candle. It moves back row by row. The light spreads from one person to the next… slowly… creating this anticipation. You’re waiting for that light to reach you.”